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pricegouge · 24 days ago

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cellar door

cw: f!reader, implied skinny/fit, sorry. had to go through a window :( horror elements. you've got a live-in.

fucking tuesdays. nothing good ever happens on a tuesday.

hit snooze too many times, found the eggs had gone off only as you were making breakfast, burnt the coffee. you throw in the towel a whole twenty minutes after waking up and dump all your progress, deciding you'll risk being late for work just so you can stop by some place quick and get a breakfast that isn't actively trying to eat you back. you're checking your balance as you walk out the door, distracted by the forgotten subscription renewal that had gone through the night before. fuck, maybe you should skip breakfast after all -?

and then the car door doesn't give when you try the handle.

"oh, get bent," you hiss through gritted teeth as you try it again, futilely. head tilted back to stare up at the cold, dark sky, pulling at the handle in frustration. once for each of the pale white winter morning stars still glinting away.

it's too damn early for this.

you know yourself too well to even bother checking your coat pockets for your keys, but you do anyway out of desperation. as expected, you come out empty and for a moment you just stand there with your forehead thumped against the door frame while you picture yourself walking out the back door, nose stuck in your phone as you bypass the key holder without so much as a parting glance. you locked the door behind yourself - you know you did, but you try it anyway just to be sure. wouldn't do to pull your landlord out of bed just to have him show up and try the knob, call you an idiot before the sun's even out.

of all the stupid shit you've already pulled this morning, you wouldn't put it past yourself, honestly, but of course securing your house was the one thing you'd managed to complete successfully.

your boss is understanding when you text her. 'take your time. and stay warm!' a point you hadn't considered until she said it, the chill seeping in through the seams of your coat as you stand on your back porch, debating. if you could at least get into your car, you'd have options. potential tools you could maybe use to break in. but as it stands, you've nothing, and a call to your vaguely lecherous landlord is seeming more and more imminent. snow crunches under boot as you round the house, desperate. you'd be proud of how diligent you've been in locking windows, if not for the fact that you could really use an open one right about now. giving in, you pull your phone from your pocket again and grumble when you drop it, fingers gone numb with the chill. crouching low, you dig it out of the snow and check for pavement marks in the low light from the streetlamp across the road. except, your screen isn't the only glass the light catches - a dull glaze reflecting in the basement window before you, rickety casing looking quite promising.

your phone works well enough to use the flashlight, at least. you frown in distaste at the mess of cobwebs on the other side of the window, but between a creepy unfinished basement and an asshole landlord who spends just as much time leering at you as he does belittling your concerns, you'll try your luck with the slumbering spiders.

the panes hang crookedly. two panels, side by side. there's some concern about whether or not you'll even be able to fit through it if you can manage to get it open, but you give it a rough estimate and decide to try anyway - jimmying the first panel until it rocks forward in its soggy frame, enough so that you can squirm a stick between the two where they're latched together, loosely.

probably, you should be concerned how easy it is to knock the lock. you add it to the list of things your landlord will never fix for you.

while the soggy casing had made for an easy in, it's much harder to actually slide the window open. you grunt in effort, cold fingers cramping when you finally get enough space to slip them around the frame. the wood creaks. you worry for a moment that the pane will shatter before it gives an inch, and then nearly topple over when it opens all at once. the cobwebs beyond stretch and warp. snap, brittle with age. snow gives way before you, a small avalanche that collects on the dirt floor below. you're not overly familiar with the basement - have tried all your tenancy to avoid venturing into it - but you remember from the house tour that the north half, up near where the trap door in the front porch opens, at least boasts a cement slab. no such luck here, it seems. the frame digs into your belly when you shimmy through, feet first. there's a small moment of vertigo as you free fall and you can't help squirming in disgust when your hands trail down the slimy blocks that make up the walls. you wipe them off on your jeans as best you can before retrieving your phone from your pocket and throwing the hood of your coat up for an added layer of protection from the general grime.

your flashlight casts a tight circle, a problem seeing as you're slightly disoriented and unsure where the door to the stairway is. you aim it at the ceiling and cringe further into the protection of your coat when it reveals nothing more than a good few decade's worth of cobwebs built up between the beams.

concentrate. somewhere, there's a bare bulb with a pull chain. if you could just -

adrenaline piqued with the stress of your situation, you nearly jump out of your skin when your phone begins to vibrate with an incoming call. irrational anger mounting, you don't even spare a glance at the contact before snapping into the receiver, "Yeah?"

your frustration only builds when you're greeted by the gruff voice of your landlord, made all the more gravelly by the fact that he'd clearly just woken up. "you leave for work yet?"

"john…" the question catches you off guard, gives you pause as you stumble in your efforts to simultaneously use the flash light while also speaking with him. "pardon?"

"have you left for work yet?"

you'd take a deep, calming breath if the thought of inhaling this dank air didn't make you want to hurl, just a little. instead you take a moment to switch the call to speaker phone, move a little further into the room. "can't say i have. why do you ask?"

he grunts, sounding a little perturbed when he continues. "well. might recommend you do."

despite yourself, his presence on the line calms you down enough to brave the cobwebs and you slink forward, trying hard as you can to not process your surroundings even as you search for the door. "why's that?"

"neighbor called, love. said they just watched someone crawl through the basement window."

he gives it all the levity it deserves, but you can't help scoffing at him, nervous humor only building when you hear his jaw clenching on the other end of the line. "sorry. i don't mean to laugh." you pause to collect yourself, take a look around and find your route out. "but i wouldn't worry too much. i locked myself out and decided to try the window instead of bothering you first thing in the morning." a fairly diplomatic way of saying you'd rather navigate the saw bathroom that is your own cellar than deal with him. not too bad, all things considered.

"oh, darl', it's no trouble. climb on back outta that creepy basement and i'll be right over."

for a moment you picture him the way he must see himself: riding up in his battered yet dependable pick up just to save you from the cold. hard telling what makes your stomach turn more, him or the mud which gives under your boot, soft belly of your house. you step up onto the cement slab just as a series of thuds overhead draw your attention - heavy enough to rain dust from the rafters. panda, you imagine, her wide haunches bunching as she thunders through the house, far too heavy for a cat. you should probably put her on a diet. "your house is haunted," you accuse instead by way of reply, eager to steer the conversation away from him coming to save you and rendering your whole excursion null.

"might be," he muses. "but don't fret, love. ghost likes pretty things like you."

"right." you'd roll your eyes if you weren't so busy focusing on your footsteps, picking your way carefully lest you step on a mouse carcass or something equally heinous.

"anyway, what's your plan? the inner door on the porch will be locked too, won't it?"

the one into the dining room, he means. the one you're definitely guilty of never locking because panda likes to spend her evenings in the entry and you don't see the harm when there's a perfectly functional locked door on the enclosed porch. "it's not," you hedge, unsure if you want to be telling your landlord this considering it's his property you're putting in danger.

"darl'," john drawls, and you cut him off before he can add a good reprimand to the list of things you've had to endure this morning.

"yes, it will be locked after this, i promise. i just didn't realize how easy it would be to come in through the basement window."

"always the easiest ones to go through," he grumbles, and you think you hear his car door slam in the background of his call.

"i told you not to bother coming," you groan, kicking over a stack of old paint cans in your haste to make it to the door. like it's a race, like if you make it into the house before he can get there then he won't make you even more late for work, loitering around to check for damages to his basement window and jawing at you about home security.

the door's an old thing. thick wood gone warped and wilted with the damp. it's swollen in its frame, fights you when you try to pull it from the jamb. you grunt loud enough that you don't quite catch your landlord's response, and then zone him out altogether as the door finally yanks free and light spills in from above, the trapdoor at the top of the stairs wide open, overhead porch light glowing cheerily - unawares of the omen it brings. you shuffle back a step, another, try to hide among the shadows of the cellar even as your landlord's deep voice carries on. your fingers scrabble over the screen, smother the unit in your coat - anything to keep his commanding voice from carrying because you know. you know you didn't leave the light on, much less the trap door open.

nonsensically, your thoughts scatter, imagine panda investigating the porch, the staircase below. your head swivels behind as if to check for her even as you keep slinking sideways, skirting the ring of light until your back presses against the grit of the wall - instinctual, easily defensible.

"john," you hiss, risking the light of your phone enough to take it back out, turn off the flashlight, take him off speaker phone, call for help. keep at it even as he carries on, much too loud to hear you.

"- and who would i be if i didn't come to help, hm? can't have you -."

"john! fuck -! listen to me!" you're not even sure he hears you, quiet as you're being. he certainly doesn't stop droning on, though he stops when he hears you squeak, foot catching on something low and soft which pillows your fall when you collapse onto it, cold blankets enveloping you, damp and sweaty.

you gag as you roll, stop dead when another series of thuds echo over head. other direction now, back the way they'd come. your eyes track the path, land on the halo of light spilling through the door just as the intruder's shadow cuts across, impossibly big with the exaggerated angle. without the added light from your phone, you're plunged into relative darkness, the small circle of thin amber light ringing the door scattered by the severe contour of the man upstairs. there's nowhere to hide, really, and your only option is to keep slinking back into the recesses of the basement, too afraid to try scurrying back out the window lest he sees your legs kicking as you try to heave yourself out.

boots lumber into view first, heavy and mud-caked. instinctively, your eyes fall to the dirt you're treading over and seek out the treads. broad, huge. deep scores indicating how heavy he is, how many times he's worn a path into the ground. among them you spot tiny paw prints, almost as disturbing. panda follows after, bobbing into view as she weaves between his legs with a silent cry for attention until she detects you, golden eyes glinting ominously as she scans the basement before leading him in, making a beeline for you the moment she alights on the landing.

traitor.

he's not far behind, ducking through the door while you try to shoo your own car. you force your limbs to move and slide further along the wall, folding under the empty, built-in shelf your shoulder bumps into as you go. it's filthy, cobwebs clinging to the skin of your face as you settle, but you clamp a hand over your mouth and stifle the whimper that builds, ears strained for any movement in the darkness laid out before you.

john's still in your ear, quieter now. as if he knows something isn't right. "sweetheart?" he prompts, and you feel a tear slip down your face when you realize that despite taking him off speaker phone, you'd never turned the volume down. your thumb finds the side buttons now, clicks until john's breathing is no more than a comforting whisper, no louder than your own.

no louder than the response you risk, voice hollow, only really audible on the plosives. "john, there's someone here."

"what's that, darl'?"

your breath hitches before you can respond, the low click and hum of a bare bulb flickering to life leeching your words. it floods the room in fits and starts, turns the man's movements jagged and inhuman as he lowers his arm back to his side until finally it settles into a constant, thin and yellow. he stands directly below the bulb, the shadows of his face severe and gaunt, an odd contrast to his broad stature. for a long moment, he just lingers there, dark gaze shifting slowly around the room. you follow it, try to see what he sees, figure out if there's anything that could give you away.

you don't make it that far, eyes catching on all the accoutrement that lines the walls. bed, stool. small pile of familiar books.

a cat litter box.

disinterested in you when you're not giving her treats or pets, the moment shatters as panda returns to him, headbutting his boots cheerily and begging for pets. he crouches to pick her up and she climbs onto his shoulder with a familiarity that unsettles you further, speaks to how long he's been spending his days with her. she doesn't move when he does, enjoys her high vantage as he cuts across the room, boots squelching in the dirt. he passes by you on his way to the window and shuts it easily, warped wood barely giving him any trouble. in the muted light from the window, you see the odd shadows of his face which you'd noted before are simply the hollows of a skull motif on the balaclava he wears.

"darlin', you still there?"

but you're not, boots tearing up the mud as you scramble out from your hiding place. panda follows you, the familiar heavy thud of her paws when she jumps from her perch a comfort. she passes you on the stairs even as you take them two at a time, chest puffing with the steep incline. at the top you turn and slam the trapdoor down, the white of his mask all you can see peering up at you from the darkness before the door falls into place. there's nothing on the porch heavy enough to brace it, but you try anyway, pulling the cheap patio set closer and shepherding panda through the inner door in the same move, the little shit apparently more afraid of you and your erratic movements than she was the basement dweller with the skull mask.

you lock the inner door after you fall through it, watch in horror through the transom as the furniture heaves, a powerful quake that tosses them to the side before the door creeps open, hollow eyes checking for a trap before heavy, gloved fingers wrap around it properly, push it wide.

impossibly, he seems even bigger here, above ground, where you have a better gauge of normalcy. he eclipses the whole room, blots out the overhead light when he looms closer to the door, dark eye pressed against the pane so he can peer through a fractal in the glass, same as you'd just been. you back further into the dining room, bump against the table just as you feel his gaze on you. it distracts you from the sound of the key in the lock, the creak of the hinges what finally compels you to fucking run.

keys in hand this time, you book it out the back door and slam head first into a sturdy chest, legs flailing under you until john helps right you, fingers bruising hard on your arms as he tries to shush you into submission. he won't let you go no matter how much you shriek, just pulls you to his chest and smothers your cries there, orders you to tell him what's wrong even as he walks you back up the stairs.

somehow, between your shouting and your panting and your sobbing, he gets it: man down there; living there.

"oh, honey, that's just your ghost," he soothes, wrangling you through the screen door with a grip on your jaw which he uses to tilt your head the intruder's way, makes you watch as he lumbers closer, john's voice a low scratch of whiskers against your ear. "told you he liked you."

#this isn't spooky enough for my taste so maybe i'll redo it when i'm in a better spot but i gotta get it out of my drafts :(#priceghost x reader #gouge horror

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yandere-daydreams · 8 months ago

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tw - mentions of kidnapping/imprisonment, implied alcohol consumption, and reader referred to as 'mother'/'mom' but otherwise gender-neutral.

You let yourself into Arlecchino’s study exactly four strokes after midnight. Even from the doorway, she could see the crimson stain of wine on your lips, the tell-tale lilt to your posture. Clearly, your chosen habitat that night had been the House of the Hearth’s wine cellar – a not completely unusual pastime of yours, on its own. The fact that you were coming to her after drinking your fill was more notable.

She allowed you to stumble from the doorway to her desk before ever glancing up from the correspondence she was attempting to will herself to finish. Whichever one of her vintages you’d favored, it must’ve given you the strength to withstand the weight of the gaze you were always so quick to shy away from, the courage to all-but lay yourself across the crowded tabletop. Despite your new dauntlessness, your expression was sullen, your eyes glassy with tears yet to flow over. It was a face she was used to seeing in the confines of her chambers, or better yet, on the edge of her knee as she kept you perched in her lap through an otherwise dull meeting. Familiarity alone might’ve been enough to soften her, had she had any idea as to the source of your apparent distress.

You didn’t speak until you were settled. Arlecchino remained patient, limiting herself to a slight smile and the melodic drumming of pointed nails against polished mahogany. “Peruere,” you drawled, her given name a honey-sweet slur on your tongue. “I don’t think I can do this.”

“I see.” It took every ounce of her impressive self-restraint not to laugh aloud. “What a shame. Remind me exactly what it is we can’t do, love?”

“I can’t do this.” You gave a sweeping gesture, nearly violent enough to knock yourself off-balance. “It’s not you—I mean, it is you, with the kidnapping and imprisonment and all, but aside from that, I just—” A deep, shuddering breath, followed shortly by a pitchy, almost keening noise. “I’m just not ready to be a mother.”

This time, Arlecchino couldn’t stop herself – a single, breathy chuckle slipping past her lips. Your frowned deepened, and she did her best to sober quickly. “I’m sorry, I—” She steepled her fingers in front of her, leaning forward to rest her chin on the point of intersection. “I suppose I wasn’t aware you were going to be.”

If you heard, you clearly weren’t listening. Rather unceremoniously, the glass splintered; your thin veneer of composure falling away as the first tear broke free, shortly followed by a second, then a third. She lost count somewhere around the dozenth. “It’s not that I don’t love your children,” you started, your voice cracking as you struggled to wipe at your eyes between words. “I mean, I love them all in spite of them being yours, which is actually really impressive because I find you so unbearably off-putting to be around, but— I’m sorry, I’m just not ready for this level of responsibility. There’s… how many? Fifty of them? Two hundred?”

“My love.” She pushed herself to her feet, dulling her voice into the softest, smoothest possible coo. “Isn’t it about time for you to retire for the night?”

“How could you possibly want to go to sleep at a time like this?” You were sobbing now, rather unabashedly. All attempts to maintain your dignity had been laid aside in favor of burying your face in your palms and hanging your head almost pitifully low. “I have five hundred kids to take care of!”

Whether you were too distracted to notice her arms wrapping around you or simply too panicked to care, it would’ve been impossible to say. You failed to protest as she pulled you against her chest, only sniffling miserably and burying your face in her coat. “You seem to have forgotten that ‘Father’ is only a title,” she murmured as gently as she could, letting her lips brush against the top of your head, then your tear-stained cheek. “Most of my children have already grown out of the need for a true mother and father, and I doubt those who haven’t view either of us in a very paternal light. Do you understand?”

There was a delay, but she felt you nod against her chest. Arlecchino could only sigh, already moving to exit her study. “Let’s get you to bed, dear.”

You were still unconscious by the time she rose the next morning, no doubt putting off the inevitable hangover. She left you where you lied and, after making sure a pitcher of water would be waiting for you when you woke up, went about her obligations.

It was only a few hours later that, during a conversation with Lyney, he seemed to pause, to glance to either side. Whatever he’d planned to say was quickly forgotten in favor of a new tangent. “I don’t think I’ve seen mom yet, today.”

At that, Arlecchino perked up. “Mom?”

He caught himself quickly, straightening. “Mother, I mean. (Y/n). My apologies, Lynette's disregard must be rubbing off on me.”

She took a moment to purse her lips, to do what she often did best and consider the information that’d been laid at her feet. “Lyney,” she said, eventually, when she’d made up her mind.

“Next time you use that name, make sure your mother is within earshot.”

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere imagines #yandere x you #genshin impact #genshin imagines #genshin x reader #yandere genshin impact #yandere arlecchino #arlecchino x reader #yandere arlecchino x reader #yanderecore #yancore

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juletheghoul · 3 months ago

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home

a/n: The premiere look was a literal gift from the Gods, truly fantastic stuff. With that said, of course I had to work on the next chapter of The General and his Girlwife. This isn't the end for them, there is still so much life for them and I have a whole inbox full of amazing asks (I promise I haven't forgotten about them!) to get through, and I always welcome any and all comments and questions or deep dives! Hope you enjoy 💕xo

Warnings; 18+ no minors, vague but big-legal age gap, piv sex, dirty talk, Marcus eats pussy because he's a KING, lactation kink, creampie, Marcus gets emotional, pregnancy and baby stuff, childbirth and some graphic descriptions of pain, talks of infertility, **FEELINGS** let me know if I missed any!

This is the fic I referenced in this preview

Pairing: Marcus Acaciusx F!Reader

word count: 5k (whoops!)

reblogs are appreciated

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The ritual had been completed, and a week later–life had gone back to normal. The two of you had vowed to put it out of your mind until the Gods made their intentions for you clear.

Marcus, however, was leaving; he'd been called on by the Emperor for a tour, and he had no choice but to accept.

You pouted, and he smiled.

“It is only for a short time, my love. Barely a moon's turn and I will be back in this house, and your arms.” He smiled despite your obvious displeasure, giddy with the way you clutched so greedily at him.

“I wish to follow you Marcus, I do not wish to stay here without you.” You buried your face into his neck, taking in his comforting scent greedily. Your nails dug into his shoulders, holding him close while his own wrapped tightly around your waist.

“And I wish nothing more than for you to be with me, but you cannot. It is not a place for women and I would not have my beautiful,” his hands cupped your cheeks, pressing kisses to your mouth between words, “lovely, tempting wife there pulling at my attention, as well as that of the bolder men in my company.”

You sigh, knowing he would not change his mind.

“Very well. I will content myself alone.” Your tone made him laugh, and you smiled into his skin, well aware that you sounded more akin to an unruly child than a grown, married woman.

“You are spoiled, terribly misbehaved and spoiled.” His hands slipped down and grabbed at your backside, “and it is entirely my fault.”

“Yes it is.” You jut your chin out and he pressed a kiss to it. “When do you leave?”

“Preparations are being made and I depart in three days time.” He pressed another kiss to the back of your hand, smiling as he led you to sit with him. “Once I am back, I shall plan something for us. How does that sound?”

“And what shall you plan?”

“We could travel, we could go to the sea and take in the fresh air, we could do anything my love. Whatever makes you happy.” His eyes shone with the same love you felt in your very bones for him.

“I only need you for that.”

The intensity of the craving made you frown, pulling your attention from the task of refilling the cellars of your house. One minute you had been taking note of how much grain there was, how much olive oil and wine was in your stores and the next, the desire for figs and honey and fresh, ripe pomegranate was so strong it almost moved your feet towards the kitchens. You stopped yourself though, running through your mental tally of days since your last blood and willing yourself to stay calm.

“Girl, be a dear and fetch me figs and honey if you would.” You pat her hand softly, unable to stop yourself from softening the imagined blow of asking for something instead of fetching it yourself. Her eyes widened for a moment, before nodding.

“Yes Domina.” She ran off, and you ignored the looks of the women who were helping you with your accounts.

“Shall we call for a Medicus, Domina?” The eldest of them whispered in your ear, one who has always treated you with a softness that at times felt motherly, her work roughened hand landing soft on your shoulder. Nerves fluttered in your belly, a deep seeded fear threading through your very being as the memory of your loss filled your mind's eye so vividly it set your hands to shaking. But another emotion emerged, a fragile thing coloured with a hope so big it didn’t fit within your body. Without Marcus, it was difficult to navigate the swirl of different feelings fighting for dominance.

“Domina, let me call for the Medicus.” Gently, she guided you to sit, silently dismissing the staff tending to you. “I think it best you rest while we wait, I shall have him brought here to look you over.”

“Yes, yes that is what we must do. I—yes I should rest a while.” With a shaky breath you smiled a smile that did not reach your eyes, and headed towards your chamber.

When the medicus finally did arrive, the older woman held your hand, doing much to calm you in the absence of Marcus. Silently the man went about his business, checking and prodding and looking for the signs that you tentatively prayed were there.

When he raised his head and smiled with a nod, both you and the woman cried with joy.

He was eager to step foot in his house, eager to be reunited with his heart.

His blessedly peaceful campaign had gone well, the Emperor was in good spirits and for the first time in years, there was peace. He couldn’t wait to tell her how it had gone, couldn’t wait to press his kisses upon her skin.

The house was surprisingly quiet when he finally arrived, the guards were hushed, his usual attendants were nowhere to be seen and his love was not where he thought he’d find her.

When he reached their shared room things were stranger still, the gauzy linens were drawn across the windows, blocking out most of the sunlight. Incense was burning, and for a moment he feared she’d fallen ill while he’d been gone.

“My love? What is the matter?” She reclined in their bed, propped up on a nest or pillows, and her face lit up to see him. She was glowing, a soft sheen shining on her brow and for a moment he thought it might be a fever but she looked well, she looked beautiful.

“I am well Marcus, truly.” She beckoned to him, arms outstretched and he all but ran to her side, sitting close to hold her hands. “We have been blessed, my love, truly blessed.” Tears shone in her eyes, he frowned for a moment until she placed his hand on her belly, and then it felt like his heart would jump out of chest.

“You are sure?” He brought his face to her womb, pressing his lips to it while trying not to fall apart with joy. “Truly?”

“It has been confirmed, I am with child. You are to be a father, Marcus.” She shone with life, with vitality and was as beautiful as a Goddess, he couldn’t handle the joy in his heart. He wept into her belly, thanking the Gods, and praying for the health of the love of his life, and the child inside her.

Every single day of those first few weeks greeted you with fear.

Every free minute, every spare thought was filled with silent prayer, offerings were made to appease the Gods, you ate only the foods suggested by the Medicus. Marcus let you do nothing except rest, and take short, slow walks throughout the house. He was thorough with the instructions given to him, he rubbed the special oil onto the skin of your belly to help with the growth, he never left your side, he was gentle in all things.

Once you started to show, and the most dangerous period had passed, even you started to shed some of the fear. Hope, and joy filled the house and everyone shared in it. The women were eager to have a little one running around, Marcus grew more and more excited at the prospect and filled your house with things for the child. Toys and a special chair, robes and little tunics to dress them in.

“Have you thought of a name?” You asked him as he rubbed at your tired feet, easing the ache as your stomach seemed to grow before your very eyes.

“I have, but I haven’t really given any option much thought. It is best to wait until the child is born I think. And you? Is there a name you favour?”

“Well, a boy would definitely be named Marcus after you.” You smiled, imagining a miniature of him.

“And for a girl?”

“We could honour the Gods, name her Diana, I also think Aurelia is quite pretty, or Acacia and name her after her father.” Your smile grew, imagining a little darling with his soft waves, his square feet.

“Fine choices.” He smiled, moving to the other foot and you sighed, soothed by his touch.

“I will pray for a boy, to carry your name and carry on your legacy.” He shook his head.

“Give me a clever girl with your eyes, and your smile and I shall be happier than any other man alive.” He pressed a kiss to your shin. Tears sprung to your eyes, it was happening a lot of late, the baby made your emotions run rampant, his sweetness didn’t help.

“There there my love, no tears.” He soothed with gentle tone, well aware of your sensitivity, yet still as patient and loving as always.

“I cannot help it, the joy is overwhelming, the love for you, for this little being is too much to fit inside me.” You held your belly, tears falling to dampen the skin of your chest. He moved to sit beside you, and gathered you into his arms, once again soothing you beyond words could explain.

“I understand, I have been so blessed in this life it is difficult not to dwell and fear the worst. Let us just enjoy our good fortune, no more tears, it pains me to see you cry.” He pressed his lips to your forehead and you nodded silently, throat aching with emotion.

With a tenderness that only made the ache stronger, he kissed the tear stains on your skin, smiling softly. When he got to your mouth, it was a reassuring press, a silent promise to you and to the life growing inside. It helped, but your mood, your appetites changed like the winds these days and the tears turned to desire for him so fast it made your head spin.

Your tongue breached his mouth, corrupting the softness of his kiss and pulling a groan from somewhere in his chest. His hand pressed softly to your womb, while his mouth claimed yours in the softness of your shared bed.

“Marcus-” It came out half moaned, half pleading.

“Yes my love?” He breathed the words into the skin of your neck, his tongue mapping out the lines he liked to travel with his kisses, unsurprised at how quickly your passion for him was stirred with the child inside.

“Do you desire me? Do you wish for me to give you my cock?” Slowly, he exposed you, pulling the special tunic made to accommodate your belly off. The large swell, the heavy weight of your breasts, the swelling in your feet–all of the changes in your body had made you fear he would no longer find you desirable. He’d been quick to correct that assumption however.

With your lip caught between your teeth, you nodded.

Carefully, he turned you on your side, supporting the weight of your belly with pillows and linens before divesting himself of his own layers. The sight of him, skin golden and cock hardening turned your cunt to liquid. He smiled at the open desire on your face, positioning himself so he straddled the thigh resting on the bed, while lifting and holding the other, lining himself up at the mouth of your cunt.

“Are you comfortable?” Your heart swelled for a moment, smiling at him before nodding.

He took himself in hand, stroking a few times to bring himself to full mast before finally sinking in to the hilt.

“So wet.” He whispered almost to himself, eyes focused on the way your cunt swallowed his length whole, coating it in your arousal. “My pretty little wife, with her pretty little cunt.” His fingers gripped at your thigh while he found his rhythm, angling himself to find the spot–

You keened, gasping as he huffed out a satisfied laugh.

“There it is, that is the spot, yes?” He focused, hitting it like a bullseye while you clutched at the linens, too blissed out to answer but it mattered not, he knew. Sweat beaded on his brow, the muscles in his arms gleamed in the low candlelight as he panted out his exertion. His beauty so obvious, so highlighted there as he loved you that it filled the little space in your belly not filled with his child with the beating of butterfly wings.

Your fingers reached out to him, needing to feel him surround you and he smiled, leaning forward to catch the tips of them with his lips while his hips moved faster. Your arousal pooled at the base of him, soaking the fine patch of hair between your legs, as well as the curls at the base of his cock.

With a crooked grin, he reached between your legs to swirl his thumb around your swollen clit and the climax is so close your legs start to tremble.

“Don’t stop, please don’t stop Marcus–” It was so close, building like a fire in your hips, spreading like lightning throughout your veins, dripping from where you were joined onto the linens of your bed. Your hand crept down, joining his to press his fingers closer, to guide his movements faster until you burst around him, squeezing him so tight he groaned and slowed his steady thrusting to a grind, his groin pressed tight. Your cunt fluttered around him, pleasure blooming and flooding your body like good, strong wine and it only intensified when he started moving again, chasing his own end while you floated on your cloud. It only took him a few thrusts before he filled you, fucking his seed deep.

His chest rose and fell with each rapid breath, smiling and laughing softly as he pulled himself out.

Your combined passion smeared against your hip when he surged forward to claim your mouth in a kiss. His big hand curled around the curve of your neck softly, such a contrast to how it gripped your thigh. It slid down, smooth as silk before squeezing at your breast.

“Oh!’ The warm drip shocked you, the milk beaded at your nipple before dripping down the valley between your breasts. The bigger shock though, was how quickly he chased it with his tongue. The arousal only flared again, sharp as a knife at the moan he let out. With an almost drunk expression, he wrapped his lips around the peak, and tasted your milk straight from the source.

“Good?” Your fingers threaded through his sweat-soaked waves, cradling him close while he drank deep. His expression was almost sheepish, almost ashamed when he pulled away.

“I do not know what has come over me,” He licked at the tip, staring at the other breast longingly, “I had to taste you, it’s so sweet.” He dipped his head again, drinking from the other breast, deep, strong pulls that only made the red hot coal of desire within you burn even brighter than before. When he pulled away he was breathing hard, shocked at his own reaction.

“Did I hurt you?” He licked at sensitive peaks again, filling your brain with a fog of lust so strong you could barely think.

“No, not at all, it feels really good.” You pulled him closer, urging him to drink, while guiding his hand between your legs. With a knowing grin, he obeyed.

You knew from the moment your eyes opened in the morning, that the baby would come. There was an ache, a pulsing, a violence to its movements within your womb. The child was as impatient to emerge, as you were to give birth and finally have it whole and healthy in your arms.

With a sigh, you tried to adjust yourself, smiling as Marcus pressed himself closer in his sleep, his big hand holding the swell.

“I think today is the day, hmm?” You whispered to your belly, it kicked hard enough to make you wince.

“Gods above, I felt that one, this child will be strong.” He pressed a kiss to your shoulder, pulling another sigh from you. “How are you feeling?”

“I think it will be today, it feels like the baby has moved lower.” You did your best to rise, groaning before he all but lifted you to sit upright.

“I will make the preparations, the midwife is ready and waiting for our summons.” He rose quickly, making you laugh with his urgency.

“Peace Marcus, it will not be right this second, but I do feel it mightl be today.” You stood, gingerly padding towards him, waving away his frown of concern. “Walking is good for me, it will help me with my labours.” He still frowned, meeting you halfway and squeezing you as tightly as he could without causing you pain.

“I will be with you, at your side the whole time.” There was a small tremble in his voice you did not recognize, a nervous aura about him that seemed to bolster you. How curious, you thought, that his moment of fear, is my moment of courage.

“The midwife and her attendants will be there, most men wait until the child is born–”

“I am not most men. I will be with you, holding your hand and wiping at your brow. This is a battle I cannot fight for you, but no one will keep me out of that room.” He pressed his face into your neck and you softened, his fear was justified. Many children did not survive their coming into the world, many mothers died alongside them. You said nothing, nodding softly as his fingers dug into your robes.

The sun made its way across the sky and as it did your pains grew stronger. Cramps painful enough to steal your breath would squeeze at you like a fist for a few minutes before releasing you. The midwife walked with you, she took note of how much time passed between each attack, readying the birthing stool as well as her oils, her sponges and enough water and linens to be able to tend to both you and the baby.

The sun was kissing the horizon when the water came, spilling all over your feet like a tidal wave and sending Marcus into a cold panic.

The midwife did her examinations while your body ripped itself in two. With barely contained screams, and sweat dripping down your brow you got into position, doing your best to focus on your breathing while Marcus kept his word, silently wiping at your brow, and letting you squeeze his hand as hard as you could.

“It must be now, push.” The midwife and one of her girls were in place, moving your robes aside to have access and you did what you had to do. You pushed.

It was agony.

It was liquid fire burning its way through your body, this baby wasn’t being born, it was clawing and tearing its way out of you.

Marcus whispered into your ear, encouragingly, lovingly, patiently guiding you to breathe, to not give up. He reminded you how strong you were, how loved and how soon it would be over. How could it be over soon? It felt as though this pain had been with you at your own birth, all of your life this pain has been here, it had to be. Hours, days? You could not tell how long it had been.

You cried, you begged for it to end, you willed it to be so; shouted and screamed that it hurt too much, that it was too hard and that you could not do it. You told them that the baby would not come, that you could not do this, you were not strong enough. You screamed that this would surely kill you, you would tear in two and die.

“You will not die, you can do this, my love. Bear down, and push.” His gaze was steely, focused and firm and it filled you with courage.

With a sob and a scream you pushed, and pushed. You pushed so much you thought you’d burst and then pushed more still. Until finally, blessedly, the baby came out.

“You have done it! You have done it my love, my beautiful, strong, courageous girl, you have done it!” Tears were in his eyes as he held onto your limp form, but he was not looking at you.

“Why does the child not cry?” It felt like you’d drunk too much wine, the relief from the pain so great you would faint soon, yet still, silence. There was a lot of movement, a terrifying moment that seemed to stretch on for an eternity and despite Marcus all but carrying you and laying you back to rest, no one met your eye.

“Answer me, Marcus, why does the baby not cry? Give it to me! Is it a boy? Is it a girl?” Tears flowed and fear swelled like bile crawling up your throat until a cry loud enough to hurt your ears sounded and the entire room breathed a collective sigh of relief.

“She is a beautiful, healthy and whole baby girl.” Swaddled and screaming, the bundle was placed at your breast. Marcus sobbed, openly and loudly into your shoulder, his big hand covering her tiny head while you looked at her in awe. She had so much hair, such strong lungs, such a force that you laughed, still crying.

“Yes my little love, I know, you fought so hard.” You pressed a kiss to her little brow, doing your best to soothe her.

She took to nursing your breast quickly, a good sign the midwife said and while she and her girls set everything to rights, you could focus on nothing but her. Her little hands clutched at you, taking a few greedy pulls before falling asleep, milk smeared all over her perfect face.

“She is utterly perfect, she has your hands.” Marcus lay beside you, his gaze on her as though entranced.

“She has your hunger.” You smiled, the euphoria eclipsing everything. It was so hard to stay awake though, the birth had taken so much out of you.

“Give her to me and rest. I will be here with you.” With gentle hands, he took her, managing to put her onto his chest without waking her and before he’d even fully settled, sleep had claimed you.

She had fought, both of them had.

His girls had battled, fought tooth and nail and had come through victorious, though his love had paid a price. She’d bled, bled enough that it had frightened him, chilled him to the bone and when the midwife pulled him aside he already knew what she would say. There would be no more children, another birth might kill her.

He mourned the fact that his daughter would have no siblings, no other children to fill this house alongside her but his wife would live. That was all that mattered.

He watched her as she slept, glowing still, if a little wan, weakened by her labours but beautiful all the same. He could no longer imagine living this life without her, he could not see the joy in anything without her there beside him and now his daughter held the other half of his heart. She was the fruit of their union, she was the parts of them that would live on, the living embodiment of his good fortune and just the sight of her filled his eyes with tears.

He pressed his lips to her little brow, smiling at the furrow in them when he jostled her, so like her mother it made him cry all the harder.

This was all that mattered, his entire world was in this bed and he was loath to ever be separated from them again.

He didn’t know which name to call her, they’d never settled on anything. Acacia didn’t seem right, how could he name her after himself when she so resembled her mother already? Aurelia, that was pretty, Diana too. He would wait though, let her have the last say. He basked in the glow of the candles, in the comfort of his wife’s warm weight beside him, in the small weight at his chest and said another silent prayer in thanks.

She was so big already, three whole months and her growth never ceased to amaze you. She still looked tiny in her fathers arms, his broadness compared to her small body always made you smile, especially because for her he was less the brutal Roman General, and more of a soft, lump of honey. She ruled him implicitly, her every cry, her every happy sound was the reason he breathed.

“My love, I need to change her, those little robes are covered in milk.” There was no bite in your words, there could be no anger or annoyance in you at his adoration of her.

“Yes, yes you are right, she must be changed.” He smiled, bringing her to you. She was tired, yawning and fussing, fighting off her midday slumber with a fierceness that made you laugh.

“Yes yes I know Diana, one moment and then your father will rock you.” You cooed at her, making quick work of the change and taking the opportunity to wipe her down with a damp cloth before returning her where she slept the best, her fathers chest.

Once he took her and sat at his favoured chair, she was out, little fist curled under her chin. This was his favourite, and yours. Watching her sleep peacefully, safe and loved within your arms, or his.

“I never grow tired of studying her, already her little face is changing.”

He pressed his lips to her head, breathing in the clean, baby milk smell of her.

“She will have your hair, already it curls when I wash it.” You thread your fingers through the fine wisps of it softly, smiling to imagine her older with curls flowing down her back.

“She has your look, your look exactly. I am still in awe that we have created something so perfect.” His hand took yours and brought it to his lips, you bent to press yours to his forehead.

“As am I, how blessed we are to have her, to have each other.”

When he slipped into bed, you pressed your fingers to your lips, eyes wide to warn him.

“She is finally asleep, we must not wake her.” Your whisper was frantic, and he nodded.

“Yes my lady, I will be silent as the grave.” He pulled you close, whispering in your ear before pressing soft kisses to your shoulder.

“So long as you can keep your voice down when I love you.” His hands pawed at you but you were so tired, it was hard to reconcile the intense want for him, with the ache of the day settling heavy on your bones.

“My love, my mind desires this, but my body is so tired.” You pouted at him, mildly upset to deny him.

“Shall I use my mouth? You can lay back and relax, I can take care of you—my lovely girl deserves pleasure, and rest.” He smiled, undeterred and you could not help but smile.

“And it does not bother you that I will just lay here? Most likely asleep before you have come up for air?” His grey waves were so soft when you raked your fingers through them.

“It pleases me to please you, you are the mother of my child and the love of my life, I would do anything for you.” He kissed your fingers before spreading your legs wide with the breadth of his shoulders. “Do you wish for me to stop?” He pressed a kiss to your inner thigh, and then the soft patch of hair at your mound, before kissing the lips of your sex.

“No, I do not wish for you to stop.” You spread your legs a little wider and his smile grew bigger, letting a big glob of his own spit fall onto your sex before chasing it with his tongue.

He is focused, honed in with his gaze and with his tongue on your clit, flat wide licks from where your arousal drips up to the bundle of nerves and it’s like a spike of arousal pierced the very heart of you every time he swiped his tongue over it. Warm, wet and perfect, he swirled around it in time with your heartbeat, fanning the embers burning in your belly for him.

The fingers that softly scratched at his scalp, now curled into the waves holding him in place as you struggled to keep your mouth shut, but he made it so difficult. The ache building as his brow creased with concentration and his own excitement. His own hand crept down and grasped his cock, stroking at it in time with the delicious circuit of his tongue. That he gained so much pleasure from this only heightened your own, and soon the knot tightened.

Muscles clenched, all of your body a taut string waiting to snap with every pass, every strong lick. You pinched at a nipple, pulling his eyes up to find yours and he let out a low groan, the vibration of it pushed you over the edge with a silent gasp, and empty rhythmic clenches around nothing. He bestowed a final, filthy kiss to your overstimulated clit before moving quickly to get into position. With the shine of exertion glinting on his golden skin he knelt between your legs, pumping at himself furiously before silently, violently spilling onto your still fluttering sex. Hot, milky splashes of him covering it while he gripped at your thigh hard enough to bruise.

He caught his breath, smearing himself in his own mess between your legs past the point of discomfort. He was so beautiful like this, with the flush of passion lighting up his cheeks and his ears, spreading down his chest.

He smiled, winking at you before he grabbed the cloth from the basin and cleansing the mess he had made. You wanted to hold and be held by him, but by the time he was done, you were already asleep.

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#pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #marcus acacius #general marcus acacius #general acacius #gladiator ii #gladiator 2 #marcus acacius x reader #marcus acacius x you #marcus acacius fanfiction #marcus acacius x female reader #marcus acacius smut

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ohisms · 1 year ago

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↪ 𝑺𝑬𝑻𝑻𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑷𝑹𝑶𝑴𝑷𝑻𝑺 , updated . ( a collection of various settings meant to inspire drabbles or be used as prompts . )

001. the seaside , as the sun is setting .

002. a cabin in the middle of the woods .

003. a picket-fenced home in the suburbs .

004. a dark bus stop lit only by street lights .

005. a private jet miles high in the sky .

006. a funhouse’s room of mirrors .

007. an office building , bustling and busy .

008. the back row of an empty movie theater .

009. a run - down motel room .

010. a loud house party on a suburban street .

011. a university lecture hall during a class .

012. the rooftop of a very tall building .

013. a great ballroom during an elegant party .

014. the back of a wailing ambulance .

015. the wine cellar of a large mansion .

016. behind the school’s gymnasium .

017. a boisterous bonfire at the lakeside .

018. an otherwise empty parking lot .

019. the shady bar of a noisy , dark club .

020. the grounds of an empty summer camp .

021. a large hedge maze , easy to get lost in .

022. a neglected or derelict treehouse .

023. a spacious , light-filled meadow .

024. an underground illegal fighting club .

025. an abandoned scrapyard .

026. a large penthouse overlooking the city .

027. an apple orchard in the middle of spring .

028. an empty playground with squeaky swings .

029. an extravagant greenhouse .

030. the base of a large waterfall .

031. a spacious walk - in closet full of lovely clothes .

032. a solemnly quiet hospital room .

033. the dark depths of an abandoned mine .

034. the deck of a fishing boat at night .

035. the thick crowd of an audience at a show .

036. a long , winding road .

037. the scene of a violent crime .

038. a fork in a hiking trail deep in the wilderness .

039. a cramped dressing room .

040. a dusty antiques shop full of relics .

041. the street of an unfamiliar city at night .

042. between the tall shelves of a thrifted book shop .

043. a building abandoned during construction .

044. a house without power or running water .

045. a mysterious trail found in the woods .

046. the back of a taxi stuck in traffic .

047. the inside of an elevator that won’t move .

048. fairgrounds during a large event (or after hours) .

049. a garden bountiful with flowers or produce .

050. a childhood home or bedroom .

+ 30 more setting prompts : 1 / 3 / 2024

051. the site of a horrible accident .

052. a closed pool , after everyone has left .

053. a home holding horrific memories .

054. by the side of a dangerously quick river .

055. a private hotel room .

056. a police station in the middle of the night .

057. a ferris wheel carriage under a sky of fireworks .

058. a lavish , invite - only party .

059. a public transit stop as rain is pouring down .

060. the back of a taxi going in the wrong direction .

061. the underworld .

062. a dusty , forgotten attic .

063. on the set of a television show or movie .

064. a lighthouse overlooking the raging sea .

065. in a post - apocalyptic bunker .

066. on a ship hundreds of miles from the nearest coast .

067. on the rooftop of a perilously tall building .

068. a tent pitched in the middle of the woods .

069. a crowded stadium during a football game .

070. the morgue during an identification .

071. an otherwise empty library during a late study session .

072. a place that feels familiar , yet you've never been here before .

073. a long hallway that seems to stretch on forever .

074. a signpost at the start of a hiking trail .

075. a bar or tavern bustling with life .

076. the dance floor of a masquerade ball .

077. inside of a car parked in a secluded area .

078. at the edge of a cliff overlooking a large lake .

079. inside a very old house with very old haunts .

080. the antiseptic interior of a space station .

#i'll add more eventually #just had to repost this time cos the old post wasn't in beta :/#inbox prompts #setting prompts #rp prompts #rp memes #inbox memes

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ghostiesnightmare · 18 days ago

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The Rules We Keep

Pairing: Brahms Heelshire x Female Reader Summary: While working in the Heelshire manor, you were given one warning: follow the rules. As near-supernatural events rock you to your core, the rules seem to hold you in a vice-like grip. As paranoia takes hold, a chilling discovery marks the start of a deadly game. The rules were meant to keep you safe; but what if following them was the most dangerous thing of all? TW: DARK content, read at your own risk. Non-con, stalking, nudity, foul language, violence, glory-hole, sense deprivation, power imbalance, orgasm denial, degradation, unprotected sex, restraints, rough sex, abuse, creampies, and more. Word Count: 9,623 MDNI- NSFW

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The Heelshire mansion was your own personal hell. The sprawling stone structure seemed to stretch onwards forever, with nooks and crannies at every turn. With multiple floors, countless staircases, and forgotten rooms the manor seemed to be much more of a labyrinth than a household. Doors opened into empty cellars, books activated secret passageways, and every waking moment seemed to present another mystery. The house itself acted as if it were alive, the floorboards creaking under the slightest pressure, windows hissing at the faintest breath of wind. If you had any sense about you, you would have believed the legends that the house was very much, in fact, haunted. Yet the eerie atmosphere that the house produced was the least of your concerns, with something much more sinister afoot.

Brahms. The porcelain doll that you were tasked with caring for was not only unnerving, but unearthly in every way. When introduced to the ungodly toy you had almost laughed, finding the request to babysit an inanimate object to be not only ridiculous, but a joke. Knowing your situation now weeks later, you wished you could take it back. Nothing in the world could have prepared you for the reality of the situation. Items moving in the middle of the night, screeching across the floor so suddenly it tore you from any slumber you hoped to get. Paintings would topple from their hanging posts, crashing onto the hardwood floors at all hours. The light fixtures would flicker consistently, casting shadows on every surface within the house. The doll would move too, seemingly hopping from room to room in order to utterly terrify you. One night, you awoke to the wretched thing on your bed, the painted eyes staring at you, taunting you.

That was the worst part, the feeling of always being watched. Walking into just about any room left the hairs on the back of your neck shooting up, a wave of goosebumps permanently etched into your skin. It felt as if the world was consistently closing in, the room folding in on itself and leaving nothing but you and that devilish doll. No matter the hour, no matter what you were doing, you felt as if eyes were burning holes into the back of your head. It left a shiver down your spine in a way that nothing could shake free, the chill of fear in your bones. At first, you thought you were going crazy, the weeks alone in the countryside finally taking their toll after having only the doll as company. But as the nights went on, bringing nothing less than supernatural events, you began to believe the rumors swirling around the brick manor were true.

You never were a spiritual person, finding urban legends and ghost stories to be nothing short of fiction. Thinking the spirit of a ghost child possessing a doll sounded like something straight out of a horror movie, yet after hearing how the original Brahms was rumored to have killed a girl before perishing in a house fire, the doll seemed all the more terrifying. At night you could have almost swore hearing whispers through the walls, voices beckoning you to explore the darkness below. The thought alone would send fear coursing through your veins. Throughout all the torment, the paranormal events, and the paranoia, your fears were confirmed: the house wasn’t haunted. It was alive.

Then there were the rules:

1. No guests.

2. Never leave Brahms alone.

3. Save meals in the freezer.

4. Never cover Brahm’s face.

5. Read a bedtime story.

6. Play music loud.

7. Clean the traps.

8. Only Malcolm brings in deliveries.

9. Brahms is never to leave.

10. Kiss goodnight.

Those forsaken rules ran every segment of your life, daily routine completely overrun by caring for the doll and manor to the point where you were isolated from all other forms of life. Malcolm was your only saving grace, the weekly deliveries of groceries single handedly keeping your spiral to madness at bay. It felt as if the doll was draining the life from you, any slip within the rules resulting in the house completely turning against you. One fateful morning during your first week watching over Brahms, you had haphazardly thrown a blanket in Brahm’s direction, which ended up covering it completely. Almost immediately, the grandfather clock in the hallway had toppled over, the hundred year old antique smashing to pieces, causing you to jump out of your skin. From that moment onward, the rules were much more sinister than suggestion- they meant your survival.

The soft sound of violin pulled you from your thoughts, causing your spine to straighten abruptly. Wagner’s “Siegfried Idyll” drifted from the gramophone throughout the Heelshire study, the calming melody dampening your mental spiral. Sitting up against the velvet armchair, you leaned closer to Brahms, who sat attentively in his own miniature chair and desk. Clearing your throat, you reached for one of the worn novels stacked on the wood. “How about another chapter of your book before bedtime?” You mused at the doll, who stared blankly back at you. Not expecting any sort of response, you pushed onwards, grabbing a hardcover copy of Robinson Crusoe, the yellowing pages fluttering under your grasp.

Scooping Brahms into your arms from the chair, you padded towards the gramophone, lifting the needle from the record. The manor fell into silence, the absence of noise almost suffocating. Sighing slightly, you glanced around the messy study, making a mental note to clean the bookshelves once Brahms was settled in bed. The smell of paper and pine wafted through the stale air of the room, and you sniffled, rubbing your nose with the back of your sleeve, holding Brahms at your hip. “Okay… let’s go. Time for bed.” You whispered, holding the doll as if it were a child against you. When you first began working at the manor, the thought of actually caring for the doll, much less speaking to it, seemed completely out of the question. As time passed, however, the supernatural elements that plagued your every move seemed to subside when you spoke to the doll, less angry when you played along. It kept you from going insane, anyways.

Exiting the study, you shuffled through the foyer, yawning tiredly with Brahms and the book in tow. Reaching the bottom of the winding staircase, a shift in the light caught your eye. Turning slightly, you gazed at the bronze nameplate that seemed to sparkle in the dim lighting. Of all the paintings in the manor, this had to have been your favorite. The painting was massive, spanning the entirety of the wall and encased in a mahogany frame. Depicted with utmost care was the Heelshire family in front of their house in an almost Victorian fashion. Mr Heelshire stood to the right, pocket watch in hand and towering over his wife. Draped in a luxurious evening gown, Mrs. Heelshire smiled playfully, hands clasped around an infant Brahms at her hip. They were the epitome of class and elegance, a young family that dripped in wealth and prowess. Your fingers traced the bronze nameplate tenderly, brushing a line of dust off the metal. The Heelshire family.

Your brows furrowed, pity sinking into your heart as you gazed at the young couple in the painting. Little did they know their world would be torn apart eight years later, their own child perishing in the fire that almost claimed the manor. Your grasp on Brahms tightened subconsciously as you stared into Mrs. Heelshire’s painted eyes. You found it hard to pull away from the serene moment, lost in the emotion that seemed to swirl in her eyes. You couldn’t pinpoint what exactly drew you to the painting, something anchoring you in place every time you passed it, almost daring you to come closer. There was a sense of mystery surrounding the painted figures, the moment frozen in time for eternity in a way that left your head reeling with questions.

A creak in the floorboards above tore through the eerie silence, and you ripped your gaze away from the painting. Brahms’ lifeless eyes seemed to burn into your skull, and you hoisted the doll up to eye level, inspecting the porcelain slightly. “Someone’s impatient…” You mused, shuffling the doll in your grip. Sparing the painting one last glance, you turned and continued your trek up the stairs, leaving the lower floor in silence. Unbeknownst to you, another creak in the floorboards rang throughout the house, the wooden panelling under the painting shaking as a force passed through, no behind it at an almost inhumane speed. And then, silence.

—

Sighing tiredly, you finished the final button on Brahm’s sleepshirt, leaning back and admiring your handiwork. Tugging the embroidered comforter over the doll’s body, you fell backwards into the wooden rocking chair, pulling open the book once more. Shifting the bookmark from the worn pages, you leaned further against the padded chair, tucking your feet underneath your body. Clearing your throat, you glanced once more at the doll before beginning. “Chapter four: Crusoe considers. And now being to enter into a melancholy relation of a scene of silent life, such, perhaps-” The shudders behind you fluttered suddenly, the nighttime air whipping against the side of the house. You swallowed thickly, unease settling in your stomach. “-as was never heard of in the world before, I shall take it from its beginning-” The wall on the opposite side of the bed thumped loudly, almost toppling one of the shelves nailed to the wood. A startled yelp escaped you, and you whipped your head towards the doll. Nothing.

Gritting your teeth, you struggled to find your place in the book once more. “...I-....I shall take it from its beginning, and continue it in its order.” Voice cracking, you snapped the book shut as the light fixture over your head flickered, casting the room in haunting shadows. “Brahms!” you chided, irritation boiling in your throat. Almost instantly, the light returned to its warm glow as the house seemed to settle under your words. “If you don’t want to read, you could have just said so.” you grumbled, shoving the book off your lap and watching it clatter to the floor haphazardly. Glaring at the doll, you rose from your spot and picked the book back up, placing it on the nightstand before sitting on the edge of the bed. Fingers tracing the cool glass of Brahms’ face, you swallowed, nerves creeping up your spine.

You always hated kissing the doll, bile somehow forming when your lips pressed against the cool surface. Something about the action felt so… lewd, the air in the room instantly feeling heavy whenever it was time to kiss Brahms goodnight. Thousands of imaginary eyes seemed to follow your every move, and the action itself left you feeling dirty and used, always craving a hot shower when the deed was done. Glancing at the doll once more, you shuddered slightly, disgust gnawing at you. Leaning forward, you quickly pecked the porcelain forehead, retreating as if you were burned. Standing, you wiped your hands on your jeans while turning towards the door, trying to erase the feeling from your mind. “Goodnight, Brahms.” you mumbled over your shoulder, flicking off the light and shutting the door behind you, refusing to spare the doll another thought. If he didn’t want a bedtime story, that was his own fault, rules or not.

Shutting the door, you padded down the hallway to the guest room, trying to shake the apprehension that had wound your stomach into knots. Practically throwing open the door to the room, you immediately headed towards the bathroom, flipping on the hot water in the shower. Leaving the bathroom, you rummaged through the wooden drawers before grabbing some pajamas to change into. Tucking them under your arm, your feet absentmindedly searched for your slippers before heading back into the bathroom. Steam began to coat the mirror, the air heavy with moisture, and you took a sigh of relief at the sensation. Setting your pajamas on the countertop, you quickly discarded your clothing, kicking off your slippers before stepping in the shower.

The near-scalding water cascaded down your skin, and you relished in the feeling of the water washing away the stressors of the Heelshire mansion. Squeezing your eyes shut, you rested your forehead against the cool tile of the shower wall, feeling peace for the first time in the day. It felt so good, not having to walk on eggshells in the confines of the shower. You almost felt protected by the hazy steam that clouded your vision and billowed towards the ceiling. The comforting warmth allowed you to pretend that you were safe, not in an abandoned manor with a doll that acted very much alive. Quietly, you scrubbed the grime of the day away, skin red from the heat of the water and the rough scraping, but the warmth felt too good not to indulge in.

Rinsing the suds from your body, you reluctantly turned off the water, almost groaning as the water sputtered to a halt. Reaching around the shower curtain, you blindly searched for a towel, clawing at the air. Fingers brushing against the soft fabric, you pulled the towel into the shower, wrapping the fabric tightly around your body before pushing the shower curtain aside, metallic creaking filling the air. Stepping onto the tiled floor, goosebumps prickled your skin as the heat of the shower faded, your bare feet leaving damp prints on the floor. The hairs on the back of your neck stood suddenly, and your spine straightened. Turning slightly, something caught your eye as you approached the mirror to grab your pajamas.

Steam continued to coat the surface of the mirror, the glass fogged up everywhere but the middle, where it was perfectly clear, your shocked expression staring back at you– as if someone, something wiped away the condensation. Your heart dropped in your chest as the steam began to clear, revealing faint but telltale words on the mirror’s surface, water dripping around the letters.

BREAK A RULE, PAY THE PRICE.

Your blood turned to ice, fingers trembling as they clutched the towel around your shivering form. Your mouth gaped, a scream clawing out of your throat as you stumbled backwards, eyes trained on the words. The letters dripped as the steam evaporated, the message seemingly etched into place. This couldn’t be real. This was just a horrible nightmare.

Fear stabbed into your heart, and you whirled around the small bathroom, looking for any possible explanation. Your gaze jolted to the door, lock still intact and door secure. You were the only one who had been in the bathroom, yet the words on the mirror were all too real to ignore. Break a rule… you squeezed your eyes shut, a sob wracking your chest. The bedtime story and the thump on the wall. The flickering lights, the tapping on the floorboards, it was all part of the fucked up game that Brahms was playing, and you were losing. “I… I’m sorry.” Your lip quivered as you apologized, voice barely above a whisper as you stared at the drying mirror, the disappearing words demanding your submission.

The sink pipes groaned suddenly, pulling you from your trance. The wall shuddered, pipes screeching under an unknown pressure and causing the mirror to rattle violently. Your eyes widened, and you scrambled backwards, tripping over the bathmat and crumbling onto the tiled floor. “I’m sorry! It… It won’t happen again, I promise.” You babbled, hiccuping as tears rolled down your cheeks in fat globs. The rumbling stopped abruptly, your sniffles being the only noise in the bathroom. Lifting your head up, you shakily stood, knees weak and trembling. “...Hello?” You called out, voice strained and hoarse. No answer.

The silence was deafening, your breaths coming out in shallow huffs as the adrenaline died down. Gripping the sink, you hoisted yourself up the rest of the way, fingers digging into the bowl. Someone– something was in the house with you. Bile rose in your throat at the thought, and your fingers gripped the bathroom door handle, cautiously peeking the door open, heart in your throat. Pitch black stared back at you, seeming to swallow you up. Blindly stepping forward, you clutched your towel with one hand, feeling around the room with the other. “...Hello?” You pressed again, straining your ears for any movement or sound. Nothing.

Finding the door to your bedroom, you pushed it open, feet planted against the hardwood of the hallway. Tracing the wall with your hand, you braved onwards, every hair on your skin standing on edge. Your foot almost caught the runner carpet in the hallway, and you struggled to balance yourself. The house was silent, seeming to hold its breath with you as you reached Brahms’ room, any creaks or groans absent. Practically bursting through the door, you flicked on the light, relieved to find Brahms still tucked into bed. Scooping Brahms into your arms, you quickly retreated back to your room, clutching the doll as if it were a lifeline.

Slamming your door shut, you immediately locked it, silently letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding in. Throwing the covers open, you tucked Brahms into your bed, looking for any semblance of comfort as you turned back to the bathroom. Shedding your towel, you quickly hung it up before reaching for your pajamas, grabbing air. You froze, glancing at the counter. The black stack of clothes that was your pajamas was missing, nothing but countertop space staring back at you. You whipped around, quickly looking for anything else out of place as you darted towards your drawers, fingers fumbling to grab another set of pajamas.

Quickly sliding the material onto your body, you pressed your palms into your temples, trying to slow your breathing. You didn’t feel safe. Not here. Not anywhere. Creeping back into the bathroom once more, your gaze met the mirror, begging for the words to be gone. When your wish wasn’t granted, you sighed in frustration, tears filling your vision. You turned to flick off the light when a smudge caught your attention. Squinting your eyes, you looked closer at the mirror. There, pressed against the bottom right of the mirror’s surface, was a handprint.

—

Sunlight peeked through the heavy curtains of the bedroom, casting a soft glow across the hardwood floor, illuminating specks of dust and grime. Forcing your bloodshot eyes open, you tried to blink the tiredness away. You hadn’t slept well, if you could even say you slept at all. You were terrified, any semblance of a noise causing you to jolt awake with Brahms clutched like a vice in your grip. You had hoped that bringing the doll with you would have provided a form of comfort or safety, but his cold porcelain form dug into yours throughout the night and gave you nothing but a sore side. Nevertheless, you watched the doll like a hawk, afraid to let him out of your sight and possibly break another rule.

With a halfhearted sigh, you pulled yourself from the tangle of sheets on your bed, reaching to grab Brahms from his seated position on a pillow. In the dim sunlight, his painted eyes lifelessly stared forward, causing a shiver to waft down your spine. Shaking off the nerves, you picked the doll up before heading to his room to get him dressed for the day. He’s just a doll, he’s just a doll, he’s just a doll. The mantra repeated in your head like a broken record, but there was no solace within the words. If Brahms was just a doll, there were much darker demons at play, and you prayed you wouldn’t insight their wrath. Either way, today was a new day, and the morning routine waited for no one. The doll had needs, after all.

Trying to keep the normalcy of the daily routine, dressing Brahms was first and foremost. Setting the doll on his bed, you rummaged through his lengthy wardrobe in order to find a suitable outfit. Settling on a tweed jacket and slacks, you quickly dressed Brahms, fastening brown loafers onto his glass feet before carrying him into your room and dressing yourself. Slipping on a pair of jeans and cable knit sweater, you moved Brahms and his “dirty” clothes downstairs to the kitchen. Throwing the clothes in the hamper, you sat Brahms at his miniature chair next to the marble island, throwing your hair up in a ponytail. Grabbing a kettle, the pipes groaned as you filled the pot with water, the sound causing you to grimace at the memory of last night.

Putting the kettle on the stove for tea, you continued to move around the kitchen, wiping counters as the tea boiled. The rules– although simple, were very clear, everything in the manor needed to be kept tidy and organized. You had learned the importance of cleanliness the hard way through the first week of your stay, and avoiding consequences was at the top of your to-do list these days. Wiping at the counters, you found your mind wandering to the handprint on the mirror. The sight alone had left your stomach tied in knots for hours, yet something about it seemed… off. It had to have been yours, right? Maybe you were leaning against the shower earlier in the day when doing your skincare, or bumped into it on your way into the shower. That made logical sense, didn’t it? No matter how many times you ran through scenarios, the unease lingered, tightening around your throat like a vice.

The screeching of the tea kettle pulled you from your thoughts, and you quickly rushed to turn off the stove. Pouring yourself a cup of tea, you leaned against the island, staring warily at the doll, whose gaze never left your own. Drumming your fingers on the teacup, you sipped at the bitter liquid eagerly, trying to unwind the bundle of nerves in your stomach. After a full cup of tea with no relief, you decided it was a lost cause, preferring to take your chances cleaning the manor instead. Hefting the doll out of the chair and into your arms, you padded over to the study, the unorganized clutter immediately reaching your gaze. Setting Brahms back in his study chair, you went to work, dusting shelves, reorganizing bookcases, wiping down the fireplace, cleaning the windows, and then some.

As you worked, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were being watched, consistently looking over your shoulder to stare at the unmoving doll in anticipation that something, anything would happen. Yet, nothing. Wiping your hands clean, you glanced around the study once more, the space much more tidy compared to last night. Nodding triumphantly, you moved around the first floor, dragging Brahms as you went to clean anything that was deemed out of place or unnecessary clutter. Once everything was in working order, you began the trek up the all too familiar flight of stairs in the foyer, taking a quick moment to polish the nameplate of the painting as you went.

Stepping into your room, you swept the floor, picking up dust and grime as Brahms watched you from your bed, silent as ever. After a quick dusting and window cleaning, your room practically gleamed in the sunlight. Next, the bathroom. You turned towards the room, dread creeping up your throat again. You had refused to go into the bathroom since discovering the cryptic message and handprint, too terrified to confront any more ghosts or experience any more hauntings. Now that morning had come, a sense of bravery had fallen upon you, the daylight bringing a sense of security with it. Taking a deep breath, you steeled yourself and pushed into the room.

The damp smell of soap immediately hit your nostrils, the air hanging heavy with moisture from the night before. The mirror was still foggy, condensation dripping from the reflective surface, the words barely legible in the dim light. Your brows furrowed, confusion wracking your form– it shouldn’t be this humid in here. The bathroom had time to air out all night. Grabbing a microfiber cloth and Windex, you pushed up on your tiptoes, leaning over the sink to wipe away at the mirror. As you wiped away the mist, something caught your eye. A streak of grime– or dirt?– was stuck to the mirror. Wiping harder, the mark appeared unfazed– as if the streak was inside the mirror.

Trepidation churned in your gut, and you forced yourself to continue wiping the surface. Maybe the mirror was damaged in a way that you hadn’t noticed before, or it was poorly made. Yet, your stomach twisted every time you ran the cloth over the streak. Huffing in frustration, you threw the cloth into the sink, elbow accidentally slamming against the mirror. Upon the harsher contact, the mirror vibrated, a hollow rumble escaping the surface– just like last night. Rubbing your slightly injured funny-bone, you traced the surface of the mirror again, fingers dusting over the mysterious streak once more. Pushing against the material again, the mirror shifted, not much, but slightly giving in against the tiled wall as if it wasn’t hung properly.

Worried you broke the mirror, your fingers pressed against the edge of the surface, causing the whole thing to wobble slightly under your touch. Your breath hitched, curiosity racking your brain as you ran your fingers along the edge of the mirror, feeling for any gaps between the wall and the mirror that was causing the noise. Tracing the bottom right corner, thumb touching the smudged handprint, your nail snagged something. Feeling blindly for the snag, it dawned on you that there was something– a latch hidden between the mirror and the wall. Without thinking, you pressed down on the latch, heart pounding in your ears.

Immediately, a faint click sounded out against the bathroom, the mirror sliding towards you slightly, revealing a slight crack of darkness behind it. Swallowing thickly, you pulled at the mirror, the hinged surface swinging towards you and revealing a perfectly cut rectangle where the mirror sat at the wall. A damp smell invaded your nostrils, any leftover moisture from your late-night shower pouring into your bathroom, causing you to gag at the smell. Gripping the mirror, you looked at the inside of the mirror, finding the smudge of dirt glaring back at you. Horror gripped your chest. It wasn’t just a mirror, it was a one-way mirror. Gazing through the inside, you could clearly make out the tiled wall of the bathroom, clear as day. As you swung the mirror from hand to hand, the traces of lettering caught your attention.

Written on the inside of the mirror was your cryptic message, and before you knew it you dipped your finger in the letter “B”, a wet material coating your index finger. Bringing your finger to your nose, you could faintly smell oil. Your brain seemed to short circuit at the realization. There wasn’t a ghost boy haunting you, there was a very terrifying, very real person writing you messages in the mirror, knowing that the condensation on your side would reveal their haunting warning. Your lip quivered at the thought. You were staring at a door, a door leading to something.

Despite any semblance of your conscious screaming at you to stop, you pulled the mirror fully open, the glass tapping the wall to your left. The gaping hole in the wall was filled with dust, and the stale air immediately invaded your senses, feeling heavy and suffocating. The space behind the mirror was small and narrow, but was just wide enough for a person to squeeze through. Through the lighting of the bathroom, you could barely make out the faint outline of a passageway, the wooden beams acting as the support structure of the house fading into pitch black.

Your chin trembled, fingers fumbling as you dug your phone from your back pocket, turning on the flashlight. A thin stream of light illuminated the cavern, the passageway going straight then sharply turning left. You swallowed thickly, biting your cheek as you turned towards your room. Hurriedly putting on a pair of boots from the closet, you apprehensively approached the gaping hole in the wall. Shutting the toilet seat, you stood on top of the toilet, turning your body over the sink as you reached into the passageway. Gripping onto a wooden support beam, you pulled yourself forward, inching over the sink and plunging further into darkness. Crawling into the small space, you glanced backwards, your feet dangling from the opening into the sink.

Tucking your arms into your body, you let the phone’s flashlight guide the way, army crawling through the dirt until the cavern opened up, the walls thinning and ceiling expanding upwards. Immediately, you shifted uncomfortably until you were standing, crouching slightly. Looking back on the way you came, you noticed a wrapper on the dirt floor, the plastic pushed haphazardly to the side by your clumsy crawling. Someone had been here– recently. You inhaled sharply at the thought, heart twisting in your chest, but you pushed onwards, determined to solve the mystery that plagued you for weeks.

As you turned, everything seemed to click into place. Someone had been watching you. Someone in the walls. A click made you jolt, and you realized the mirror had shut again, leaving you in unfamiliar territory. You stood, rooted in place, phone shaking in your hand as you tried to slow your breathing. Realizing there was no way to go but forward, you trembled slightly, bile threatening to rise in your throat. The handprint. The rules. The noises. The lights. Everything– it all clicked into place with a terrifying realization. You weren’t alone. Ever since you stepped foot in the manor, you had never been alone. “Just a quick look…” You reasoned with yourself, pushing forward.

The passageway seemed never-ending, twisting and turning around the countless rooms in the manor. The wooden beams surrounding you were almost impossible to maneuver around, causing you to walk hunched over to avoid banging your head against the low ceilings. The wooden planks creaked beneath your feet, and you cringed at any sudden movement you made. Within the tight confines of the passageway, every sound felt amplified– your breath, the rustle of your clothes, your steps. The twists and turns of the passageway left you at many forks, leaving you to blindly choose a direction with nothing but instinct to guide you.

The deeper you went into the passageway, the more unnerved you became. It felt as if you were crawling into the belly of the beast, and a part of you was terrified with what you would find. You passed an immeasurable amount of peepholes drilled into the wall, each hole giving a clear view of the room attached to it. Your bedroom. The study. The kitchen. A chill creeped up your spine as you realized how every single moment you experienced in the manor had been on display, every movement watched by another. You swallowed thickly at the thought.

Braving onwards, it felt like a lifetime had passed within the passageways, with you maneuvering against the nooks and crannies of the house. Suddenly, the passageway opened up, housing an actual room in a space you could only imagine was the attic. An old bed frame was pushed to the far side of the wall, adorned with a ragged mattress and mismatched blankets. Food containers, papers, books, and other odds and ends covered almost every surface of the room. A singular light bulb hung from the ceiling, the bulb swaying slightly in the drafty air. Papers were plastered to the wall, covered in sketches and pictures. You had stumbled upon your stalker’s hiding place. Lip quivering, you approached the wall, looking at the pictures under the light of your phone.

They were sketches of you. Drawings in various stages of completion of you doing random tasks, some with the doll, some alone. Your nostrils flared at a sketch of you in the shower, suds caressing your skin under a stream of water. Another showed you sleeping, the viewpoint being so close you were sure they were in your bedroom with you to sketch it. Your chest tightened at the sheer amount of sketches, and you backed away subconsciously. Your knee hit the edge of the metallic bed frame, causing your attention to divert to the unmade bed in the corner of the room. Your eyes snaked across the multitude of blankets before reaching the crevice of the bed that met the wall. Two pillows were stacked on top of each other, your stolen pajamas from the night before pulled over them as a crude form of you. Crumpled up tissues dotted the edge of the bed and the floor, stomach churning violently as the reality of the situation set in.

Your breathing hitched, and for a moment, you were sure you were going to faint. Your stalker wasn’t just watching you. He was controlling the house– controlling you, by making you believe that the doll was real. The rules you were so keen on following weren’t about the doll at all. They were about you. The realization left you gasping for air, the atmosphere of the room becoming much too cramped for your liking. Your breath came out in strangled huffs, and every part of you screamed to run, but you felt bolted in place. Your legs felt like jelly, and you struggled to tear your gaze away from those godforsaken pajamas and go back the way you came.

Finally ripping yourself away from your trance, you turned towards the opening, flashlight trembling as you stopped dead in your tracks. Standing no more than a few feet in front of you was a man, his imposing form towering over you as he slouched against the walls. Silently watching you, his head cocked to the side, catching the light of your phone. Your heart nearly stopped as the light illuminated a porcelain mask, all too familiar to the very doll you were employed to take care of. Your world came crashing down, each brutal piece falling into place to show you the true, horrifying reality. He was here; the whole time, terrorizing the manor and making your life a living hell. Brahms Heelshire.

You felt as if you were punched in the face, mouth parted in shock as you simply gaped at the man before you. Clearly not expecting you, Brahms stood with a tupperware in his hands, half eaten leftovers you made clearly forgotten. For a moment, neither of you moved. The atmosphere was impossibly heavy with tension, weighing down on you so strongly you could cut the air with a knife. Your chin trembled, voice catching in your throat as you gaped like a deer caught in headlights. “(Y/n)?” A childlike voice escaped the hulking male in front of you, and a wave of nausea washed over you. The figure in front of you was nothing like the childish doll hidden away inside the manor, he was a man– a towering, cardinal force of nature that made your blood run cold.

Brahms took a step forward, snapping you out of your shock induced state. Through the holes in the mask, you caught his eyes– brown so dark it looked black stared back at you, a curious but predatory look in them. You swallowed thickly, nodding quickly to acknowledge the man. He hummed in approval, the noise much deeper than the voice let on, sending a shiver down your spine at the almost primal sound. You shuffled backwards, boots dragging across the floorboards, a creak splitting through the silence. Brahms froze, eyes narrowing, hands too large for comfort tightening into fists. You could hear a pin drop in the silence, the weight of his gaze alone making your head swim.

“You… you broke the rules…” The voice chided you, cracking down at least an octave at the statement, the childlike pretense twisting into something much colder, sharper. He cocked his head again, eyeing you darkly. “-Now, you pay the price.” A shudder tore through you, his words echoing the haunting message on the mirror the night before. The mantra pounded in your skull, gaze flying to the wall of sketches before landing on the rustled pajamas. Break a rule, pay the price. The realization slammed into you just as your body reacted, a burst of movement tearing through you. Heels skittering across the floor from the force, you turned, the noise echoing through the room like a gunshot. You jolted, legs pumping as you sprinted to an opening in the wall.

Brahms, startled by your sudden attempt at escape, took a step forward, hand clawing at your hair as you whipped past him. “Get back here!” He bellowed, the childish facade shattering as his rough, deep voice rattled your bones. Ducking into the passageway, you narrowly missed crashing into the ceiling, phone slipping from your hand in the chaos. The space was suffocating, illuminated only by the slivers of light pouring through the peepholes in the wall. The passageway rattled behind you, a furious Brahms expertly navigating the tunnels, too close for comfort. You were in his territory now, and he was never going to let you escape.

A sob clawed its way through your throat as you sharply turned right, trying to increase the distance between you and your attacker. Fumbling down another miniature flight of stairs, your sweater caught momentarily on a nail, causing you to lose precious seconds tearing yourself free. You could practically feel Brahms behind you, hot on your heels and closing in for the kill. Adrenaline pushed you forward, and a fork in the road quickly met your gaze. Which way? Not missing a beat, you turned left, almost tripping down the passageway’s sharp decline. The stale air seemed cooler as you pushed onwards, and you prayed that the tunnel was leading towards the basement. If you could reach the basement, you would be able to slip through one of the windows or hide among the debris until you could formulate a better plan.

What you weren’t expecting, however, was the collapsed wall you almost ran into full force. Over the years, the beams had rotted away, folding in on itself and leaving small gaps in between the rubble. Panic seized you like a vice, heart beating so loudly that you were certain Brahms could hear it. Digging your nails into the wall, you threw yourself against the deteriorating beams, trying to open up a gap large enough for you to crawl through. A rustle of clothing sounded behind you, a spike of terror seizing your chest. Brahms was close– too close, as if he was about to reach out and grab you. Throwing your full weight against the beams, a sob tore through your throat and despair settling in the pit of your stomach. With a crack, one of the beams shifted, revealing a thin gap just wide enough for you to squeeze through. An unearthly growl sounded out behind you, practically right at your heels, and before you knew it, you surged forward through the gap, bracing for the impact against the cold floor.

The impact never came. Instead, pain exploded throughout your midriff as the beam fell, caving in on its own weight and crushing you in place.The air was knocked from your lungs, and you sputtered for air, trying to weasel your way through the gap, expletives flying from your mouth. You were pinned in place, the beams above collapsing in at a bruising force, and your lower ribs burned as if you were stabbed. Breaths coming out in shallow, pained huffs, you quickly realized your situation. You were injured, trapped, and exposed. Stomach crushed painfully in between the beams, your hips knocked against the beam stubbornly, too large to un-wedge yourself from your position, no matter how hard you barred down and pushed. A breathless chuckle escaped from somewhere behind the wall– chillingly amused.

Your vision was useless against him, vision blocked by the very beams pinning you in place. Craning your neck, your hearing sharpened as blood roared in your ears. You could hear him– feet shuffling against the dirt floor as he approached you slowly, predatory and deadly. Squeezing your eyes shut, you stiffened, back scraping painfully against the wood, splinters biting into your skin. Icy fingers brushed against your back, and you physically jolted at the sensation. You cursed your sweater, its betrayal evident as it bunched around your shoulders from the chaos. A deep hum sounded out behind you, the graze of his fingers much more deliberate as they curled along your lower spine, seemingly savoring your warmth.

“Caught you…” Brahms whispered, eerily calm in a way that made your head spin. The passageway was catastrophic, walls closing in as your senses heightened, hyper-aware of the precarious situation. Jagged edges dug into your ribs, each breath you took causing a white-hot pain to shoot to your sides. Brahms’ blunt nails scraped against your back, more persistent, hungry. Blind panic seized you, feet kicking blindly as you fought against the beams, praying for something to give way. A hand roughly grabbed an ankle, squeezing so tightly you were certain he would leave bruises. You froze, and the hostile grip eased slightly. “Fight all you want…” He growled lowly, voice dropping. “–you aren’t going anywhere.”

Tears fell at that, and you smacked a hand over your mouth to silence your sobs, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “Brahms… I-... I’m sorry.” You sputtered out, voice shaking as you begged for mercy. The rules were supposed to be your saving grace, and now that they had been broken, nothing would be able to rescue you now. Dropping your leg, Brahms clicked his tongue, weighing your apology while shuffling forward. He was so close, you could practically feel his breath on your back as he triumphantly stood over you. His icy touch returned, fingers tracing the vertebrae of your spine exploringly. You inhaled sharply, stomach clenching as he caressed the sensitive skin in an almost endearing manner. His fingers faltered slightly, palm spread over the bottom of your back, pushing you down.

Immediately, you arched, the pressure sending ripples of pain in your ribs that you struggled to alleviate. A heavy sigh rang in your ears, and realization stabbed into you like a knife. He was experimenting; a man hidden away from society and living in complete isolation for decades and never experiencing human touch, human connection. But he was still a man, a man with wants… with needs. Your heart caught in your throat as his palm retreated suddenly, opting to trace the curve of your waist almost shyly, curiosity evident in the slow, inexperienced touches. Calloused fingers wavered over the hem of your jeans, feeling your softness. The sensation sent you into a squirming mess, trying to push away from the ticklish movements.

Brahms pushed onwards, fingers shaking from what you could only imagine was excitement as he dipped below your jeans, tapping your hip bones. Large hands stuffed beneath the denim, he gripped your hips sharply, a startled yelp escaping your lips. He shuffled even closer, hips draped over your clothed ass, almost leaning into the wall, hungry for the warmth radiating from your skin. You squirmed immediately, the weight of his eye scalding as his touches became more frantic. A hand surged around your front, toying with the button on your jeans, and you inhaled sharply. Break a rule, pay the price.

The button popped beneath his fingers, zipper straining as it was practically yanked downwards. “Brahms-” you pleaded, boots scraping against the dirt as you braced yourself against the wall. Brahms huffed, seeming to enjoy the way you called his name, any warning or emotion attached to it forgotten. Your jeans were unceremoniously pulled downwards, bunching around your knees, excited hands drawn to the exposed skin like a moth to a flame. Brahms’ patience quickly faded as he pressed forwards, poking and prodding your thighs with his fingers. “So… soft.” a broken murmur came from behind the wall, Brahms enchanted by the way your skin felt beneath his fingers, better than any silk or velvet in the manor.

You shuddered at his words, the feeling of his fingers dancing along your skin sending a stroke of fire to your stomach. Gone were the gentle, exploring brushes, replaced with something much rougher. Brahms mapped your legs with his hands, yanking your boots from your feet and leaving your lower half bare, spare your cotton panties. Any exposed surface was immediately touched, hands encircling your much smaller ankles, scraping along your calves, or gripping your hips. A sharp smack to your ass left your head spinning, a startled gasp escaping you. Brahms was falling fast, resolve shattered at the promise of the new, shiny toy sprawled in front of him, hands kneading your ass while his hips absentmindedly ground against you.

You jolted sharply as the outline of Brahm’s cock pressed into your upper thigh, the excited nature of the male behind you only amplifying once he discovered how good it felt brushing against your rear. An animalistic growl cut through the air, hips snapping against yours momentarily before your panties were grabbed tightly, the fabric straining against your skin before being torn to shreds, skin raw from the force. “Brahms!” You tried to chide, knowing it was futile. It was almost laughable trying to control the doll version of Brahms, so the very primal, very real Brahms was out of the question.

At first, there was nothing. You could faintly make out his heavy breathing, and you cowered under the apparent gaze that was fixated on your newly exposed skin. If this had been any other situation, you would have been flustered, embarrassment coating your skin at the rough nature of your partner, but now you only felt terrified anticipation. A lone finger drifted from your hip bone to your front, the touch surprisingly soft as it trailed down your skin, causing your thighs to clench at the feeling. Scraping down your pubic bone, the finger brushed against your pussy, dipping within your folds. Shame burst through you as he pulled your folds apart, swiping at slick collecting between your thighs. You were aroused, your body betraying you from his soft touches as his finger experimented against your skin.

Brahms grunted, seemingly pleased, instinct pushing him onwards, another finger joining his endeavor, spreading you apart. The cool air hit your core at that, and you tensed, completely exposed and at his mercy. Almost lazily, his finger trailed along your slit, coated in your juices, mapping your folds to memory as you squirmed against his touch. A knuckle brushed your clit, and your heart almost stopped, stomach clenching at the sudden touch. A whimper escaped you, and Brahms paused at the noise, curious. His fingers withdrew from your core, shuffling ensuing as you strained to hear something, anything. A droplet of something wet hit your rear, and you jolted. He was drooling, mask abandoned as he stared down at you, the heat of his gaze sending sparks down your spine.

Abruptly, a finger wedged between your thighs, pushing inside of you. You cried out, the sudden intrusion causing you to clench around his digit, hands clawing at the dirt beneath you. Sinking inwards, he twirled his finger, flesh scraping against your gummy walls, much larger than your own fingers. The finger stilled, another quickly pushing in to relish in your warmth, the stretch uncomfortably addicting as he rocked his fingers within you. You pressed your foreheard against the dirt, heavy pants escaping you as he fucked you with his fingers, chasing the feeling of you clenching around him. The air felt heavy, tension crackling between you and your captor as you fell apart on his fingers, shame fading away as something much more primal began to take root.

Brahms, addicted with the feeling of your soft walls, picked up pace, and you whimpered at the force. A shuddered sigh escaped the male behind you, getting lost in the image of his fingers sinking within you, a lewd squelch filling the air as his fingers retreated from your core. His hips ground against your upper thigh, and your lip quivered at the feeling of his clothed cock rutting against your skin. His fingers scissored within you, and a broken moan tore within you. This was so wrong, so perverted, but you couldn’t help but get lost in the feeling, a wave of warmth tearing through you. Sweat beaded your hairline, and you clamped your jaw shut to try and silence the noises threatening to spill from your lips.

Brahms however, always observant, noticed the slip immediately, no amount of stifling able to keep your sounds away from him. Although quiet, the moan rattled throughout the passageway, shattering any sense of resolve or patience that was left. You wanted it, you liked what he was doing to you, and that was all the reinforcement he needed, whether you knew it or not. Your skin felt as if you were on fire, the pain in your ribs mixing with the pleasure in a dangerous concoction that left you reeling. Your nails dug into the dirt, coating your fingertips as tears streamed down your cheeks, any coherent thought melting away as you felt your orgasm building within you, muscles tightening. The hand not driving into you traced along your lower back once more, the soft touches contrasting the rough thrusts of his fingers so sinfully your eyes rolled.

You were so close, body quickly submitting to the pleasure that rocked your body, head spinning as he brushed your clit once more. Your hips rolled slightly, eager to match the pace, oblivious to the devious grin sported on the other side of the wall. Brows furrowed, your mind short circuited, chasing the feeling as you silently begged, praying to get your release. Brahms’s fingers tore from you so quickly it hurt, orgasm halted right before you hit the precipice. Your jaw clamped down, biting into your cheek so roughly you drew blood, frustration wracking your body. Your legs shook, emptiness consuming you as you squirmed against the wall, desperately trying to reach your high.

So caught up in your denial, you barely registered the shuffling of clothes, ears ringing as your heartbeat pounded in your head. A hand gripped your hip suddenly, nails digging into your skin as Brahm’s hips met your ass. Your eyes widened, the feeling of his bare skin against yours sending a shiver down your spine. Before you could even think, Brahms nestled in between your legs, clumsily aligning to your core and entering you in one, quick thrust. A scream tore from your throat at the intrusion, and you steeled yourself against the wall, trying to catch your breath as Brahms’ cock delved into you without any chance of stopping.

Aching, you faltered, clenching blindly around Brahms as he quickly bottomed out, scraping against your walls in ways that made his fingers seem like child’s play. He was so big, filling you so full you could feel him in your stomach, his bruising force shoving you further into the wall, your ribs screaming in pain. Bracing yourself against the dirt, you helplessly met his ruthless thrusts, choked moans spewing from your throat. It hurt so good, the uncomfortable stretch melting away with every thrust, the only thing grounding you in place being his hands digging into your flesh. He fucked into you, chasing the sensation of your snug walls, heavy groans and pants echoing around the passageway.

You were falling fast, lost in the feeling of his cock pushing into you so forcefully you felt as if he were rearranging your insides, so consumed with nothing else but him. You felt as if you couldn’t breathe, pleasure racking through you so violently your toes curled into the dirt. Your whole body tensed, clenching down on Brahms so hard you were sure you were squeezing him to death. Static heat prickled against your skin, electricity flowing through your limbs as you felt like you were going to burst. You babbled nonsense, chanting into the stale air as you felt your orgasm approaching, mind moving a million miles a minute and ready to crash down at a bruising force. Brahms continued his onslaught, refusing to let up as he delved into you, chasing the sensation of you wrapped sinfully around his cock. Your back scraped against the wood as he thrusted into you, head bobbing against the dirt as you took him with everything you had, drool dripping down your chin.

It was too much, everything was too hot, too fast. The grip on your hips never relented, pulling you towards him as if you were a fucktoy, and you weakly met his thrusts. Arching your back, you ignored the burning sensation in your ribs, caught up in the addictive nature of Brahms’ cock drilling into you, ruining you for all others. His cockhead snapped against your cervix, pain blossoming within you, and you sucked on your lips for comfort. Brahms was like an animal, so caught up in the way you sucked him in that nothing else could ever compare to. Your eyes rolled as he angled his hips upward, cock hammering into your spongy walls, the new position making your stomach roll.

Your fingers dug into the dirt so hard a nail snapped from the pleasure, and you came. Your orgasm crashed into you, body spasming as you screamed, clinging to the dirt like a lifeline. Brahms faltered at your visceral reaction, hips rutting against yours as you finished, fucking you through your brutal orgasm. The world tilted, vision dotted with black as you struggled to breathe, consumed with the release of pressure within you. Brahms growled, pulling your hips flush against his, pace wavering as you clenched down on him like a lifeline. The sound of his cock leaving you in a squelching, moaning mess bounced lewdly along the walls, but you found yourself too exhausted to care. Stamina evaporating, Brahms collapsed on top of you, head pressed against the wood as he pushed himself so deep you were sure you were suffocating. Thick ropes of cum coated your insides, filling you to the brim as you weakly took his final thrusts, Brahms heaving as he stilled within you.

The air was heavy, the smell of sex coating your sweaty body as you laid limply in the dirt, cable knit sweater scraping against your raw skin. Brahms retreated from you slowly, a hiss of pain escaping you as emptiness consumed you. Your legs spasmed, twitching from the force of his thrusts as you tried to catch your breath. Your ribs throbbed, the ache making it hard to breathe. Your limbs felt weak and heavy, adrenaline leaving your body as you trembled from the aftermath of your climax. Somewhere behind you, Brahms shifted, feet scraping against the dirt, a new wave of anxiety coursing through you.

The scratchy fabric of your jeans dragged against your legs as he tugged them back into place, movements rough and quick. You winced, powerless to stop his antics, but relieved to be clothed once more. With a sudden grunt of effort, the crushing weight on your ribs eased. You blinked, confused as the beam pining you in place was hoisted into the air. The opening was wide enough for you to crawl through, and hope surged through your limbs. You wriggled forward, using the little strength you could muster to drag through the rubble. Before you could crawl more than an inch, however, a strong hand gripped your sweater, yanking you backwards with a brutal force.

You hit the ground, pain shooting through you as you landed in a crumpled heap onto the dirt floor. The beams came crashing down, a cloud of dust enveloping you, sealing the passageway you had fought so desperately hard to escape through. You stared at the crude wall of wood and stone– your escape route, gone. Brahms stood a few feet in front of you, shoulders rising and falling with his heavy breaths. You swallowed thickly, the taste of dust and dirt coating your tongue as you gaped at your captor, mask tightly bound against his face once more. Dazed, you fumbled with your boots, slipping on the uneven ground as a defeated, tired sigh escaped your lips.

Your gaze shifted to Brahms, who tilted his head, catching you in his line of sight. His eyes bore into you, making your stomach churn, your skin flushing at the memory of his hands on you just moments before. Wordlessly, Brahms stalked over to your form, towering over you as you pressed further against the floor. Before you could react, a rough hand grabbed at your arm, pulling you up with unnerving ease. You stumbled, knees weak and body sore, a low chuckle escaping his lips, muffled by the mask. A hand roughly gripped your jaw, forcing your face upwards to meet his eyes. Your breathing hitched at the proximity, his strength evident in the bruising grip. The cool porcelain of his mask brushed against your damp forehead as he leaned closer, causing you to shiver. “New rule…” He rumbled, voice low with a newfound sense of authority. His grip tightened, your teeth knocking together painfully as you gaped into the void of his eyes.

“– I kiss goodnight.”

—

A/N: This definitely took longer than expected... I will try to post more consistently now that my schedule is more consistent! If you have any requests or suggestions please message me! Enjoy ;)

#horror smut #slasher smut #slasher x reader #slashers #smut #brahms the boy #brahms #brahms heelsire x reader #x you smut #x reader #brahms heelshire #female reader #reader insert #one shot #ghostiesnightmare

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river-of-wine · 1 year ago

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I know I’ve mentioned this plenty of times before but I’m still kind of annoyed by how the fanbase just kind of completely declawed the four lords and placed the entirety of the responsibility for their wrongdoings on Mother Miranda.

The Baker family are great, I love them, they’re an incredible unit of antagonists who are intended to be very sympathetic, at least for the most part. Jack and Marguerite in particular have lost all control over their minds and their bodies, turning into extremely violent murderers and cannibals who threaten and attack their own family, kill anyone unfortunate enough to come across them and, especially in Marguerite’s case, lose complete autonomy over their own bodies. Marguerite turns into a walking bug hive who’s only purpose is to feed her family and birth her new children. Jack is an unstoppable murderous force of patriarchal violence who has so much fun chasing down and harming his victims, which in the Daughters DLC includes even his own daughter. The exception to this is obviously Lucas, who has been cured of his infection and his acting of his own free will. All of this is caused by Eveline, everything Jack and Marguerite do controlled by her, and yet Eveline is just as sympathetic as the rest of them. She’s a ten year old girl. Even Jack, who has watched his family and their victims suffer because of her infection, doesn’t seem to hold any of it against her. She just wants a family of her own, after all. It’s a complex and tragic situation.

The four lords, while I suppose being similar in structure, are not the Baker family. Not in dynamic, not in character, not in the kind of tragedy that they embody. I could talk for a while about just how completely different they are, but I don’t know if I really need to.

The Baker family are so tragic because they were just innocent bystanders trying to help a woman and a little girl they found in a shipwreck out in a storm. That’s the only reason they ended up in the situation that they were in. While the lords have similar origins, being victims of Mother Miranda’s experiments to bring her daughter Eva back, an important distinction between them is that in the case of the lords, all four of them are still acting of their own free will. Yes, Mother Miranda has undeniable power over them. She leads the cult they are part of, she has control over the village, she is their superior. However, I really dislike when every negative action by the lords is pushed onto her, as if the lords are not all grown adults who are for the most part acting independently of her.

With Alcina, she is the head of her own extremely brutal crimes. I think a lot of people have forgotten quite how horrifying the situations of the maidens are, possibly due to the prevalence shipping between Alcina and the maidens, and though we have minimal information what we do know is very frightening. Alcina uses her work force like livestock, draining them for their blood in a cellar full of horrific torture devices, and leaves their corpses to shamble around, armed and ready to attack any unwanted guests that have slipped out of the daughter’s clutches so that Alcina still doesn’t have to do her own dirty work, given how highly above everyone but Mother Miranda she appears to view herself as. While yes, Alcina does need human blood to survive, her methods are brutal, and none of this has been enforced upon her by Mother Miranda. Similarly to Jack on occasion, she takes a great deal of pleasure in hurting and attacking Ethan as he runs from her. Additionally, everything she does to Ethan is against Mother Miranda’s request. While yes, it is retaliation after he killed Bela, the part I often see people leave out is that Alcina is equally as upset that he entered her property and was attempting to steal from her, and she isn’t just after him to kill him.

Alcina has also been an active participant in aiding Mother Miranda with at least one experiment, considering that I’d how she got her daughters. While I’m sure her strong admiration for Mother Miranda and Mother Miranda’s power over her has absolutely had an affect in this, that’s not something I’ll deny, Alcina is still a grown woman and in her written entries about this shows no qualms about her participation in this. Her general attitude towards others, using young women as a good source and turning men into scarecrows, also leads me to believe that she does not exactly care who gets hurt or taken advantage of when it comes to her and Mother Miranda’s personal endeavours.

Donna and Moreau are the two more sympathetic people within the four lords, but they are not innocent. To start with Moreau, he’s desperate for Mother Miranda’s approval, as well as the other lords. He’s insecure and lonely, and he’s doing what he has been instructed by Mother Miranda when it comes to protecting the flask. However, he does also take quite a bit of joy in trapping Ethan in the reservoir and swimming after him with the intention to eat and kill him. Moreau though, given his conditions and circumstances, is the one I think is the least to blame for what he does.

Donna is hard to discuss because we know so little about her. Her parents are dead, as well as whoever Claudia was to her, she communicates through Angie and she can cause those who enter her house to hallucinate. According to Mother Miranda, Donna is severely mentally ill and that is what has made her an unfit vessel. I think a lot of people took this to mean that Donna is unaware of what she is doing, that the hallucinations she is showing Ethan are frightening, but after having been a fan of this game for years I just can’t agree with that anymore. Donna intentionally lures Ethan into her house with visions of his supposedly dead wife. Donna is going after fears she likely knows Ethan has, making him relive Mia’s death, take apart a mannequin of her, listen to her voice panic over something being horribly wrong with Rose, all building towards the horrifying baby that chases him through the house. There is no way Donna doesn’t understand how what she is showing Ethan is distressing, especially when you consider that, given how she can make herself appear and disappear at will within Ethan’s vision and that Angie is sitting in the hallways stationary and unspeaking, Donna was likely close by Ethan at all times and could see and hear his frightened reactions to what she was intentionally showing him.

Donna’s death is upsetting, but Ethan was not just chasing her down and killing her. Donna was attacking him, or at least she was controlling her dolls to do so. It’s still a hallucination, but Ethan doesn’t know that. When faced with a threat that is keeping you trapped and trying to end your life, you will likely try to get away or try to fight back, as Donna is doing to Ethan after he starts to attack her and Ethan is doing to Donna when he thinks his life is still in danger. I would also like to remind everybody that Donna communicates through Angie. What Angie is saying, that’s Donna. Angie doesn’t talk or move once she’s dead, it is Donna who controls her.

Lastly, Heisenberg. I think Heisenberg is the one of the four most entrenched in headcanons. Headcanons are fine, I am never in this post trying to suggest they aren’t, but my issue comes in when people use them to try and change the canon of the game. For example, it’s fine to believe that Heisenberg was experimented on by Mother Miranda as a child, but that isn’t canon. It’s fine to believe that Heisenberg mourned the deaths of his siblings, but that isn’t canon. The opposite is, with Heisenberg not viewing the cult as an actual family and being very openly mean to all three other lords, even Donna and Moreau who seemingly haven’t done anything to slight him. While his goal of killing another Miranda is a very understandable and sympathetic one given what she has done to him, using a six month old baby as a weapon and trying to bring her father into the mix only to try to get him killed when he denies him is not. I cannot overstate quite how little Heisenberg actually cared for Ethan and Rose’s safety when it came to his goal, and given that we are playing as Ethan, Rose is the priority.

Heisenberg has built an army of corpses he has presumably stolen and desecrated. This is kind of fucked up actually, and done completely independently of Mother Miranda. He also puts Ethan through a very dangerous lycan gauntlet before he even reaches the factory, which makes it even stranger to me that people seem to interpret Heisenberg’s deal as something that would have benefitted both him and Ethan and as if he ever had Ethan’s safety in mind.

All four of the lords have tragic aspects to them and there are definitely reasons to sympathise with all four. They’re victims of Mother Miranda, who knows they will all be killed. She wants them to be, giving her less to deal with by the time she has Eva back. They never meant anything to her. Not Alcina or Moreau, who were desperate for her attention. Not Donna, suffering from her unspecified but apparently severe mental illness. Not Heisenberg, who was seemingly her favourite creation. However, all of them are grown adults who do their own bad things independently of her.

And it’s fine to still like them. It’s fine for them to be your favourite character. It’s fine to have happy or nice headcanons about them or want to kiss them or be their friend or to want them to have survived. It’s fine to like characters who do shitty things. It’s to be expected in a game series like Resident Evil. It’s a horror game series. People are going to do bad things.

I just find it so boring when people take away all their bite. What makes a character like Lady Dimitrescu so fun it’s that she’s completely over the top. She’s campy and ridiculous, her castle layout makes no sense, she’s got three kids made of swarms of flies dressed like a set of goth triplets, she’s a lesbian who’s castle is full of naked statues of women, she turns into a big dragon and laughs maniacally while flying around and trying to eat you. She’s evil and it’s fun. It’s the same with Heisenberg. He’s a campy show off with a fun voice and a massive hammer he never actually uses. He can control metal. He looks like a cowboy. He pronounced Miranda in a funny way. He talks to you over an intercom while trying to get you killed. They’re fun and evil and they fight over who gets to kill Ethan like they’re two little kids. It’s absurd.

What makes a character like Donna so scary is that she’s silently working in the shadows, unassuming at a first glance and unseen for most of the time in her house. She is the least threatening of the four upon first glance, and yet she has undeniably the most frightening part of the game. Pretending as if Donna is completely unaware of what she is doing and babying her like she is an incapable child waters her down completely and takes away from the effectiveness of her character.

Villain characters are great! They’re very often the highlight of the story they are in, and they aren’t real! The four lords especially are often so completely exaggerated in what they do as well. It’s fine to like villains! It doesn’t make you bad! Characters can be bad people and you can still like them!

It’s just frustrating seeing a group of very fun and exciting villains, all designed with different aspects of horror, all over the top and campy and stupid and fun, all doing their own set of fucked up things, watered down to a set of poor innocent victims who have never done any wrong ever. If you want Jack and Marguerite, take Jack and Marguerite. Lady Dimitrescu loves killing and eating women and Karl Heisenberg turns corpses into soldiers. They’re bad people and they do comically exaggerated bad things. If you can’t stomach liking a character like that, horror is probably not the genre for you. Unless it’s Resident Evil 7, I suppose, but apparently tall women aren’t hot when it’s Marguerite Baker crawling on the walls.

#I just wanted to ramble abouts the four lords they’re fun as villains and I’m really bored of how their edges keep getting rounded off #resident evil 8 #re8 #lady dimitrescu #donna beneviento #salvatore moreau #karl heisenberg #resident evil 7 #re7 #jack baker #marguerite baker #eveline baker #analysis

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onebadassunicorn · 2 months ago

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His Blue-Eyed Angel

pairing: Azriel x Reader

content warnings: torture, beating, SA (attempted), gore, captivity, depression, hopelessness, serious angst

word count: 8.7k

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Story tags: @bravo-delta-eccho @tele86 @tiredsleepyhead @celestialgilb @theflowerswillbloom @fuckingsimp4azriel @quiet-because-it-is-a-secret @salvatoresister1 @imperfect0angel @stvrdustalexx

Image owned by Velocity Visual Media.

********************

Chapter 18

Azriel POV

The news came in the dead of night, a whisper carried by one of Rhysand's remaining spies.

It was faint—a lead so weak and unlikely that Azriel's heart clenched as he listened.

"Hybern's remnants," the spy reported, their voice breathless and shaking. "A cluster of them in the far corner of Spring Court. They've gone unchecked... it's been left to ruin."

The words barely registered after that. Spring Court. A lawless pocket where Tamlin had let the land grow wild, forgotten, as he wallowed in his grief over Feyre.

Azriel's hands shook as he stood in Rhysand's office, the bond in his chest flickering, faint but alive.

"Azriel," Rhysand said quietly, his voice tight but steady. "Cassian will go with you. If she's there-"

"If she's there, I'll bring her home," Azriel cut in, his voice hoarse, unyielding.

Cassian clapped a hand on Azriel's shoulder as they left, his expression uncharacteristically grim. "We'll get her back, brother. One way or another."

******

Azriel POV

The landscape of Spring Court was overgrown and desolate as they flew low over the rolling hills and tangled forests. The wild magic that had been allowed to seep through Tamlin's neglected borders was suffocating, choking the land in weeds and thorns.

Azriel's shadows shot ahead, slithering into the ruins of what looked like an abandoned estate -the-once-beautiful manor half-collapsed, overtaken by vines and decay. From above, it looked like nothing. Just another ruin. But then his shadows whispered.

Voices. Movement below.

Azriel's wings flared as he descended, his breath coming quicker as the shadows painted a picture in his mind—a stone cellar buried beneath the remnants of the house, faint light flickering from cracks in the ground. His shadows hissed urgently.

It was her.

His mate.

His love.

His heart stopped. The bond trembled faintly in his chest, as if answering the call.

She's here.

"Cassian," Azriel said, his voice sharp as he landed silently near the entrance. "There's a cellar beneath this ruin. She's there. I can feel her."

Cassian nodded, drawing his blade as they approached. "Lead the way."

******

Ariel POV

Azriel didn't waste a second. His shadows darted forward, locating a hidden door half-buried under dirt and weeds. With one sharp tug, Azriel ripped the rotted wood free, revealing a narrow set of stone steps descending into darkness. The air that wafted up was heavy with dampness and rot-and something else.

Fear.

Azriel's chest burned as he moved first, his steps silent as a shadow. Cassian followed close behind, a looming figure of fury.

The dungeon was a labyrinth of shadows and despair, the air thick with the stench of damp stone and old blood. Azriel moved through the darkness like a predator, his steps silent, his shadows curling and writhing around him, eager for the kill. He had fought in countless battles, infiltrated fortresses, and eliminated targets with precision that earned him his deadly reputation, but this—this was different.

This was personal.

Each heartbeat thundered in his ears, a pounding rhythm of rage and desperation as he followed the faint tether of the bond between him and Y/n. It was faint but steady, guiding him deeper into the bowels of the dungeon. The bond, that invisible thread that tied them together, throbbed with her pain and fear, each pulse like a dagger in his chest.

When he heard the first muffled scream echo through the stone walls, his rage sharpened into something cold and lethal. His shadows surged ahead, spilling into the corridors like smoke, scouting and searching for her. The first guard didn’t even see him coming.

Azriel’s blade was swift and silent, cutting through the male’s throat before he could so much as draw breath to shout. The blood sprayed against the damp stone, and Azriel stepped over the body without a second glance. Another guard rounded the corner, his eyes widening in alarm at the sight of the Shadowsinger and the General emerging from the gloom.

Cassian didn’t give him a chance to react. His blade struck home, embedding itself in the male’s chest. The guard crumpled with a choked gasp, his lifeless body hitting the ground with a dull thud. Cassian retrieved the blade as Azriel pressed on, his shadows flickering around him like an extension of his fury, every step bringing him closer to her.

The next room was guarded by three soldiers. They were laughing, their voices echoing in the oppressive silence of the dungeon. Azriel and Cassian didn’t bother with stealth this time. They wanted them to see them. They wanted them to feel the terror of what was coming for them.

The first male barely had time to register the shadow-cloaked figure before Azriel’s blade severed his windpipe.

The second lunged at Cassian, but he sidestepped with ease, his wings flaring slightly as he drove his dagger into the soldier’s side.

The third tried to flee, but Azriel’s shadows coiled around his legs, dragging him to the ground.

He let the shadows crush the male’s windpipe, his rage flaring at the thought of how these men had likely harmed her.

He didn’t stop to clean his blades.

He didn’t stop to think. The bond pulled him forward, and he followed it, his focus narrowing to a single point.

His mate.

The hallway was narrow and dim, lit by weak torches flickering against the stone. Voices echoed from the far end-low, guttural voices that made Azriel's blood turn to ice.

"You'll behave this time, won't you?" one of the voices sneered, followed by the unmistakable sound of shuffling movement.

Azriel stopped breathing.

"No." A whimper. A voice he'd know anywhere.

Y/n.

Something broke inside him.

He moved faster, his shadows lashing out, extinguishing the torches as he became one with the darkness.

Cassian's heavy boots followed, but Azriel barely heard them. The bond in his chest burned brighter now, pulsing in time with his fury.

At the end of the hall, he reached the heavy iron door at the end of the corridor, the scent of her blood hitting him like a physical blow. His shadows pushed against the crack in the door, revealing flickers of the scene within.

And there she was.

But what he saw made his blood turn to ice.

Inside the dim, torch-lit cell, she was slumped against the far wall, her battered wings spread limply behind her. Her black hair a tangled curtain around her face. Her wrists were bound, her once-tanned skin now pale. Her tunic was torn, her body streaked with blood and bruises, her face gaunt and hollow.

And standing over her, a Hybern soldier sneered, his hands fumbling at the waistband of his armor, trying to drop his pants as he pinned her with his weight. She struggled weakly, her eyes wide with terror as she turned her head away from him.

"You're too stubborn for your own good," the soldier spat, tugging harder. "But I'll break you yet."

"Please," she whispered, her voice barely audible, broken. "No..."

Azriel saw red.

The door crashed open as he stormed inside, his shadows exploding into the room like a violent storm. The soldier turned, startled, his sneer falling away Azriel's cold, deadly fury filled the space.

Azriel was on him, slamming him into the far wall with such force that the stone cracked. His blade was in his hand, pressing against the male's throat, his hazel eyes burning with a wrath that could've torn apart the world.

"Did you touch her?" Azriel snarled, his voice barely human.

"Did you touch her?"

The soldier choked, his face turning purple as Azriel's grip tightened. "Please-no-"

Azriel didn't hesitate, his blade flashing as it buried itself in the male's neck.

Blood sprayed, hot and crimson, splattering Azriel's hands and face as he yanked the blade free. The soldier gurgled, his hands clawing at his throat as he staggered backward. Azriel didn't stop. He drove the dagger into the male's chest, twisting it with a snarl before ripping it free. The soldier crumpled to the floor, lifeless.

Azriel stood over the body for a heartbeat, his chest heaving, his shadows still lashing out in fury.

Cassian burst in behind him, taking out another soldier who had been guarding the entrance, but Azriel didn't care.

Didn't see.

His gaze snapped to her.

She hadn't moved from where she was slumped against the wall, her chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. Her torn tunic barely covered her arms, exposing the jagged scars they have carved into her. Her once-vibrant blue eyes were dull, unfocused, as if the fight had been drained from her.

Her eyes glazed as she stared up at him.

"Angel," he whispered, his voice breaking.

She blinked slowly, as if unsure whether he was real. "Azriel?" she rasped, her voice hoarse and weak.

He crossed the room in three strides, falling to his knees before her. His hands shook as he reached for her face. "It's me," he breathed. "It's me, Angel."

The nickname slipped out, unbidden but true, as he knelt beside her, his hands trembling as he cupped her face. Her skin was cold, too cold, and her body was far too light as he lifted her into his arms.

Her blue eyes searched his face, and something broke in them-something shattered and raw.

"You came," she whispered, tears spilling down her bruised cheeks.

Azriel's throat tightened painfully, his chest aching as he pressed his forehead against hers. "I told you I would come for you," he choked out, his voice rough. "I'm so sorry, Angel. I'm so sorry I wasn't here sooner."

Her head lolled against his chest, her breathing shallow but steady as he carried her out of the cell.

Cassian appeared at his side, his face grim as he looked her over. "We need to get her out of here, Az."

Azriel nodded, his wings flaring as he adjusted her carefully in his arms. "I've got you," he murmured, his voice breaking as he pressed a soft kiss to her temple. “You’re safe now. I’m taking you home.”

As he carried her from the darkness of that hell, his shadows whispering around them like a shield, Azriel swore that no one would ever lay a hand on her again.

He didn’t stop to think about the bodies he left in his wake, didn’t stop to consider the path of carnage he had carved through the dungeon.

All that mattered was her.

As they emerged into the night air, her wings stirred faintly, and she let out a soft, broken sob. “You came for me,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I thought… I thought you wouldn’t.”

Azriel’s throat tightened, his wings flaring as he launched them into the sky. “I will always come for you,” he said fiercely, his voice shaking with emotion. “No matter what. You’re mine, Angel. My mate. And I will never let anyone hurt you again.”

Her fingers curled weakly against his chest, and she closed her eyes, the tension in her body easing slightly as she succumbed to exhaustion. Azriel held her tighter, his shadows swirling protectively around them as they flew. He didn’t let himself feel relief—not yet. Not until she was safe, until she was healed.

And as the wind whipped past them, he made a silent vow: he would hunt down every last one of Hybern’s men who had dared to touch her, and he would make them pay for every drop of blood they had spilled.

She was his mate.

She was his everything.

And he would destroy anyone who dared to take her from him again.

******

Azriel POV

The skies above Velaris were a deep, twilight blue, the stars beginning to peek through the fading sunlight as Azriel descended toward the River House. His wings burned from the long flight, his body aching from the battle in Hybern’s dungeon, but none of that mattered. Not with his mate in his arms, her frail, trembling form cradled against his chest.

Her breathing was shallow, her head resting limply on his shoulder as the city lights of Velaris came into view. Azriel’s shadows swirled around them, curling protectively, as though they, too, understood how fragile she was, how precious she was.

The River House doors burst open before he even touched the ground. Rhysand stood on the threshold, his expression uncharacteristically unguarded, panic and desperation etched into his sharp features. Feyre was beside him, her hand clutching her mate’s arm, her own face pale and drawn with worry.

Azriel and Cassian landed heavily, their boots crunching on the gravel path as their wings folded behind him. Y/n stirred faintly in Azriel’s arms, her blue eyes fluttering open for the briefest moment before closing again, her exhaustion overwhelming her.

“Y/n,” Rhysand breathed, his voice breaking as he stepped forward. His violet eyes scanned her battered form, the cuts, bruises, and torn clothing stark against her pale, blood-streaked skin.

The High Lord of Night, always composed, looked ready to shatter.

“She’s alive,” Azriel said hoarsely, his hazel eyes locking onto Rhysand’s. “But she’s barely holding on. She needs healers—immediately.”

Rhysand nodded sharply, turning to Feyre. “Send for Madja. Now,” he ordered, his voice steady but strained. Feyre didn’t hesitate, winnowing away in a flash of night.

Rhysand stepped closer, his hand trembling slightly as he reached out, brushing Y/n’s dark hair from her face. “My fierce little sister,” he murmured, his voice filled with an aching tenderness.

Her eyes fluttered open at the sound of her brother’s voice, unfocused at first but slowly sharpening as recognition set in. “Rhys…” she whispered, her voice so soft and weak it was barely audible.

Rhysand knelt beside her, his hand cupping her cheek gently. “I’m here,” he said, his voice low but steady. “You’re safe now. Azriel brought you home.”

Tears filled her blue eyes, a single drop slipping down her bruised cheek as her lips trembled. “I thought…” Her voice broke, and she turned her head slightly, pressing her face against Azriel’s chest as a quiet sob escaped her.

Azriel’s grip on her tightened, his shadows swirling protectively as he murmured, “You’re safe, Angel. You’re home.”

Rhysand’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his gaze flicking to Azriel. “Take her inside,” he said quietly, though his tone left no room for argument. “We’ll get her the help she needs.”

Azriel nodded, carrying Y/n through the open doors. The warmth of the River House enveloped them, the soft light and familiar scents offering a stark contrast to the cold, damp darkness of the dungeon they had escaped.

Feyre reappeared moments later, her face pale but determined. “Madja is on her way,” she said quickly, her eyes darting to Y/n’s frail form. “She’ll be here soon.”

Azriel followed Rhysand’s lead into a sitting room where a couch had been prepared with blankets and pillows. He lowered her onto the cushions with infinite care, his hands trembling slightly as he adjusted the blankets around her. Her eyes fluttered open again, her gaze locking onto his.

“Stay,” she cried, her voice panicked, barely audible as her hand reached out weakly to grab his.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Azriel said firmly, sitting beside her and taking her hand in his. His shadows curled protectively around her, refusing to leave her side.

Rhysand knelt beside the couch again, his violet eyes scanning his little sister’s face as though committing every detail to memory. “You’re safe now,” he said softly, his voice steady despite the tears brimming in his eyes. “I promise, no one will ever hurt you again.”

Her lips parted as if to speak, but no words came. Instead, her tears spilled freely, and Rhysand leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to her temple. “You’re home, Y/n,” he murmured. “You’re with family.”

Moments later, the sound of footsteps echoed down the hallway, and Madja entered, her calm, no-nonsense demeanor filling the room with quiet authority. She carried a bag of supplies, her sharp eyes assessing Y/n immediately.

“Let me see her,” Madja said, her tone brisk but kind as she moved to the couch.

Azriel hesitated, his hand tightening around Y/n’s, but Rhysand placed a steadying hand on his shoulder.

“She’s in the best hands, brother” Rhysand said quietly. “Let her work.”

Azriel reluctantly released Y/n’s hand, standing and stepped back to give Madja space. His shadows, however, remained close, their dark tendrils curling protectively around her like a barrier.

******

Azriel POV

Madja worked quickly, her hands glowing faintly with magic as she began healing Y/n’s wounds. She cleaned and dressed the cuts and bruises, her expression tightening as she examined the one scar that would not heal.

When she was finished and Y/n was asleep, she covered her with a blanket and called Rhysand and Azriel over.

“She will heal,” Madja said softly, her voice filled with sorrow as she glanced up at Azriel, “but she has a wound that will never fade. They used faebane to ensure it would scar permanently.”

Azriel’s jaw tightened, his wings twitching slightly as fury flickered in his hazel eyes. “Will she recover?” he asked, his voice low and raw.

“She’s strong,” Madja replied, her tone reassuring. “Her body will heal in time. But the scars on her heart and mind… those will take longer.”

Azriel nodded, his gaze dropping to her pale face as she slept. “I’ll be here,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. “For as long as it takes, I’ll be here.”

As Madja continued to gather her supplies, Y/n stirred slightly, her eyes fluttering open to find Azriel standing nearby.

“Azriel,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

He was at her side in an instant, taking her hand in his again. “I’m here, Angel,” he said softly, his hazel eyes shining with quiet determination. “I’m not leaving.”

Rhysand stood behind him, his violet eyes filled with gratitude and sorrow as he watched the scene before him. “We’ll take care of her,” he said quietly to Feyre, his voice thick with emotion. “No matter what it takes, we’ll help her heal.”

And as she finally slipped into a deep, exhausted sleep, surrounded by warmth, safety, and the people who loved her, Azriel silently vowed to himself that he would never let anyone hurt her again.

She was home now.

******

Y/n POV

The days in Velaris passed slowly for me as I began the long and painful process of healing. The warmth of the city and the constant presence of those who cared for me were a stark contrast to the cold, unrelenting darkness of the dungeon I had left behind. But the scars of my captivity—both physical and emotional—were not so easily erased.

In the weeks of healing that followed, my physical injuries knit themselves back together under the skill of the Night Court’s best healers.

They applied ointments to burns, repaired small fractures to delicate bone. My wings, bruised and torn, regained some strength and I learned to walk again without doubling over from spasms. The external wounds improved with astonishing speed, their progress a balm to those who watched over me.

But there was no quick remedy for the way I flinched at a sudden laugh, how I jumped when someone touched me unexpectedly, or how the mere clink of metal against metal could send me spiraling into panic.

My torturers had taught me a cruel lesson about vulnerability and trust. Now, even among allies who would rather die than harm me, I never fully relaxed. I kept an eye on every exit, and I seldom allowed anyone to stand behind me, except Azriel. The sound of nighttime revelry drifting up from the city only reminded me that once, laughter had accompanied my screams.

I spent my mornings in the gardens of the River House, surrounded by the soothing hum of nature. The scent of blooming flowers mingled with the soft rustle of leaves, the Sidra sparkling in the distance. Feyre often joined me, offering quiet companionship, sketching while I sat in the sun. Some days, they talked, Feyre sharing stories of her own healing journey, gently encouraging me to take each step at her own pace. Other days, silence reigned, and Feyre simply sat beside me, a quiet pillar of support.

Nothing was simple. Even sunlight, once a symbol of hope, felt too bright at times, forcing me to recall the interrogation room where a single lamp had thrown cruel shadows across my captors’ faces. When kindness was offered, part of me questioned it, waiting for the sting of betrayal.

Good food tasted off at first, because my body expected spoiled scraps.

Warm baths and fragrant soaps made me weep silently, recalling how I’d once been denied even the most basic comforts. Mor was patient with me and silently helped me wash my hair as she tried to avoid looking at the scar on my stomach.

Rhysand, ever-watchful, made it a point to check on me every day. He didn’t press me to speak but always asked how I was feeling, his violet eyes filled with unwavering patience and love. “You don’t have to be okay all at once,” he had told me one afternoon, his voice steady. “Healing isn’t linear, little sister. Take all the time you need.”

But it was Azriel who was my constant presence. He was always nearby, his shadows a quiet comfort even when he wasn’t in the room. He would sit with me on the nights I couldn’t sleep, his voice low and soothing as he told her stories of Velaris or described the stars above.

I found myself leaning on him more than I had expected, his presence becoming a source of comfort I hadn’t realized I needed. Azriel never pushed me to talk about what had happened in the dungeon, but he always listened when I chose to share. Slowly, piece by piece, I began to tell him the horrors I had endured, my voice trembling but steady as I laid her pain bare.

He never flinched, never looked at me with pity. Instead, his hazel eyes burned with quiet rage and unshakable devotion. “You survived,” he told me one evening as we sat together by the fire. “You’re stronger than anyone I’ve ever known.”

The physical healing was easier to measure. Madja visited me regularly, using her magic to mend the worst of the injuries. The cuts and bruises faded with time, my strength slowly returning under Madja’s careful guidance. my wings, battered and bruised, began to heal as well, though I winced each time I stretched them. Azriel often helped me with the exercises Madja prescribed, his touch gentle as he supported my movements.

“Just a little more,” he would encourage softly, his hand steady against my back. “You’re doing great.”

But it was the scar on my stomach that weighed on me the most. It was a permanent reminder of what I had endured, a scar that would never fully fade. Some days, I couldn’t bear to look at it, the shame and anger bubbling up until it felt like I might drown in it.

Humiliated.

Mutilated.

And something I wasn’t sure I could ever share with Azriel.

The bond between Azriel and I thrummed faintly, a quiet presence I didn’t yet fully understand but had come to rely on. He never mentioned it, never pressured me to acknowledge it, but it was there, steady and unyielding, a silent reminder that I wasn’t alone.

And when the nightmares came, as they often did, he was there in an instant.

******

Y/n POV

My room was dark and cold when the nightmare began. It crept in like smoke, curling into the edges of my subconscious, twisting my dreams into something monstrous and cruel.

The dungeon came first—the damp, suffocating walls, the stench of mold and blood. Chains rattled in the shadows, and I was there again, bound and broken, my wings torn and useless. I could feel the cold stone beneath my knees, the sharp sting of my captors’ laughter as they loomed over me, faceless but terrifying all the same.

“Not so strong now,” one hissed, their voice a distorted echo. “No one is coming for you. He left you. He chose her.”

My head snapped up, my vision blurring through tears, and there he was—Azriel. Standing in the distance, cloaked in shadows, his hazel eyes fixed on me with an expression that carved me open.

“Azriel,” I choked out, struggling against the chains, against the weight pressing me down. “Please… please.”

But he turned away. He turned and walked into the dark, his back fading until there was nothing left of him.

“No,” I sobbed, my voice hoarse and broken. “Don’t leave me!”

The walls of the dungeon began to close in, the shadows thickening, the chains biting into my skin. My wings trembled under the pressure of unseen hands, pulling at them, tearing them apart. Pain radiated through my chest as the whispers grew louder.

“Left you.”

“Forgot you.”

“Not enough.”

“Azriel!” I screamed, the word ripped from me as darkness consumed me whole.

******

Azriel POV

Azriel shot upright in bed, his breath caught in his throat as the sound reached him—distant and broken, but unmistakable.

Her voice.

“Angel,” he breathed, already shoving back the covers.

The shadows swirling around him were frantic, echoing the same panic that thrummed through his chest. He was halfway down the hall before he realized he’d moved, his bare feet pounding against the cold floor. He didn’t care who he woke—didn’t care that the rest of the House was sleeping.

He heard her again as he neared her door—a broken sob, a whispered plea. “Azriel… don’t leave me.”

He didn’t knock. He didn’t hesitate. Azriel pushed the door open and slipped inside, the sight before him freezing him in place for a heartbeat.

She was tangled in the sheets, her face pale, her body trembling violently as she murmured incomprehensibly, tears streaming down her cheeks. Her wings, battered and healing, fluttered weakly against the mattress as though trying to escape the invisible torment.

The bond flared faintly in his chest, an instinct as old as time pulling him forward. “Angel,” he said softly, striding to the bed.

She gasped, her body jolting awake, but her blue eyes were unfocused, wild, searching for something that wasn’t there. “Azriel?” she whispered, her voice small, broken.

“I’m here,” he said, sitting carefully on the edge of the bed.

He reached for her without thinking, cupping her face gently, his thumbs brushing away the tears streaking her cheeks. “It’s me. It’s just a nightmare. You’re safe.”

Her hands shot up suddenly, clutching at his wrists like a lifeline. She blinked up at him, her chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths. “You’re here,” she said, as if still trying to convince herself.

“I’m here,” he repeated, softer this time. His wings folded close to his back as he leaned forward, kissing her forehead. “You’re safe. I promise.”

His shadows curled around her like a protective shroud, their tendrils brushing her skin as if trying to soothe her.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked softly, his voice low and steady, though it wavered slightly with worry.

She shook her head, her voice barely above a whisper as she replied, “It’s always the same. The dungeon. The pain. Their voices…telling me you chose her. You left me. I wasn’t enough…” Her words faltered, and she shuddered, closing her eyes, her wings curling closer to her back. “Then you appear and I’m calling out for you, but you turn and walk away. I can’t escape it. Even here.”

The ache in her voice made something inside Azriel snap. He shifted closer, his arms wrapped tightly around her trembling form. The aftermath of her nightmare still clung to the air like a heavy fog. Her sobs had quieted, but the hitch in her breathing told him the fear hadn’t entirely left. He cradled her as though she were the most fragile thing in the world, his hand stroking gently along the curve of her back, careful of her wings.

“You’re safe,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing. “I’m here, Angel. I’ve got you.”

She shifted slightly in his embrace, pressing her face further into his chest. “I thought—” Her voice cracked, and she shook her head. “I thought you were gone.”

His heart clenched at the brokenness in her tone. “I’ll never leave you,” he said fiercely, pulling her closer. “Not again. Not ever.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the quiet punctuated only by the sound of her uneven breaths. Azriel felt the weight of her against him, the bond between them faint but ever-present, and he knew he couldn’t keep this inside any longer.

“Angel” he began softly, his voice almost hesitant, “I need to tell you something.”

She didn’t pull away, but she tensed slightly in his arms, her head lifting just enough for her tired, blue eyes to meet his. “What is it?” she whispered, her voice wary.

Azriel swallowed, his throat tight. “I didn’t choose Elain,” he said, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. “I know it might have seemed like I did. I know I hurt you—” His voice broke, and he shook his head, his hazel eyes shining with something raw. “But I didn’t choose her.”

Her brows knit together, confusion and lingering hurt flickering across her face. “Then why?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “Why did you—?”

“Because I was a coward,” he admitted, his voice heavy with guilt. “Because I thought I didn’t deserve you. Because I thought if I pushed you away, you would find someone who deserved you. Someone better than me.” He cupped her face then, his thumb brushing away the tear that slid down her cheek. “But I was wrong. So wrong.”

Her lips parted slightly, her eyes searching his, as though trying to piece together what he was saying. “Azriel…”

“I choose you,” he said, his voice steady now, his gaze unwavering. “I’ve always chosen you, Angel. Even when I tried to fight it, even when I tried to push you away, it was always you.”

Her breath hitched, and another tear slipped down her cheek. “Why now?” she whispered. “Why tell me this now?”

“Because I can’t bear to see you like this,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “Because I can’t bear the thought of losing you again, of you thinking I don’t care, that you don’t matter to me.” He leaned his forehead against hers, closing his eyes as he whispered, “You are my everything, Y/n. You’re my mate. My choice. Always.”

Her hands lifted hesitantly, gripping his arms as he still cupped her face, as though anchoring herself to him. “I… I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” he said gently.

Slowly, he moved his thumb to wipe away the tears that continued to fall, his touch featherlight yet firm, grounding. “You’re safe now,” he murmured, his hazel eyes searching hers. “They can’t hurt you anymore, Angel. I won’t let them.”

She exhaled shakily, the warmth of his palms against her skin was a balm to the storm raging within her. “I know,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “But the nightmares… they don’t stop. And when they come, I can’t—” Her voice broke, a sob escaping her lips.

Azriel wrapped his arms around her, pulling her against his chest. Her trembling body fit perfectly against his, and his wings shifted slightly to cocoon her, creating a sanctuary of warmth and protection. One hand rested on her back, his fingers splayed gently between her wings, while the other moved to cradle the back of her head, his touch tender yet firm.

“You don’t have to face them alone,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. His lips lingered there, the gesture filled with the love he no longer wanted to hide. “I’m here.”

Her sobs quieted as she melted into his embrace. “Will you stay with me? ” she asked softly, her voice muffled against his chest.

“Of course,” he replied instantly, his arms tightening around her. “I’ll stay as long as you need me.”

“No,” she said quickly, pulling back just enough to look at him, her blue eyes glistening with tears. “Not just tonight. Every night. Please, Azriel. The nightmares… they’re worse when you’re not here.”

His heart clenched, the weight of her words crashing over him.

She needed him.

She wanted him—not as a fleeting comfort, but as a constant presence.

He shifted back and brought his hands to her face, cradling it gently.

“Angel,” he said softly, his voice trembling as he leaned closer. “Are you sure?”

Her breath hitched, and she nodded. “You’re the only one who makes them go away,” she whispered. “When you’re here, I feel… safe.”

His throat tightened as he stared at her, his hazel eyes searching hers for any trace of doubt. But all he saw was trust, raw and fragile but unwavering. He exhaled shakily, his hands sliding to her shoulders before pulling her into him again, this time with a desperation he couldn’t hide.

“Will you hold me?” she asked, her voice so small, so fragile it nearly undid him. “Please.”

Azriel didn’t answer—he just moved. He slid onto the bed beside her, drawing her trembling form gently against his chest. She curled into him instantly, her face buried against his neck, her arm wrapping his waist. His arms wrapped around her, one hand softly brushing along her back, careful of her wings.

“I won’t leave,” he whispered into her hair, his voice low and steady. “I’m right here.”

Her body began to relax, the trembling easing as he held her.

Azriel pressed a soft kiss to her temple, his heart thundering in his chest as he felt the way she settled into him—like she fit perfectly there.

The bond pulsed faintly, the tether between them strengthening, solidifying in a way that made his throat tighten.

Her breathing evened out after a while, soft and steady against his chest. Azriel didn’t dare move. He didn’t dare break this fragile peace as he held her closer, his thumb brushing over the edge of her wings, gentle and reverent.

And as the stars outside the window flickered faintly in the night sky, Azriel closed his eyes, pressing another kiss to her hair as he whispered, “I’ve got you, Angel” ”

And as she drifted to sleep in his arms, safe and warm, Azriel pressed another kiss to her hair. .

******

Azriel POV

As her breathing began to slow, the tremors that had wracked her body gradually subsiding, Azriel tightened his hold on her. Her head rested against his chest, her soft hair brushing his jaw, her wings draped against the bed like a fragile shield she no longer needed to lift. His own wings curled protectively around them both, creating a cocoon of warmth and safety.

Her small arm was still wrapped around his waist, even in her sleep, as though afraid he might slip away if she let go. The sight of her like this—so vulnerable, yet finally at peace—sent a deep ache through his chest.

He brushed his lips against her hair, lingering there for a moment as her scent filled his senses, grounding him. He couldn’t stop his hand from moving, from gently tracing the curve of her shoulder, then the ridge of her wing where it met her back. His touch was light, reverent, as though she might shatter beneath it.

He couldn’t stop the images that flashed through his mind—her broken, terrified, calling out for him. And for a moment, the guilt was so sharp, he couldn’t breathe.

He had nearly lost her. The reality of it was crushing, a weight he felt in every beat of his heart. If he had been just a moment too late, if he hadn’t found her that night, she wouldn’t be here now, nestled in his arms, safe and alive. The thought of a world without her was a void he couldn’t comprehend.

She was everything to him.

His light in the darkness.

His reason to keep fighting.

His wings curled tighter around them, his shadows flickering with renewed determination. He glanced at the scar on her arm, barely visible in the dim light, and his jaw tightened. The people who had hurt her, would never escape him. He would hunt them to the ends of the earth if he had to.

“No one will ever hurt you again,” he murmured, his voice low but laced with quiet fury. “I’ll kill anyone who tries. Anyone who even thinks of laying a hand on you.”

The possessiveness in his tone was undeniable, but it wasn’t just about vengeance. It was about her. About the bond that thrummed softly between them, unbreakable. She was his—his mate, his heart, his soul. And nothing, no one, would ever take her from him again.

His hand slid to her face, his thumb brushing gently over her cheekbone as though to reassure himself that she was real, that she was here. “You’re mine, Angel,” he said softly, his voice trembling with the depth of his emotion. “You’ve always been mine. And I’ll protect you with everything I have. Always.”

He hadn’t realized how much he’d been holding back until tonight. For months, he had forced himself to keep his distance, push her away because he didn’t think he deserved her. But now, as she slept in his arms, the faint pull of the mating bond thrumming between them, he let himself feel everything.

The anger—at Hybern’s men, at himself, at the world for letting her endure so much. The guilt—sharp and unrelenting, a constant reminder that he hadn’t been there to protect her when she needed him most. But above all else, there was love.

A love so fierce, so consuming, it made his chest tighten and his throat burn. He had never felt anything like it before, this deep, unyielding need to protect her, to care for her, to be the anchor she could cling to no matter what storm she faced. She wasn’t just his mate—she was his everything. The thought of losing her, of her slipping away from him, was unbearable.

He glanced down at her, his hazel eyes softening as he took in the way her lashes rested against her cheeks, the faint parting of her lips as she exhaled slowly. Even now, after everything she had been through, there was a quiet strength in her, a resilience that humbled him.

She had asked him to stay, and he would. He would spend every night holding her, every day reminding her of her worth, every moment proving to her that she was not alone.

As she shifted slightly in her sleep, her arm loosening its grip around his waist, but still resting against his chest, he let out a shaky breath. His shadows softened, their once restless movements now gentle and protective as they curled around her.

“I love you,” he whispered again, his voice cracking with the weight of it. “More than anything, more than myself. You’re my everything, Angel. Forever.”

Forever. The word settled in his chest like a promise, as unyielding as the bond that tied them together. He kissed her again, his lips lingering against her forehead as he closed his eyes, letting the steady sound of her breathing soothe the storm inside him.

She sighed softly in her sleep, her body relaxing further against him, as though even unconscious she could feel the safety of his presence. The bond between them hummed faintly, a quiet promise that tethered them together, unbreakable.

Azriel rested his cheek against her hair, closing his eyes as he let the sound of her breathing calm his racing thoughts. He didn’t know what the future held for them, but he did know one thing with absolute certainty: he would never stop loving her, never stop fighting for her.

And as she slept peacefully in his arms, he made a silent vow to himself—and to her.

Whatever it took, he would help her heal. He would be her light in the darkness, her anchor in the storm.

He would be whatever she needed.

Because she wasn’t just his mate.

She was his home.

******

Y/n POV

This was the cost of what being rescued too late had done. It had given me life back, yes, but handed it over in pieces I had to painstakingly reassemble. I was learning, slowly, that though the harm could not be undone, it need not define me entirely.

In the safe quiet of Velaris’s gardens, I confronted old fears. Step by halting step, I ventured into busy markets, forcing myself to endure the proximity of strangers. I relearned how to laugh, tentatively, at small, gentle jokes. I experimented with trust, allowing a friend’s arm to linger a second longer, trying not to recoil. I discovered that some nights were quieter than others, and with Azriel staying with me every night, I could sleep.

In essence, I carried two timelines now: the one before Hybern’s men took me, and the one after.

The difference between them weighed on my soul. Before, I had imagined cruelty but not known its depths. After, I understood the darkness that could exist behind a friendly face, the way suffering could become a sport. That knowledge weighed heavily on my heart.

But within me scars lay a seed of resilience, too. Surviving that place, enduring their games and punishments, had proven that I possessed a well of strength deeper than I’d guessed. In time, I might draw from it, forging a new sense of self that incorporated these scars rather than being defined by them. I might learn to move without flinching,to love without fear. It would take immeasurable patience—from myself and from those around me—but the possibility remained.

For now, I did what I could: breathed the fresh Velaris air, soaked my aching muscles in warm baths, listened to music that reminded me not all voices cackled with cruelty.

Each day was a battle won quietly, without witnesses or fanfare. Each night survived in Azriel’s arms without screaming was a small victory. If I could endure torture, I could endure healing. If they had failed to break me completely in that cell, then I could rebuild myself outside it.

And that was what being rescued too late had done to me: it had etched trauma into my bones, taught me fear and suspicion, but it had not stolen my will to live, to heal, to grow beyond the pain. It had only made my scars into battle lines, reminders that I was still here, still fighting for myself. And in that truth, I would find the courage to keep going.

I just needed to find that girl from Summer Court again.

The one still there, just hiding until it felt safe to come out.

******

Y/n POV

I stood on the balcony of the House of Wind, my gaze fixed on the endless horizon where the mountains met the sky. The wind tugged at my long black hair, catching on the tips of my feathers as my wings flexed faintly behind me. I didn’t move, didn’t blink, as if staring long enough would reveal the answers I so desperately sought.

I wasn’t the same person who had danced with joy in the Summer Court, my magic weaving playful shapes out of water, laughter spilling from my lips as though it were endless. That girl felt like a ghost now, a shadow lingering in the farthest corners of my mind.

But I wasn’t entirely the broken woman who had been dragged from Hybern’s dungeons either, though the scars they left behind—both visible and unseen—still weighed heavily on me.

I was caught somewhere between the two, and it was tearing me apart.

Azriel was patient. Always patient. He never pressed me to speak about what I was feeling, never brought up the bond that hummed faintly between us, like a lifeline I wasn’t sure I deserved. He had been my constant, my anchor, through it all. He held me when I slept to keep the nightmares away, brushed my tears away with such gentleness it made me ache, and whispered quiet reassurances that I wasn’t sure I could believe.

But I hadn’t told him I loved him, except for whispering the words as he flew away from the battlefield.

The words he never heard.

Because how could I? How could I love him fully, completely, when I barely recognized the person I was anymore? When I didn’t know how to reconcile the carefree girl I had been with the haunted woman I had become?

“Angel.”

His voice was soft, a gentle murmur that broke through my spiraling thoughts. I turned to see him standing a few paces away, his hazel eyes searching mine, his expression unreadable but warm.

“I thought I’d find you out here,” he said, stepping closer, his wings folding neatly behind him. He didn’t touch me—he never did unless I reached for him first—but his presence alone was grounding.

“I needed air,” I murmured, turning my gaze back to the horizon.

Azriel nodded, standing silently beside me. He didn’t speak, didn’t pry, but I could feel his concern, the unspoken question lingering between them.

“I’ve been thinking,” I said after a long moment, my voice quiet but steady. “About who I was before. And who I am now.”

His brow furrowed slightly, but he said nothing, letting me continue.

“I don’t know how to reconcile the two,” I admitted, my hands gripping the balcony railing. “I feel like… like I’m not either of them. Like I’m someone else entirely, but I don’t know who that is.”

Azriel’s gaze softened, but still, he didn’t interrupt.

“I think…” I swallowed hard, my wings twitching as if in agitation. “I think I need to go back. To the Summer Court. To try to piece it all together. I need to figure out who I am—who I’m supposed to be now.”

Azriel’s expression tightened, just for a moment, before he schooled it into his usual calm. “If that’s what you need, I won’t stop you.”

My chest ached at the quiet resolve in his voice, the way he offered me the freedom to go even if it pained him. I turned to face him fully, my eyes locking on his.

“I don’t know how to be what you need,” I confessed, my voice breaking. “I don’t even know how to be what I need.”

Azriel stepped closer, his hand lifting as if to reach for me before he stopped himself. “You don’t have to be anything but yourself, Angel,” he said softly. “Whatever that looks like, whoever you decide to be—I’ll still be here.”

My breath caught at the raw sincerity in his tone, at the way his eyes shone with quiet, unshakable love.

“You’ve been through hell,” he continued, his voice steady. “You’ve had everything taken from you, torn apart, and yet you’re still standing. That’s enough, Angel. You’re enough.”

Tears pricked my eyes, and she blinked them away, her throat tightening as she nodded. “I have to do this,” I whispered. “For myself.”

“I know,” Azriel said, his gaze unwavering. “And I’ll be here when you’re ready. Always.”

The bond between them pulsed faintly, a quiet reassurance that I wasn’t entirely alone. But even as I felt it, as I saw the love in his eyes, I couldn’t bring myself to say the words I knew he needed to hear.

Not yet.

Instead, I reached out, my hand brushing against his. He caught it gently, his fingers warm against mine as he held my hand for a brief moment before letting go.

And as I turned back to the horizon,my heart heavy but resolute, I made a silent vow to myself. To find the balance between who I was and who I could become.

******

Azriel POV

Azriel stood beside her, his gaze fixed on the horizon for a moment before he spoke, his voice low and raw. “Angel,” he began, the weight of his words heavy in the stillness between them. “I know this is something you need to do for yourself. I won’t stop you. But… I need you to know something first.”

She turned her head slightly, her ocean-blue eyes meeting his hazel ones, and the pain etched into his face made her heart twist.

“I know I played a part in this,” he said, his voice trembling just enough to betray the guilt simmering beneath. “By pushing you away. By making you think I didn’t care. By making you believe, even for a second, that you didn’t matter to me.”

Her lips parted, but no words came out. She wasn’t sure what to say, wasn’t sure how to process the sheer remorse pouring out of him.

Azriel ran a hand through his hair, his wings twitching behind him. “I thought I was protecting you,” he admitted, his voice breaking. “Protecting you from me—from what I thought I couldn’t give you. But all I did was hurt you. And I’ll never forgive myself for that.”

The bond between them pulsed faintly, as if echoing the depth of his emotions. Y/n’s chest ached, the raw honesty in his confession cutting through the walls she’d built around her heart.

“You didn’t deserve that,” he continued, stepping closer but still keeping a careful distance. “You didn’t deserve any of it. And I hate that I made you feel like you weren’t enough—because you are, Angel. You’ve always been enough.”

Her breath hitched, and she looked down at the balcony railing, unable to meet his gaze. “I don’t know if I can believe that yet,” she whispered.

“I understand,” Azriel said softly, his voice steady despite the torment she could see in his eyes. “But I’ll keep telling you, as many times as it takes, until you do.”

Her tears spilled over, silent and unstoppable, and she bit her lip to keep her emotions in check. “You make it sound so simple,” she murmured. “But it’s not. I don’t even know who I am anymore, Azriel. I can’t give you something I don’t even have.”

“I know,” he said, his tone full of quiet patience. “And I’ll wait. However long it takes, I’ll wait for you. You need to figure out who you are, and I won’t stand in the way of that.”

She turned to him fully then, her voice trembling as she asked, “And if I don’t come back the same person? If I’m someone you don’t want anymore?”

Azriel’s eyes softened, and he stepped closer, gently brushing a strand of her hair away from her face. “That won’t happen,” he said firmly. “I’ve seen you at your strongest, and I’ve seen you at your lowest. It doesn’t matter who you become, Angel. I will always want you.”

The sincerity in his voice, the unwavering love in his gaze, broke something in her. She pressed her lips together, her emotions choking her words.

Azriel reached for her hand, holding it gently between his. “I just want you to know,” he said quietly, “that wherever you go, whatever you decide, you’ll always have me. I’ll be here when you’re ready. And even if you never forgive me for pushing you away… I’ll never forgive myself.”

Her tears spilled over again, and this time, she didn’t try to stop them. She squeezed his hand, her voice barely a whisper as she said, “Thank you.”

Azriel’s wings shifted slightly, as if resisting the urge to wrap around her, to shield her from the storm raging inside her. “Always,” he murmured, his thumb brushing gently over her knuckles.

Chapter 19

#azriel acotar #azriel shadowsinger #azriel spymaster #azriel x reader #azriel fanfic #azriel fanfiction #acotar #azriel #acotar fanfiction

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pininghermit · 2 months ago

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Gift of Fate

AN: if you saw this on my ao3, no you didn't. Is it weird to write platonic stuff for him? Yes, but I want to.

Genre: fluff, found family

Pairing(s): Alucard x Platonic Reader

Summary: If he had been the Alucard of legend, the rumored savior of old tales, these people might have lived. But he wasn’t that Alucard anymore.

His slow heart pounded in an erratic rhythm. He pushed aside the shards of shattered wine bottles, uncaring of the glass biting into his skin. The surrounding ruins, broken furniture, faded tapestries, blurred into nothing.

Had the rotting flesh that adorned the castle not been enough of a warning? He summoned his sword, the weight familiar in his grip. Whoever dared trespass here would not be met with the welcome they expected.

Dracula’s castle welcomed no guests anymore. It once had. When his father met his mother. When love had breathed life into its halls. The last time its doors opened, two human corpses had hung outside them, rotting in the cold air. Now, death reeked from every cranny and crevice.

Long ago, these walls had known joy. A young master, he, had run through its corridors. Love once lit its chambers, and golden sunlight poured through the windows, warming stone and soul alike. Now those same rays only served to highlight the layers of dust, the decay of a forgotten past.

Alucard halted at the castle’s main door, sword gripped tightly. He listened. A heartbeat, soft, faint, alone echoed in his sharp ears. No other sound accompanied it. He scoffed at the fool who dared step into his father’s domain. Weakness would not betray him again as it had in the past.

The scars on his body were reminders etched into his skin as eternal warnings. No amount of alcohol could numb the pain that lingered in those wounds. It burned always, like the doom of patricide that weighed on his every breath.

He had once thought his father weak. In his arrogance, he had scorned Dracula’s fall. Fate, ever cruel, had broken him too left him hollow, drowning in his own despair.

Breaking from his stupor, Alucard slammed the heavy wooden doors open. He moved through the woods like a shadow, soundless and swift. The noise had been close, so close it felt as though it echoed from the castle’s empty halls. But he knew better.

His sword cut through the air in a deadly arc, swift and final. But no cries rang out. No burst of warmth from a severed artery sprayed his blade.

And then he saw it.

His sword suddenly felt heavy in his hands as he took in the scene. Blood soaked the earth in a deep pool around his boots. Five bodies lay still. Four men and one woman. A fleeting pulse clung to one, withering with every heartbeat.

Merchants, he decided, looking at the scattered goods. Bandits had attacked, overwhelming them. The couple had tried to fight but failed. The survivors had fled quickly, gathering what they could in their stolen minutes.

If he had been faster, perhaps he could have helped. If he had been the Alucard of legend, the rumored savior of old tales, these people might have lived. But he wasn’t that Alucard anymore. He was the man who stared emptily into nothing, passing his days in the wine cellar. The blood, the stillness, it was too familiar.

He could leave. The night creatures would erase the evidence by morning. He could return to his misery, save himself the fruitless seconds of caring. Yet… death lingered here, and he knew it too well.

Then he saw movement.

A faint shift, soft as a falling leaf, caught his eye. Hidden near the woman, tucked into the bushes, you stared back at him.

Wrapped in a bundle of worn blankets, you looked at him, stormy gray eyes unblinking.

He froze. In his two decades of life, Alucard had rarely seen human children. He had been one, once, though those memories were distant and faded. Vampires did not have children, not like humans did. They were creatures of cold immortality, unchanging and barren.

Yet here you were.

Your small eyes met his, wide and curious, assessing him.

No… this had to be a mistake. He could take you to the nearest village. Humans cared for their own, didn’t they? Surely they would take in someone so small and vulnerable. But even as the thought crossed his mind, he knew the truth.

Food was scarce. Famine, drought, and night creatures left little for anyone. Even in his isolation, he knew how ruthless humanity had become.

And you… you were different. Your skin held a faint tan, a sign of a warmer place. A tropical town, perhaps. Merchants, he decided again. Your parents must have traveled far.

You wouldn’t find love among strangers. People would see you as an outsider, at best. At worst, a servant. A slave. That fate would be no kinder than leaving you here for the night creatures.

A tuft of dark hair peeked from beneath your cap. You sat so still, tucked deep into the bushes. Had your parents hidden you, desperate to save you? Blood spattered the earth, but not a drop touched you.

Then you cooed. A soft, fragile sound that cut through the silence like a knife.

You didn’t know. You didn’t understand. You had no idea your parents were gone, that they would never return. Your smile was ignorant of the blood around you, of the death that loomed so close.

How could you smile?

He wanted to scream. They’re gone, he wanted to tell you. Your parents are dead! He wanted to shake you, to make you understand. But he didn’t.

Instead, you reached for him, little hands stretching out through the air.

Something in him broke. Without thinking, he picked you up, cradling you in his arms. You were so light. Lighter than you should have been. You blinked up at him, eyes unwavering, curious and calm.

Your small fingers curled into his hair, tugging. “Ow,” he muttered, untangling the golden strands from your tight grip. You smiled wider and stuffed a piece of it into your mouth.

“It’s filthy,” he grumbled, pulling it back.

You giggled, toothless and unafraid.

For a moment, he simply stared at you. How could something so small survive this? How could you look at him—HIM—and smile?

The sky darkened. Staying out would be unsafe, he knew. So, he made his choice. He would take you with him.

‘She does not belong with you,’ a voice hissed in his mind. ‘A fool to trust again.’

But you didn’t hear the voices that haunted him. You simply smiled, a fragile light in the dark. When your small fingers wrapped around his, he stilled.

So small… but not weak.

“You wish to come with me?” he whispered.

You cooed in reply, soft and sweet.

Alucard...no, Adrian held you closer as he turned toward the castle.

Just as he was about to step toward the castle, the bloody scene reminded him of its lingering presence. Gritting his teeth, he shifted you in his arms, shielding your face as best he could. You didn’t need to see what had been left behind. He would return later, he decided. Your parents...what remained of them would stay close to you.

Adrian pushed open the castle doors. They groaned under their weight, a sound like the ghosts of the past exhaling. Distantly, he noted that the corpses still hanging outside needed to be taken down. It would do no good to keep such grim reminders where a child could see.

You were eerily quiet now. Adrian glanced down, surprised to find you fast asleep, still tucked snugly in his arms. Your small face was peaceful, eyes closed and mouth slightly parted, the faint warmth of your breath a stark contrast to the cold emptiness of the castle.

You twitched in your sleep. Unnamed, your name lost to death, to bloodshed. What was your name? He wanted to ask, but what good would it do either of you now? Should he dare. Dare to give you a name and risk his heart again?

Adrian had buried that part of himself long ago. But somehow, when he looked at you, it stirred back to life. He had found Adrian again when he found you.

It was only fair he gave you a name.

“Ilvanya,” the word escaped him, soft and reverent, a name carried from a forgotten tongue, spoken only by people long gone. A name that meant gracious gift.

“Ilvanya,” he whispered again.

The child sleeping in his arms twitched but remained undisturbed, unaware of the name now given to you.

Dusty furniture and crumbling stone didn’t seem appropriate for someone so small, so fragile. After what felt like twenty minutes of struggle, Adrian managed to locate a satisfactorily clean pillow. He hesitated, reluctant to let you go, but carefully pried you from his arms and placed you on the cushion.

The loss of warmth startled him more than he cared to admit.

There were things he still needed to do. He would bury your parents for your sake, and perhaps for theirs. His mind began assembling a mental list, a torrent of tasks that hadn’t mattered in years. The castle would need cleaning. Windows repaired. Food, water, clothes. How much did human children need? A nursery, perhaps.

His life, once confined to the wine cellar in self-destruction, had suddenly erupted into movement.

His father’s libraries would hold the answers, he was sure. Everything ever recorded lay buried in those shelves. Somewhere, a book on human children existed. His mother must have had one after he was born.

Adrian looked back at you, a child small enough to fit into his arms, but somehow bright enough to cast light into the darkest corners of the castle.

The world is cold here. You don’t know how long you’ve been in it, only that it isn’t right. The ground pokes at your back through the blankets, hard and uneven.

It smells strange, sharp, like the old iron pots your mother used, but worse. It makes your nose wrinkle. You blink, and there’s dark, dark everywhere.

Then… there’s a sound. Slow. Heavy. Feet.

You don’t know what it is, but you feel it closer. You try to focus, but the edges of the world blur when you blink too long.

Something blocks the sky. It’s tall, bigger than anything you remember. It doesn’t move like other things do. Tts steps are quiet, like the cats that crept near the house.

The tall thing stops. You stare at it, and it stares back.

Golden. There’s something gold, like sunlight peeking through clouds after it rains. You blink at it...hair, though you don’t know that word yet. You like the way it shines. The face underneath doesn’t look right. Too pale. Too still. Its eyes are strange, bright and glowing, like little fires in the dark.

You’re not afraid. Should you be? You don’t know.

The tall thing tilts its head. You do too, because maybe that’s what you’re supposed to do. Your mouth makes a sound. A soft, uncertain coo. It always works. It makes people come closer.

It works now.

The man (you don’t know what that is, either, but that’s what he is) moves closer, his golden hair swaying slightly. He stops, then bends down, and everything feels bigger, his shadow, his face, his hands. He smells strange, like earth and stone and something faintly… warm. Not like your mother’s hands. Not like your father’s chest when he carried you.

He stares at you with his glowing eyes, his mouth a flat line. You wonder why he doesn’t smile. Grown-ups smile when they see you. They talk in sounds that make you giggle and touch your cheek softly.

But not him.

You reach out, your small hand finding the air between you. Your fingers curl and wave, searching. Hold me, they say, though you don’t know how to ask.

The man doesn’t move. For a moment, you think he’ll turn and leave you here, alone in the cold again.

But he doesn’t.

His arms scoop you up, and the world shifts. For a moment, you don’t like it. So high, so fast but then you’re against him. His chest feels strange: hard and steady. Not like your mother’s, but still warm enough to make you stop crying.

You look up at him, studying the lines of his face. His hair is close now, close enough to touch. It’s soft when you grab it, like the blankets at home. You tug hard, and he makes a sound low and sharp.

“Ow.”

You giggle because it sounds funny. He doesn’t smile, but his mouth moves, and he pulls the golden strands from your fingers. You try to put them in your mouth before he can, but he’s faster.

“It’s filthy,” he mutters.

You don’t know what that means, so you smile at him anyway. Your toothless grin always works. He stares at you, long and quiet, and you stare back. His face doesn’t soften, but you think maybe he’s not angry.

The man holds you closer. He smells better now, like something steady, something safe. You like him.

Your hands find his chest, small fingers curling into the black cloth that covers him. It feels thick and strange under your touch. You rest your head against him, pressing your ear to the thudding sound inside him.

Thud-thud, thud-thud.

It’s slow, not like the quick, warm beats you know. But it’s still there. It’s enough.

Your eyes grow heavy again. The dark is warm now, and the bad smells are far away. You feel the man moving, his steps steady. The world sways softly as he carries you, and for the first time in a long time, you feel safe.

You don’t know where he’s taking you. You don’t care.

The thud-thud sound lulls you to sleep.

#castlevania #alucard x reader #platonic #platonic relationships #found family #child reader #he's needs a baby to cheer up #ao3 fic

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 3 months ago

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Give Thanks

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, familial judgement/bullying, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

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

Summary: Your mother invites a lonely coworker to Thanksgiving, a bit too lonely.

Characters: Andy Barber

Note: this is the second of my autumn fics as decided by all of you!

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

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

The smell of nutmeg hits you as you enter the house. That and the garble of voices. You take your time as you unlace your boots, keeping your jacket on as the rack is already overflowing with the like. You mentally ready yourself to face your famiiy and their annual judging panel.

You peek into the front room as you keep a firm hold of the boxed pies you grabbed from your favourite bakery in the city. You promised dessert and you brought it. You'll put them down before you wade in the deep end.

You enter the kitchen, rehearsing your greeting for your mother, but you're met with a stranger's back. He stands at the counter, scraping cranberry sauce from a saucepan into a serving dish. His brown hair is combed back neatly, though you can only see the ends from your vantage, and he wears a pressed shirt too white for the task at hand.

You hesitate. Where the heck is your mom? You can't see the man's face but you can tell he's a bit too young for her. Or so you would assume. He could be a cousin's boyfriend and yet he might be a bit above that.

"Um, hi," you say as you approach the end of the island counter, well away from him, "I'm looking for my mom."

"Your mom? Doris?" He wonders.

"Yeah," you answer as you set the pies on the counter. "I know I'm a little late..."

"She just went to grab something from the cellar," he explains. "I'm Andy--"

"There she is," your mom sweeps in with her seasonal gravy dish. "Mm, I knew you'd bring store bought."

"They're from a local bakery."

"You never did like being in the kitchen," she reprimands. "Oh, Andrew, that looks perfect. Not too runny."

You glance at the man. This strange man draws praise from her like honey from a comb, whereas you find the task as easy as squeezing juice from a stone. You let it roll off your back like you have for years.

"I got pumpkin, apple crumble, and some pecan. They usually sell out of that." You say.

"Ooh, pecan," the man, Andy, says.

"Oh, Andrew, my younger daughter," your mother introduces you as an afterthought as she goes to wash the gravy boat, "The typist."

"Typist? Mom, I'm an admin assistant," you counter. "I guess it doesn't matter."

"Just her, I'm afraid," she shuts off the faucet. "And her pies. No grandkids from her yet."

You see that this year is going to be just like the last. You're better off facing the rabble of aunts and uncles waiting for you in the front room. Heck, the kids' table might be the place for you.

"Thirty this year," your mother adds.

You force a tight-lipped smile. When you were a kid, it was your grades or the stubborn bit of hair at the back of your head or that your sister, Tia, did it better. Now you're an adult, it's your lack of ambition or lack of kids. You don't think you lack the former and you don't really want the latter. Life is what it is. You have a job that pays your bills and you don't need to add to your cost of living.

"I work with your mom." He offers. You look at him again.

He’s tall, blue-eyed, distinguished. He’s older but carries it well enough. The thin lines around his eyes only add to his looks, and his thick beard further defines his jaw.

"Oh, the law firm?"

"He's a new partner," your mother preens. "Oh, he gave your brother some good advice too. Hopefully he can move out of that public office soon enough."

Right, Rodney does everything right. He got into law, just like your mother told him too, and he has a pretty house and a pretty wife and three spoiled brats. Tia only has the one and a husband who works out of town every weekend. They're real grown-ups but to you, growing up seems boring.

Your life isn't glamourous. You do diamond art or catch-up on the last issue of your favourite comic when you're not too tired. You get takeout once a week, otherwise you put the ready-made meals in the microwave and eat it in front of the television. It's not special but it's your life.

"Public defenders do a service to the community," Andy says. "I did it for twenty years. It's not bad work. He can move up."

"Mm, and yet you moved to a private firm," your mother challenges him.

"Maybe you should be partner," he chortles at her playfully as he wipes his hands on the tails of the borrowed apron tied around his torso.

"My mom makes really good stuffing," you say, "I'm sure you'll enjoy it, even if you're not home for the holiday." You drag your feet along the tile, "I'm going to say hello to Auntie Toya."

"Good luck. She's in one of her moods," your mother tuts. "Must be menopause."

You leave before she can aim another snipe in your direction. She can't help but let the bullets fly and see where they hit. It might be thanksgiving, but you're struggling to find much to be grateful for.

🍂

"Mandy has a Christmas recital. I'll be sending the invite in the family chat," Tia, your sister, proclaims. "If you can make it, she'd be so happy, huh, sweetie?"

She pets behind her daughter's ear and makes her giggle. Every awes and cooes at the little girl. Just like when your sister was her age, she's the princess of the family.

"I can try to bring the kids," Rodney says. "We're thinking to get Kelly into dance next year. I need to get used to those things."

Everyone laughs. You're not very amused. You're happy the kids have hobbies, that they are doing interesting things, but you just don't care that much. Still, your happy to be able to fade into the background.

"I'm sure your sister can make it," your mother says, bring you back into the universe, "she doesn't have anything else going on."

Your eyes dart back and forth. Your mouth is full of potatoes. You gulp painfully.

"I can set the date aside. I still have some vacation left," you choke out. You can't make up an excuse with a whole audience to call you out.

You sink back into silence as Tia goes on about the show. They're doing The Nutcracker. Oh joy. You were never a fan. Why can't they do something fun, like The Grinch?

"Don't think I'm included in that invite," Andrew says under his breath from your left shoulder. As the two loners at the table, you're put together. "Kinda awkward."

He chuckles, trying to ease the tension. You shift and hide your embarrassment. You forgot there was a complete stranger here to witness your judgement.

"Right, well... I'm sure you have enough going on," you say.

"I'm sure you do too," he pokes at the yams. "Kids keep you busy but life is already hectic."

"Sure," you agree dully. You don't want to be rude. "you have kids?"

"One. A son. Grown. He went to his girlfriend's for the holiday and his mom... is not in town."

"Bad timing," you take another bite of potatoes. Maybe next year you can come down with a timely case of the flu.

"Don't be silly. She doesn't have a boyfriend. We'd all know," your mother trills with laughter. You pop your head up as the hairs on your neck tingle. You know she means you before you even catch her gaze. "It'd be such an achievement, she'd have to shout it from the rooftops."

You lost track of the conversation and you're not sure how you became the butt of the joke, but you're tired. It's supposed to be a day for family but it just feels like you're being cast out of yours. You put your fork down.

"I'm going to clear my plate. Think I had too big a snack on the drive here," you stand, gritting back your irritation. "As usual, stuffing's delicious."

You get up and make your way along the table. The silence is dense. Oh well. If they want to make this painful, you can do the same.

You go to the kitchen and find a container. You scrape your leftovers into it and shake your head. You suppose you are behind. You're thirty years old. Next year you'll be thirty-one and her chiding will be even louder. The ticking of the clock will only ger worse as the years go by.

"You're right, stuffing's good," Andy says.

You wince and glance over your shoulder. "Uh, yeah. Like I said, think my eyes were bigger than my stomach."

He comes up next to you and rinses off his plate, "well, I think my stomach would be turning too after that."

"It's whatever," you shrug.

"Thirty isn't old. You got time," he says.

"Thanks," you reply tersely.

"Not that it's any of my business."

You're silent. It isn't but you're not going to be rude enough to say that out loud. Unlike the rest of your family, you can keep your thoughts to yourself. They might think you're immature because you're not living behind a white picket fence, but at least you don't act like a teenager.

"It's better to take your time. You know, you rush into big decisions and you can't undo them. They don't always turn the way people promise," he says. "You follow that road map, take one wrong turn and you're wife's spending Thanksgiving with her 'work husband' at a hotel." He opens the dishwasher and wedges his plate between the metal, "Work husband, secret boyfriend, you know..."

You're struck by the revelation. You can hear the tension in his voice. The hurt, the anger.

"Oh, I'm sorry," you utter dumbly.

"You're sorry? She isn't," he reaches for your plate and rinses it next. "I'm not telling you because I want you to feel bad for me. I guess I'm trying to commiserate. It could be worse." He adds your plate to the washer, "you're doing nothing wrong. Being alone means you have choices. Being tied to someone... you have obligations."

"Yeah, sounds about right," you say. "Well, thanks. Not to benefit off your pain but yeah." You put the lid on the tupperware and sidle along to put it in the fridge, "I think I'm going to get some fresh air. Getting a bit overcrowded in here."

"A little," he agrees.

You leave and hold your breath until you get to the front door. Who knew the stranger at the table would be the only one to make you feel welcome?

You grab your coat from the guest room and push your feet into your boots at the front door. You go outside into the brisk air. It's actually nice. Refreshing almost.

You sit on the porch bench. In the colder months, it's rarely used. It hasn't snowed yet but the frost glistening on the grass is foreboding.

You tuck your hands into your sleeves and look along the street. The other houses with yellow windows, glowing with the warmth and shadow of happy families. This time of year has only ever been stressful to you. You're never a part of the fun, you're usually the source of it.

The front door opens and you fight to keep your unease under wraps. You don't need your mom lecturing you. Again. Or Tia telling you not to be jealous. Whatever happens is always your fault.

"Whew, it's cold," Andy's voice eases your nerves as it assures you it isn't who you fear.

"Yep, I don't mind. It's the only thin I like about this time of year."

"Really?" He nears and sits on the other end of the bench. "I'm a summer person, I guess. Used to be we'd go to some resort for New Years." He says.

"Sounds nice," you say.

"I know. I'm moaning about a luxury," he scoffs, "trust me, I get it. I got it all, what do I got to whine about?"

"I wouldn't say that. You never know what people have going on."

"Nope," he agrees and rubs his hands together. He's quiet as he leans forward, resting his elbows on his legs. He bends and unbends his fingers as he examines them then sits up again. "Brrr. Only good thing about this weather, snuggle weather."

He laughs. You try to. It's an awkward joke.

"Maybe I should get a cat," he suggests.

"Maybe," you clutch your hands tight. You should go inside. You know he's being nice but he's ruined the moment.

Your teeth chatter as you take a deep breath of the late autumn air. Just a little longer before you go back. You close your eyes.

The bench creaks and you think he's getting up. He must get the hint. Instead, as you open your eyes, you feel a weight across your shoulders. You flinch and peek at him from the corner of your eye.

"You're shivering," he says.

You look at him then back to the road. You should pull away but you can't. It feels mean.

"God, my hands are so cold," he grips your shoulder as he puts his other hand on your thigh.

"Woah," you catch his thick fingers.

"Come on, let's get warmed up," he breaks through your resistance and rubs your leg.

"Alright, I don't know what you think--"

"What's so wrong about it? Like trains passing through the night. My wife's cheating, you're single, we could have some fun," he purrs as he holds you against him.

"Um, no thanks," you grab his fingers again. "I'm flattered but--"

"Shh, shh," he peels his hand away from your leg, once more evading your grasp, and grabs your chin. "Your mom told me all about it. How you can't get a date--"

"That's not--" you latch onto his wrist, "stop, please, Andy."

"Come on," he turns your head and nuzzles your nose with his, "I'm so fucking lonely. My wife hasn't touched me in over a year."

"Your wife-- Andy," you hiss.

"Just kiss me, please? That's all I want. Just a little affection. To feel wanted."

"You're-- stop. Let go of me," you try to dislodge his hold on you. He's too strong.

He tilts his head and presses his lips to yours. You murmur and slep his chest with your other hands. He hooks his arm around you as he angles you toward him. You writhe and bite his lip.

He gasps and pulls back, keeping you locked in his embrace, "listen, sweetheart, you wanna play hard-to-get," he squeezes your jaw until you whimper, "what's mom gonna think when she catches you all over her married coworker?"

"No, that's not--"

"I'm sure she'll believe you," he snarls and slides his hand down to your throat.

"Why..." you croak.

"Baby, please, it's not a bad thing," he moves you with him as he edges off the bench. He turns, one arm still around you, his other hand locked onto your neck. He bends and forces you onto your back as he settles over you. "I'm going to make you feel just as good as you make me feel."

You wriggle and whine. What he says is just as scary as what he hasn't said. He'll make you feel as good as you do him, or as bad.

#andy barber #dark andy barber #dark!andy barber #andy barber x reader #one shot #fic #autumn #defending jacob

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oh-koenig-my-koenig · 1 year ago

Text

waking up in his bed

(cw: age gap 25/41, nsfw, mdni, marks, a bit of spit stuff, dry (wet?) humping, swallowing)

part before: hanging off König's shoulder

When I open my eyes up again, for just a moment, I don’t know where I am. My own confused image stairs back at me – right, the mirror on his ceiling! And I laugh to myself because it’s ridiculous. The whole concept is!

I stretch myself, yawning. Realising that I’m alone in the kingsize bed. I mean, it would be impossible to miss the big guy. I still feel his lingering touches, the way he held onto me as we fell asleep together. Reminders of the first time hooking up after the concert.

I’m somebody who normally can’t sleep in a tight embrace, but he was pratically latching onto me both times. Subconsciously in his sleep. Holding onto me, softly still. If it were possible for him to wrap himself around me completely, I bet he would’ve done it. His big arm resting over my torso, the forearm securely between my breasts, his hand on the side of my face. One of his legs strewn over one of mine. Almost like a human weighted blankie. And I still slept soundly.

I yawn and stretch again, until I notice a little piece of paper stuck to my arm. I peel it off and look at it.

That explains where he went off to, but it also makes him out be a liar, because I don’t believe I look anywhere near cute in the morning. Drooling into the soft pillow underneath my head. My hair standing off to the side. Probably snoring as well.

And I have to laugh as I see the little doodle in the right corner. Honestly, it’s a relief to see – considering the man’s many talents – that he isn’t good at everything. Drawing doesn’t seem to be his forte. But at the same time, this was painfully cute. The note, the doodle, everything. I giggle to myself and finally pull back the covers.

I assess the ‘damage’ while I get up: Booty hurts a little bit, probably from getting fucked into the hard wood surface of the bar. The muscles in my legs are a little tense, my shoulders and neck feel a bit stiff, and my pussy is a little bit sore (and deeply satisfied). The hickeys and the faint bitemark on my inner thighs bring a little smile to my face. It couldn’t have been clearer if he had written ‘König was here’ in waterproof sharpie on them.

I put on my shirt, still not daring to take one of his because of how it might look, and curse myself because I didn’t pack more clothes. It’s not terribly stinky or stained, but it definitely looked better yesterday. I quickly brush my teeth, my eyes darting to the shower, remnants of last night in the forefront of my mind before I go on a search for my panties.

I find them on the floor in the bar, the memories of yesterday flooding me, the forgotten cocktail still on the bar. He had to make another one, because the icecubes had already melted and the gin was warm.

I leave the cellar going up the stairs until I stand in the living room again, looking at the books I set aside yesterday.

There is another crystal tumbler on the end table, this one empty. Just one because we shared it.

The glass moving from my hand to his and back, while we were listening to music, talking. Cuddling on the couch. My legs splayed over his thighs, barely reaching all the way to the other side. His arm around my waist, his thumb painting little circles over my hip. My fingers tangled in his hair and digging into the scalp, massaging gently until he was humming quietly.

His mouth placed on the glass where mine was, just a moment before, taking another sip.

Lingering kisses, slow and sweet, turning into little sips of the drink being passed between us. Tasting him and the gin at the same time. A heady combination.

I felt myself getting sleepier and sleepier the later it got, until I yawned and almost fell asleep in his arms, then he finally got me to agree that we should head to bed.

I hear the front door open, the sound ripping me from my memories. I turn around, skipping in that direction.

König is standing in the hallway, taking off his shoes, a grocery bag in his hands. In his usual leatherjacket, shirt and… sweatpants? Casual black sweatpants. Yeah no, I totally feel normal about them. I can’t help but ogle him, because he looks like a wet dream, even in the most mundane outfits.

He sees me, his face lighting up in a grin. “No pants again, huh?”, he comments, his eyes dropping down my body.

I blush. “Uh, I can put some on, if it bothers you.”

He laughs. “Doncha dare hide that cute ass of yours.” He comes closer and leans down, dropping a kiss onto my mouth and his hand to my ass. Patting it twice, quickly and playful. “I almost didn't want to leave bed this morning...”, he whispers against my lips and deepens the kiss, for just a moment.

“I got your note.”, I say as we tumble into the kitchen.

He puts the shopping bag down on the counter. “Yeah, went to the supermarket. And I also got us some croissants from the bakery.”

“The little shop at the corner to Main Street?”, I ask.

“Yes.”, he smiles.

“Hell yeah, I love their croissants, they're the best.”, I exclaim.

“Baked goods, the only thing the french are good at.”, he comments pointedly.

“Oh man, you and the french.”, I laugh as I hop onto the kitchen counter beside the coffee maker. Watching him unpack the groceries and getting said baked goods.

He pulls one croissant out of the brown paper bag and hands it to me unceremoniously. I grab it and take a bite, the flakey dough bursting as my teeth cut through it. The little sigh that drops from my lips sounds a little too enamored, a little too enthused for just eating a croissant. He looks at me, his jaw dropping just a bit.

“What?”, I ask, still munching on the pastry dough.

“Nothing.” He shakes his head mumbling something that sounds a bit like "never thought I'd be jealous of a fucking croissant".

That makes me laugh. "Thanks for getting them, but you didn't need to get up early for that."

He shrugs. "I'm an early bird anyway out of habit, and I had to go out and buy some milk, because I forgot about that.", he explains, pulling said milk out of the grocery bag.

I look at him, a little confused.

"I drink my coffee black, so I never have any milk at home.", he adds, as if that was a given.

A grin stalks on my face. “Of course you do.”, I say pointedly.

“Now, what's that supposed to mean?”, he asks.

I tilt my head and pull my brows up, all like 'are you being serious?'. “Let's just say that I would have been way more surprised if the over 40-year-old metalhead, who has a car that looks like it's from the nineties, who still collects vinyls and CDs, who would rather drink his gin neat and who's biggest kitchen appliance is a barista coffee machine with all the knick-knacks – if he drank a latte in the morning.”

He laughs, the hearty sound making me all giddy. “Tell me how you really feel.”, he says, his eyes sparkling at me, while jokingly clasping one hand over his heart.

“Sorry.”, I say, grinning at him.

He waves it off. “Don’t be, I deserved that.” He gets some coffee beans ready, putting them through the grinder and then fitting the portafilter into the barista machine.

While the coffee drips down into the cup, he comes closer standing right in between my knees. “But, how about you, missy? Do you like a latte in the morning?” The little quirk of the corner of his mouth is telling me that this isn’t just some question about my coffee preferences. It’s one of his telltale signs.

“I do, but I feel like I'm missing the joke here.”, I say, looking up at him. Sitting on the counter, he still towers over me, more than a head taller than me.

He chuckles. “Well, ‘Latte’ is also another word for boner in German, so...” He sees the grimace I'm making and laughs some more, and I join in, while shaking my head. He steps away and repeats the process, getting another coffee ready.

"I'm starting to think that your language only has dirty innuendos and curses.", I remark, jokingly.

He grins. "That just might be my vocabulary." He pours some milk into a metal jug and froths it, adding the froth to the mug after the coffee is ready. Wincing at the shitload of milk he put in. "Here, a latte for the lady.", he says, while handing me the mug.

My eyes drop down of their own volition, as I take it from his hands. Openly staring at his crotch, where his sweatpants are clearly tented by his dick. And he comes even closer with the way I'm looking at him.

My gaze pans up again until it lands on his face, his expression stoic, as he’s pulling an eyebrow up, like he’s awaiting what I’ll do. I take a drink, tasting the coffee on my tongue. "Thank you. For the latte." Trying to hide my grin behind the mug. "Sir.", I add, cheekily.

He leans forward, placing his hands on either side of me, caging me in. The look in his eyes burning into me. I still grin up at him, but I feel like I'm in danger. In danger of getting devoured like one of those flaky croissants.

"You wanna say that again with your lips around my dick? Hm?", he asks and my breath halts. Thinking about yesterday again. When I sat on his bed, gagging around his cock.

"Maybe.", I whisper. He just leans down to kiss me and I can taste the bitter coffee on his tongue, as it strokes against mine. Slow and deep.

I put the cup down to the side before my arms reach up, holding onto his shoulders, his hair falling to the front, the tips of it brushing over my skin. I push some of it back, my fingers tangle in the long strands, while I answer his kiss.

He's not breaking away, still caging me in, even though one of his hands moves to my panties. The fingers toying with the hem, easily slipping under the fabric. My legs spread even wider, I squirm into his touch and our kiss gets messier, sloppier. His thumb finds my clit, softly pressing against it, and the light touch makes me needy for more.

"Fuck, please.", I whimper into the kiss, and I can feel his lips turn up into a smile. He breaks away, keeping up the constant brushes against my clit, kissing down to my neck.

My hand tries to reach for his dick, but he catches my wrist. "Just- let me.", he murmurs, pressing his hot mouth against my pulse point. Sucking on it softly. A needy mewl escapes me when his middle finger slips into me. Just one digit, not quite enough to fill me up, even with his big fingers.

Soft teasing touches, enough to get me worked up, but not enough to get me anywhere near finishing. And he knows what he's doing.

König pulls back, his lids hooded, his gaze intently on me, which makes me acutely aware of the expression on my own face, the O shape of my mouth. His finger is still moving inside me, the brushes against the most sensitive spot make me squirm.

I teether on the edge of an orgasm, until he pushes another one inside me, filling me up. His fingers move fast now, against my fluttering walls. Coaxing the release out of me and I come, pulsing around them. Leaving me wet and needy for more touches.

He pulls the panties over my pussy again, the fabric soaking up my juices in an instant. His hand clasps over it, softly massaging over it, until they soaked wet with my own juices.

König simply pushes his sweatpants down, pulling out his cock, letting it rest against my clothed pussy. Then he spits and a dollop of saliva drops onto my panties. The sound alone makes me whimper, while I lean back until my shoulderblades hit the cabinets behind me.

The spit runs down, right over the tip of his dick. He drags it through it, spreading the wetness on his length, soaking my underwear even more. Slow and deliberate, taking his time. The slick just being enough, so he can flit over it.

I groan at the sight, the filthy little move making me even hotter. He pulls up one eyebrow while looking at me, the smirk on his lips infuriatingly cocky. He ruts his hips forward, his hard dick pushing against my pussy lips and clit. The friction due to the fabric in between us, against my sensitive skin, is almost too much to handle, my hands gripping his arms, nails digging into his biceps.

His hands splayed on my thighs and he looks down, my eyes following his until we're both fixed on the spot where he is rubbing himself against me. The little hickeys on the skin next to it. His thumb coasts over the bitemark on my inner thigh, a faint imprint still showing up. He lifts his hand for just a moment, pressing a kiss to his pointer and middle finger and then pressing them onto the mark.

If I wasn't so wound tight from his teasing touches, I think I would've actually awww'ed at the little gesture, him kissing the bite better. Like this, I only sigh, grinding against his dick, searching for more friction.

He slumps forward, his forehead resting against mine. "Fuck, I need to be inside you.", he grunts, his words sending a shiver down my spine. He lifts me from the countertop, my legs wrapping around him.

"What, no magic condoms appearing out of thin air this time?", I tease him, my fingers stroking over his shoulders.

“The magician is out of props for such stunts.”, he grumbles. “And there will still be enough time to fuck you on every surface in the whole house.”

He hurries upstairs to the bedroom where he sets me down on the bed and we both scramble to get off our clothes. I pull my shirt over my head and fall into the soft mattress, watching him shed his. His dick is hanging out his sweatpants, half caught in the waistband, bobbing up and down with his movements before he lets the pants fall down to the floor.

He grabs a condom out of the pack that's lying out on the nightstand, the packaging torn at the front, and puts the rubber on.

My eyes pan up from the dark fluff of his happy trail, the tummy, the upper abs and his huge pecs, dark hair peppered over them. His nipple piercing. The broad shoulders, adorned with black ink that spans down his arms as well. Trying not to look at the parts where cuts and other scars disturbed the otherwise impeccable images inked into the skin.

He looks back at me, from underneath his eyebrows, one of them quirking up, as he climbs onto the mattress, his weight pushing it down.

I yelp and giggle, as he grabs me by the hips, pulls me into him, until the swells of my ass hit his thick thighs. My legs drop to the side on their own, and he takes that as the invitation it is, his hand pulling the wet panties to the side and just slipping into me.

We both groan as he settles deep inside me, the stretch of his thickness making my head drop back and my eyes roll back.

His hand catches my chin, softly digging into it. Making me look up as he sits back on his knees and slowly starts to fuck me.

“See how fucking pretty you are?”

His eyes are on me, on my face, while I look up at the mirror, focused in on the point where we are connected. Seeing how his dick pushes into me, until he's balls deep, his tip pressing up against my cervix.

Sliding out, inch by inch, almost completely pulling out. In again. I feel the stretch as my pussy takes him in. It's a tight fit, but I'm wet and dripping from how he worked me up.

And out. The feeling of emptiness only dissipates, when his hips snap forward, filling me up quickly, and a moan drops from my lips, the shape contorted to an O.

He starts to fuck me harder, his hand coming around my throat, his fingers closing around my neck, gentler than I would have liked. Pulling me into him while he pounds into me. His hand is other still grabbing onto my panties, the fabric aching as he uses it as leverage to move me into his thrusts.

Rip.

The sound of fabric ripping cuts through the otherwise soft erotic soundscape. The drowsiness drops out of his gaze, his eyes widen in shock, as he looks down, stopping his thrusts. "Scheiße, sorry.", he curses.

I laugh a bit while I shake my head. "Don't worry, it's just clothes.", sitting up on my elbows, reaching out for him. Needing him to continue.

He lets go of them, the fabric hanging from my hips, and leans forward, pressing a deep kiss onto my mouth in apology. His hand softly strokes the side of my face, his thumb caressing my cheek. Close, so close, his forehead resting against mine, as he rolls his hips against me.

He straightens back up, picking up his thrusts again. His arm spans over my whole body, the muscled limb covering half of me. I feel so small compared to him, the contrast so stark when I'm splayed out like this in front of him.

His hand moves down a bit and his thumb pushes against my lips. I lick it, play with it and then release it with a pop, but just a moment later two of his fingers push into my mouth again.

He sinks in deep, my lips closing around them. Two is almost too much already. I start to lick them, to suck on his fingers, hesitatingly at first, but the little sounds that drop from his lips spur me on.

He moves them in unison with the pushes of his dick into me. The combined touches making me lose my mind fast. It almost was like he was fucking me from the front and back at the same time.

I gag around him, spit coats his digits as I suck them off like I would another part of him. And I guess, he is thinking about that as well, the heat in his gaze intensifying.

The sight mirrored back to me – of his dick pounding into me, while his fingers are fucking my mouth all sloppily, pushing into the wet heat, my lips barely reaching the lettering on his knuckles, is getting me worked up.

From the way he's looking at me, his eyes fixed on my face, while I swallow him up, it's driving him crazy too. Groaning, as I take him deep.

Him, just him, fucking me. And me at his mercy. Full, so full of him. And I can't help but think about what it would be like to have him fill all of my holes. The thought alone sends a tingle of filthy desire down my spine and I hum around him.

"Fuck, look at you, taking me so well.", he drawls. His words, the soft growl in them, wash over me and I can feel the zap of pleasure deep, when he bottoms me out, his dick hitting the right spot again.

I come, my body arching off the sheets, my sighs and screams muffled by the fingers in my mouth, as my eyes roll back.

He doesn't stop, fucking me through it. My pussy squeezes around him, and while I still come down from the orgasm, I can feel his other hand grabbing my hip, holding tight. His fingers still in my mouth, stroking against my tongue. Sinking into my throat, the letters on his knuckles disappearing as he pushes further in, and I gag around them once again.

They leave my mouth, all of a sudden, and I take a deep breath. "Please fuck, I-", he groans. "I want to come in your mouth. May I?" The inflection in his voice is almost pleading.

I nod, the thought alone sending another shiver of arousal through me. “Yes.”, I answer breathlessly, still a little hazy from my orgasm.

He pulls back entirely, his dick slipping out of my pussy. I scramble onto my knees, while he gets up from the bed, standing in front of it.

Getting off the condom quickly, his hand running up and down his length, continuing to chase his release. My spit is still on the two digits that were just inside me, now slowly coating his cock.

I press a soft kiss to the tip that is leaking precum, tasting the saltiness on my tongue. Flicking it over the piercing. My eyes pan up, searching for his, before I take him a little deeper into my mouth. Sucking on his tip while he jerks himself off. Hasty and desperate. A rumbly moan shakes his chest, his eyes rolling back.

"Fuck, gonna cum.", he mutters, the words all breathy.

I hum around his dick, licking and sucking eagerly, when he spills onto my tongue and down my throat. I lick up every single drop, swallowing it all. He shakes and shivers when I don't stop sucking until he's spent.

I release him with pop, when his fingers grip my chin, and open my mouth to show him. "Good fucking girl.", he drawls, the praise washing over me, as I sit back on my knees. He crouches down a bit, his eyebrows raised in anticipation. Like he's waiting for something, but he doesn't say anything.

My cheeks blush red, as I remember what we talked about before. "Thank you, Sir.", I say, looking him straight into his eyes.

His answer is a deep satisfied sound, almost turning into a growl, as he leans forward, capturing my mouth in a kiss. Crawling into bed again, pulling me onto his front, until I’m strewn over him like a blanket that isn’t even big enough for the big man. He’s softly stroking my back, the touches comforting and gentle.

I push my cheek into his pecs, the hairs on his chest tickling the soft skin, and I breathe in his scent. The warm calming tone. I feel his upper body rising and sinking with every single breath of his, until we are in unison. The deep calmness almost carries me away, and I feel myself getting sleepy. I mean, we didn’t get a lot of sleep. And getting fucked liked this was tiring, although not tiresome at all.

In the silence around us, a thought of mine cuts through post-fuck haze.

“I don’t wanna go home.”, I whisper against his chest, after looking for the right words to say.

His hand stops for just a second. “Then don't.”, he answers simply, continuing his soft caresses.

I lift my head from his pec, looking at him. “Are you sure? I don't want to disturb your vacation.”, I ask.

“I'm not on vacation, I'm on leave.”, he explains. “And you're not disturbing anything.” A little reassuring smile is appearing on his lips.

“I didn’t bring much though. Not even like any more clothes.”, I say hesitatingly.

“Would it be terribly selfish of me to put you in my stuff to keep you here?”, he asks, the smile widening a bit.

I laugh. “I fear, I won't fit into any of that. I mean, I think I could build a tent to sleep in from the shirts you wear.”

“That's fair.”, he grins at me, pushing my hair out of my face. And then he kisses me again, sweet and slow, until I sigh against his lips.

“You have to stop kissing me like that.”, I say, teasingly.

His smirk drops from his face. “Why?”, he asks.

“Because it makes me want to sit on your dick again.”, I jokingly confess.

He starts laughing, his whole body shaking. “That can be arranged.”, he grins at me.

“But – we can’t stay in bed the whole weekend.”, I retort.

“We can’t?”, he pipes up, his question somewhere between a pouty joke and sincere query.

I think about it for a second. “Mmh, I don’t know. Might tire you out, old man.”, I tease him, sticking my tongue out at him.

His eyes light up, all of a sudden, I get flipped, the whole world is spinning around me. He is on top of me, his weight presses me down into the mattress. His thighs spread my legs for him, his dick lying over my tummy, already hard again.

He grabs another condom. “If you keep this up, we’re gonna go through the whole packet.”, he jokes, one side of his mouth topping up in a smirk.

“Is that a challenge?”, I ask, caressing down his chest, inching in on his dick, while he is still fiddling with the rubber.

He grabs my wrists and pins them over my head, stretching me out on the mattress, while I grin up at him, splayed out like that.

“If you want it to be…”, he whispers against my face, his lips kissing down to my neck while he pushes inside me.

The mug on the kitchen counter is still half full, the coffee now cold. I take a sip, relishing the milky liquid running down my throat. Sitting here at the kitchen island in just his shirt. The Dark Tranquility one he wore when we first met.

“What are you doing?”, he asks me, utterly confused, as he sees me. He put on his sweatpants again and they are as delicious as they were before. Especially in combination with his naked chest.

“Finishing my coffee.”, I explain, taking another long sip.

“But that’s… cold.”, he says, the disgust palpable.

“Yeah, I like it like that. I drink them lukewarm. At best.”, I explain, with full confidence.

“Woman, you drive me crazy.”, he sighs, then laughs, making himself another coffee. Fresh, hot and black. “One of these days, we’re gonna manage to drink the drinks at the temperature they’re so supposed to be enjoyed at.” The loud noise of the coffee maker cuts through my laughter.

“We can certainly try.”, I say, taking another sip from my blasphemous coffee.

“So, about your stuff.”, he starts, as he leans against the kitchen island. The mug in his hand is looking ridiculously small compared to him. Just like me.

“Yeah, my panties are kinda ruined now, too.” I say and shoot him a pointed look.

“I don’t have any panties that will fit you.”, he says, the corner of his lips quirking up.

“No shit sherlock.”, I remark sarcastically, lifting the shirt that is hanging from my shoulders. That’s almost reaching to my knees. You could fit three of me in there.

“We can go to your apartment, you can look after Mimi and get some clothes, and then come back here. It’s no big deal.”, he suggests.

I sigh. “You sure?”

He nods, just waiting for my answer patiently. While I contemplate if it was okay to stay here for longer.

“Okay, quickly, just to get some stuff.”, I agree.

When we go to leave, I notice that my shoes are neatly lined up, not at all how I left them, when I stormed into the house yesterday evening. Standing just right beside an old pair of his combat boots.

next part: painting his nails or more stuff in the Masterlist ~

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