#he is begging to be made into a marble statue

[yes-no-maybe-soo]

The side profile 🤌✨️

[bobananami]

VELVET ESCAPADES

SUKUNA RYOMEN

synopsis—a night out with your fiancé ends with you ruining his fun, then to him ruining you

tags—CEO au Sukuna. talks of marriage. brat reader. remote controlled vibrators. hidden exhibition. bondage (suspension). edging. orgasm denial. hints towards his abilities. fingering. pnv.

You weren't a coward. At least that's what you told yourself as you rushed down a hallway filled with grandiose windows and pristine carpeted floors. All part of the manor that hosted the gracious ball you and your beloved fiance were attending.

Said fiance was mingling around the dance floor, conversing with men of his caliber—or at least as close as they could get to his. All fancied up in suits and ties, they preened their wealth in hopes of showing off their status to both their women or in hopes of finding one—or multiple—to spend the night with.

Not that it mattered to you or your husband to be. Both of you were dressed immaculately, putting every wannabe rich boy and doe-eyed ladies to shame the second you walked in and beheld your shimmering dress and sharp, tailored suit.

Little did they know that under your fancy embroidered fabrics, Sukuna Ryomen was playing a game with you. A game that started with a little object in his right pocket that he constantly fidgeted with and ended with its second half buried up into your slick core.

You thought it would be fun in the car when he had proposed the idea. To see how well you could keep your composure when he held your pleasure and sanity in his hand, and in the end—if you did good—he'd reward you.

You should've known better. You should've fucking known better.

It took you half an hour to realize exactly how this game benefitted him and not you, for he denied you your pleasure every single time you were inches away from reaching it. You didn't know how he kept tabs on exactly how close you were, but you had little doubt it was related to his unusual keen eyes and ears, able to hear every stuttered breath and every skipped heartbeat.

The first time he’d done so, you casted him a wicked glare, eyes sharp enough to cut through the very walls of this building. He only met it with a smooth incline of his chin, his lips twitched into a smile so subtle, you wouldn't have caught it if you weren't on the receiving end.

The second time had you tapping your foot against the marble floor, your grip on the champagne glass tight enough to nearly shatter it. You didn't look at him this time, but just a second later, you felt a palm—his palm—on your shoulder and his breath against the end of your jaw. A single word was whispered from his lips as they caressed the shell of your ear.

"Behave."

Your shoulders trembled as you resisted the urge to snap your teeth at his chuckling figure.

The third time had you storming off into the hallways, muttering something about needing to use the restroom towards the frilly young lady that prattled off about some subject you never really listened to.

You couldn't catch a break.

Even in the wide expanse of windowed walls and red carpeted floors, you couldn't cool yourself from the heat that radiated in your core. The lack of sleeves and cool, ventilated air did nothing but show how tense you were. How two beads of sweat made their way from your forehead down to your jaw.

The bathroom wasn't much better, but it did offer you the privacy you wished you had.

Bzzz.

Your grip tightened on the white counters, your eyes screwed shut as you held in the little moan that threatened to escape.

You let your head fall back, the buzzing growing more intense and louder in the echoing chamber of the bathroom. Your chest heaved with every pant and your thighs pressed together as if they could ward off the sensation you begged to receive. The waters of pleasure grew into a wave, higher and higher as it reached the undisturbed shore that begged to be coated in oceanic salt.

Maybe he couldn't hear you. You're halfway across the damn house, behind the closed door of a bathroom. Maybe now you could—

But before you could finish the thought, the waters froze, then were pulled back by an unknown force.

You held in a howl of frustration, tears pricking your lashes that you held in for fear of ruining your makeup. You opted for stomping furiously on the ground.

How dare he? How dare he take your orgasm from you again?

Riiiiing.

You buried your hand in your purse, pulling out your phone. Your scowl only deepened the second you saw what contact dared to interrupt your internal tirade.

"Are you done throwing your little tantrum, princess?"

You didn't hesitate. "Fuck. You."

Three tuts were heard over the line, then his deep, smug voice. "Don't be like that, baby. You know better than to use that language on me."

"I mean it, Sukuna. Fucking—I hate you." The vibe in you suddenly went to its max, and you yelped in surprise, your shaky grip nearly causing you to drop your phone.

"What did I just say?" The static didn't really distort his words. Somehow, it only made them more menacing. Made you more inclined to obey his commands.

But the past hour and a half of teasing and toying with you as if you were nothing but a little rabbit to be played with during its hunt had your pupils narrowing and ragged breaths sourcing from anger, rather than desperation.

Fuck obedience.

You held the bottom of your phone to your mouth, making sure he heard every breath and syllable you spat from your venomous tongue.

"Fuck. You."

You hung up the phone shortly after. He wanted to play with you? You could play his game right back.

His contact appeared shortly on the screen again and you declined the call, instead going into his information and blocking him effective immediately.

You shut off your phone right after, getting rid of any location tracking he might've had with the device.

The glittering cloths of your dress wrinkled as you hiked up your skirt. The single stall bathroom was filled with hitched moans and whines as you pushed aside your laced panties, gliding two fingers deep into your pulsing cunt. All just to grab onto the silicone string of that damned vibrator and yank it out.

"We'll see how you fucking like this." You hissed angrily, tossing it into your purse with contempt.

So full of vitriol and spite, the satisfaction gained from shutting him out and ending his fun was enough for you to forgo getting yourself off in the pristine restroom and causing wonder for why you'd been gone for so long.

Little did you know that would be the biggest mistake of your night.

You flipped your hair back, testing your smile in the spotless mirror. Stunning. That's what you'd thought when you finally finished your makeup hours earlier. That's what your fiance had murmured the second he saw your finished look by the door to your home.

But now? Your smile widened to show your teeth, your canines as dull as a human could be, yet seeming as sharp as a panther when you beheld the molten lava in your eyes.

You avoided Sukuna the whole night afterwards, relishing in his darkened gaze when he realized what you had done.

You tossed him a look when he tried edging you again in plain sight and threw him a little wink before you took a sip of your champagne.

Dangling the glittery purse in your palm, you spun on your heel and went back to the bar to order a glass of refreshment.

He was beyond pissed, you could tell. You felt his eyes boring holes in your head as you turned your back towards him and you knew that if you were in the privacy of your own home, you'd be pinned to the ground with his clothed cocks pressing into your ass as he growled threats and promises into your ear.

Which was why the snake of delight slithered up your spine. He was in no position to do what he wanted right now. Not when so many people were watching.

Your thighs clenched at the idea of you finally having the higher ground.

Maybe now he'll know better than to cross you again.

You were so, so wrong.

A minute later you felt a grip by your elbow. You looked up to see the stormy eyes of Sukuna Ryomen, burning with ire.

You barely put the glass down before you were being dragged to the front door. As politely as he could display in this public setting. He stopped to talk to the host, but before you could get the idea to run, his grip turned impossibly tight.

Your eyes widened, and you looked up to your lover to see his jaw clench, even as he smiled and laughed with the blue eyed, white haired man before him.

You could barely bid your farewells before you were borderline tossed into your car.

The car was dark, the only light within from the radio by the front driver and the golden lights from the house outside.

Your pupils narrowed, and you snarled his way. "Why the fuck did you just—"

You felt two fingers press against your forehead and the last thing you saw was the steel cold face of Sukuna Ryomen and two very vivid scarlet eyes.

You awoke with a throbbing headache—the familiar aftereffects of the fainting spell. It wore off by the second, all the while you blinked away your blurry vision, trying to discern your surroundings.

Your neck ached and the muscles strained from the tension of your head hanging down. The reason why hit you soon after—your hands were suspended in the air. Red silk wrapped snugly around your wrists kept your arms pin straight above your head, its other end reaching the hook in the ceiling.

You tried shifting your legs, only to realize the same ropes were there too, tied artistically around your lower thighs to keep them spread apart.

Displayed like art for its intended audience.

Cold air wrapped around you like a glove, shifting your notice to your dress, or lack thereof. Where glittered fabric and shimmering satin had coated you before now laid nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Your eyes widened—

"You wake, finally."

Sukuna Ryomen sat lazily on the armchair across from you. His ankle was cross over his knee, his chin resting on his fist. He was still dressed in his nightly clothes sans his jacket. Drool pooled at the bottom of your mouth when you beheld the way his shirt stretched against his chest.

There was something in his other hand though. You noticed his thumb rolling against the edge of a small object. That should’ve raised the alarm in your head.

"What is the meaning of this?" Your words were slow. Careful. You weren't ignorant to the gleam in his eyes. In the dark room, lit only by the golden lamps beside your bed, Sukuna's ruby irises seemed to glow with lustful malice.

"You should know, little rabbit." Your fiance drawled, his tone lazy, yet you noticed the subtle edge with every syllable that dripped from his tongue. "You ruined my fun tonight."

You bristled in your spot, trying to ignore the flush that crept up your cheeks from his gaze raking over your nude figure. There was a hunger within them that made you wonder if he was planning how, exactly, he was going to devour you.

He leaned forward, flashing the tiny black object in his hand.

A remote of some sort.

"So I will be ruining you."

The small click reverberated throughout the room.

Not even a second later, you felt a small buzz inside your cunt. You jerked against the sudden feeling, now taking note of the small vibe nestled deep inside your walls.

Your surprised expression met the cunning of his and his smile grew at the realization blooming in your eyes at what he had planned tonight.

Another click and your gasp followed, your lips forming his name in a plea he'd be sure to ignore.

"Sukuna please—"

"Zip it." His sharp tone had your mouth clamping up. But he didn't ignore the way your pupils narrowed at his snippy tone. "You ran from me tonight. Blocked me. Took out the toy."

Bzz.

"Now you have no choice but to face your punishment, when tonight could've ended with satisfaction."

Click.

Bzzz.

"You fucking deserved—"

You didn't even blink before he was in front of you, your hair whipping with the effects of his lightning speed.

His hand gripped your jaw roughly, lifting your face to meet his.

"You'll take what I give you until you're a begging, writhing mess. Then I'll think about giving you what you want. But for now..."

You blink, and he's back in his seat, in the same exact position that you wondered if you had imagined him getting up in the first place.

His smile grew, baring his fangs of the wolf he never truly tried to hide.

"We have fun."

You were delirious, wound up infinitely from the pain and pleasure mixed into an intoxicating potion of ecstasy.

Sukuna kept you bound there for an hour. Two hours. Watching. Waiting.

His keen eyes observed every twitch and jerk as he kept that vibrator buried deep within your pulsing cunt and edged you until you were begging for him to grant you release.

You were hissing, spitting and groaning out insults like a feral kitten to the man that sat before you with a smirk carved into his beautiful face. His eyes held all the emotions you needed to see, glimmering with amusement and pity, as if you were nothing than a bunny caught in its hunters snare, to be eaten and savored. You were the one who bounced into his trap after all, you only had yourself to blame.

He could see the gradual shift in effects your little game was having on you. The denial to anger. The writhe and shift of your body as that vibrator nestled deep in your cunt was winding that worn rope tighter and tighter within you.

Your wrists must've been rubbed raw by now with how much you were twisting them in the silk knot that held them high above your head, the ones at your knees keeping your thighs spread perfectly so he could watch just how your heated core reacted to being denied its pleasure over and over and over again.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuck you, Sukuna. Fuck. You." You spat, your words nothing but null venom. "Fucking h-hate you." Your voice hitched, words tumbling into a low whine that mixed with the crescendoing buzz of your toy. Your knees jerked, eyes squeezing shut as you got lost in the pleasure your torturer was granting you.

Sukuna merely quirked a single brow, leaning an elbow on his leg as he bent forward. "Do you now, doll?" The low baritone of his voice had you keening, your head shaking in a white lie.

"I do. F-fuck. I swear—hah—I swear I do!" You winced as your nails bit into the skin of your palm, your fists as tense as the muscles of your thighs. Sukuna's keen eyes watched as the crimson of your blood stain the red silk at your wrists, and his tongue swiped over his lips at the idea of taking your hand in his grasp and...

"Hm... okay then." The remote in his hand clicked, eventually reaching a stage with no change as he wound up the intensity to its max, and he relished in every jerk and twitch of your body as it tried desperately to chase that high he'd been artistically keeping from you.

Predatory eyes glimmered with entertainment as you panted, your voice reaching a high pitch as you moaned for him. As you whined and cried and sobbed. For someone who claimed to feel nothing but hatred for her fiance, you sure had a tendency to keep the syllables of his name flowing on your tongue.

That incessant buzzing hadn't stopped once in the past many minutes, pulling that fragile string tighter, tighter, and fucking tighter.

You'd survived the past two and a half hours of denial, relying on that armor of swears and insults. But it could only handle so much. You could only handle so much.

You realized now that you were laid bare, and the wolf in front of you was drooling at the maw as he took in your naked torso. At the exposed belly of the little rabbit he desired to ravish.

For a second, you froze, taking in your wicked fiancée. The way his irises seemed to glow red, his very presence emanating the sadistic glee at your struggle…

The whites of your eyes showed as you beheld your ravenous predator before you, and then you thrashed. Finally, finally that prey subconscious kicked in. Testing the integrity of the red silk that held you spread wide open for your dashing, torturing hunter, you tried curling in on yourself. Elbows flaring and thighs begging to close to hide your displayed abdomen and chest if only to protect yourself from the beast in front of you.

All the while Sukuna Ryomen's smile grew, showing his fangs and canines as you broke. Shattered.

Into a million pieces he would eagerly clean with his tongue.

"Fuck—Sukuna, please. Please!" Your arms tugged at the rope again, shoulders and triceps sore from the constant state of tension it remained in as tears streaked down the familiar path your cheeks, wetting the dried trail that had been there since the moment you woke up on this bed.

"Oh?" He was everything but shocked, but his chuckle grated against your ears and you sobbed once more, your throat bobbing with the pathetic sounds that followed. "So she finally begs."

You were so close. So damn close to ecstasy that you didn't bristle at his mockery, instead now focusing on switching methods and pleading for mercy.

"I want-" A hiccup, then the shake of your head to move the curl of hair that found its way to your face. "I w-wanna cum. Please, 'Kuna. P-Please!"

His sharp eyes gnawed at you—at the once thick metaphorical rope now grains away from snapping entirely and bringing your unsteady waters to peace.

You welcomed it—craved it. You wanted it gone, that growing itch deep within your core that you were so close to getting rid of. You wanted it gone.

"Beg me more." Each syllable was drawn out, his eloquence leaving no room for misunderstanding as you opened your tear laden eyes and set them upon his grinning expression. Cocky mother fucker.

But you couldn’t argue. It was futile. It always had been. From the second he started this game.

Your body bowed once more as you gave in entirely—a physical representation of how you finally became submissive to your master.

"Please. Please, my love. I'm begging. I—I'll do anything. Anything! If I could j-just—“

“J-just—“ His mocking tone sliced through your pleas. One second he was sitting in that damn chair, and the next he was in front of you. His head tilted, the true essence of the reigning predator he was in that very movement.

His calloused hand grabbed at your jaw, his tight, rough grip keeping your gaze directed up towards him.

"Come now, bambi... you can do better than that." You whimpered when he jerked your face forward. When he bent down until your lips were a mere breath away. "Beg."

You didn't know how to beg more than you already had. You only let out a series of sobs and unintelligible slurred words as he took off that vibrator again, yanking you down to earth.

"Hm." Sukuna watched you with amused scrutiny as you tried finding your way back to shore after being dunked under the ocean surface once again. He couldn't help but let his hand wander, his finger trailing oh so delicately down your neck, from your jaw to the clavicle that jutted out. Round and round your breast until he was cupping it. You could only twitch and whine and moan when he squeezed, his thumb and forefinger pinching against your peaked nipple.

"I shouldn't be giving you anything tonight after the stunt you pulled today." He guided his hand lower and lower, down your curves and your heaving abdomen. "But I can't help that you looked so fucking delectable at that gala tonight. I wanted to drag you to a bathroom and rip your dress to shreds." Your thigh tensed when his palm skimmed up and down the expanse of your skin. Over the ridges of looped silk that dimpled your fat under their tension.

You couldn't help but whimper when he cupped your mound. Neither could you help your embarrassed flush when he pointed out how he barely even touched you and yet his entire palm was covered in your slick and arousal.

Fucking filthy, he said.

All because of you, you couldn't help but respond.

The man who was not a man only hummed in response. His fingers slid between your folds, middle finger catching against your clit before he gave it a swift flick.

"Ngh—"

"Quiet, pet." He gave a light smack, and you jerked against his hold. Against the hold of that damn red silk.

He smacked you again, only to soothe the ache by pressing two, thick digits against your pulsating hole.

"You do not cum until I say so." It wasn't a request. He didn't care if you nodded in submission. Obedience was expected.

Your walls stretched deliciously as he sunk in his middle and ring finger, and you let out a long moan, high pitched and barely audible from hours of use.

Sukuna tched, moving the hand on your jaw to shove the same exact fingers down your throat. "I said be quiet."

You held in your gag at how deep they went. As well as your moan at how deep his other fingers went.

His thrusts were slow. The horrible, terrible man before you making you feel every grind and scissor and push of his two fingers.

Three digits each.

Six in total.

All making your head feel woozy and clouded as if you had taken a sedative.

"Stay with me, little doe."

He picked up the pace, and your lashes fluttered shut. Two tears rolled down your cheeks, released from your lash line the second your lids closed.

Please, please, please let me cum.

How pathetic did you have to be to beg him in your mind if you weren't allowed to do it verbally.

Your fiance seemed to read your thoughts, and a smug smile grew on his face. His fingers fucked into you faster, his palm now grinding against your clit with every shove of his hand into your sweet, begging cunt.

You were close. Oh so fucking close that you couldn't hide your whines anymore. Your internalized begging became verbal once more, even if they were muffled against his fingers pressed down on your tongue.

You opened your eyes to meet his once again, every request and apology written in them like the stars in the night sky.

Close, close. You were so close. Please, please, please, ple—

"Come."

Just like that, you fell limp, the ropes and his grip on your face being the only things holding you up as your vision turned white and your body gave into its carnal desire.

You felt lightning skitter up your spine and along every single bone in your body as you finally caved, orgasming on his relentless fingers.

The still bedroom air was filled with lewd claps of his hand continuing to finger fuck your tight cunt and the stuttered gasps and moans of relief and pleasure and ecstasy.

Finally. Finally.

His hand slowed, and you felt him pulling something out of your walls as he withdrew his hand from your throat.

A strong, albeit wet, palm cupped your cheek, and you stayed leaning against it with your eyes closed, catching your breath.

He let you, waiting as long as you needed to find your bearings before your lashes fluttered open, a tired—yet satisfied—emotion rolling beneath your rich irises.

Sukuna met yours with a cocky—and proud—look of his own. There was a tense moment of silence, before—

"Truly a shame I couldn't properly rip your dress off you tonight."

Your breathy chuckles told him all he needed to know. He'd have another chance, and you'd let him have his fun soon.

Very soon.

dividers from @/cafekitsune

[readychilledwine]

can we have rhysand with an emotional reader again? maybe meetings made her feel unsupported

A Heavy Burden

Summary - After a long day of tense negotiations, Rhysand finds his wife wondering if this all was worth it.

Warnings - mental health, implied misunderstanding and communication, implied Azriel was illiterate fan theory, slight misogynistic thing when you consider the places reader was dealing with

A/n - Slowly but surely, you all are about to see the mass amount of things I have queued from old and new requests. All almost 48 and counting of them 🫠 2025 goals include getting better at getting to what is sent to me faster, along with finding a better system for requests so I'm maybe only working with 5 at a time instead of pressuring myself to put out requests instantly.

✨️Rhysand Masterlist✨️Master Masterlist✨️

The clanging of your crown in the marbled floor was the first thing that caught Rhysand's attention. The second was you sitting on the balcony in your dress, in the middle of a cold night, just being still. Today had been, for a lack of better terms, a nightmare. 

Your proposal for remodeling the Illyrian camps had been met with conflict and comments regarding if you truly had power.

Your proposal for creating a shelter system for females and children in Hewn City was met with questions of your status and abilities.

Your family dinner at home hadn't even been safe from remarks from the Inner Circle that he knew had you questioning how they saw you.

He shouldn't have been surprised by you doing this by tossing the symbol of your power aside like it was nothing. Your ideas were frequently met with debate, tension, and sometimes, his advisors screaming like children at each other. As a test, you once had him present the idea you had for it. It had been met with excitment until the passing of the paprrs was signed and stamped by you.

You had a habit of smiling in the face of adversity. Taking a gentle approach instead of using the authority he had given you. You had become the kindness to his image of cruelty. A match many felt was odd but truly made by the Cauldron for balance. You shouldered it all well, but even you, his strong wife, had a breaking point. 

Rhys moved with near silence to you, lowering himself behind you and knowing it was serious this time when you didn't make a joke over his knees popping. “Talk to me,” he murmured as he pulled you to him, wings appearing to wrap around you as if they were a shield.

You only sighed, chin resting on your knees, “I feel insufficient. I feel like no one believes in me. I feel like I'm just here as a glorified placeholder.”

Rhysand hummed, kissing the skin of your bare shoulder, “What about today do you feel made you feel that way?”

“How everything I purposed for the two areas begging the most for change was met. Illyria acknowledges that the camps are rundown. I purpose a cycle of upgrades, funded by us, by the way, that would allow the camps to be safer, warmer, and have more resources. I am told I don't understand Illyrians and what the camps need despite my plans being based on the needs given to Cassian and I.”

You took a breath, eyes shutting to relax and fight tears before continuing. “When we then spend the second portion of our day in Hewn City. I am addressing the so-called concern for female and children resources. It is meant with your uncle screaming at a more forward moving male that I'm powerless. I have no clue what females need, which is odd since I am one. Then, lastly, my proposals do not matter.”

Rhys nodded, nose buried in your hair to calm himself at the memory of everything, “Then we come home and instead of being met with support-”

“Our family tells me I need to take my heart out of things and start acting like a ruthless High Lord and stop offering mercy. That that is the only way fae will ever actually respect me."

“Thus attacking your character when you were already in a fragile state and needing support instead of, well, we will call it constructive criticism, though, I know it did not feel that way.” His voice was soft in your ear, offering that comfort you had been seeking.  “And, y/n, your heart does not need to be taken out of the conversation. Your heart is why I pursued you. It's why we are married. Why I didn't care a mating bond had landed into place yet. Your heart chose me. It is precious to me. It belongs in the decisions we, as High Lord and Lady, make.”

Another soft kiss was placed on your shoulder. Then the nape of your neck, pressing in  as if he could make every nerve in your body calm down with just the strength of his love. “I will handle Azriel and Amren,” he assured you. “Though, I do suspect Azriel realized his comment came across much harsher than intended.”

You couldn't help but roll your eyes, “He's 538 years old. He's been with you all and consistently speaking and socializing for over 525 years. He shouldn't continue to be coddled for his childhood illiteracy and lack of social understanding, especially when we hold a barely 21 year old Feyre to higher standards.”

You felt his shift, the deep sigh as his forehead touched the back of your neck, “He doesn't mean to be harsh with you. Please consider what he does for a living, who he is normally dealing with.”

You nodded, “But he also needs to consider time and place then.”

“He knows, trust me.” You did chuckle at that, knowing your husband was more than likely being yelled at for access to you. His calloused hand moved into the dip of your dress, stopping once it rested over your heartbeat. “This is the most beautiful thing in my world. The most important thing.” He subconsciously synced his breathing to yours, only content once the two of you were in harmony. “I know a heart can be a heavy burden, darling. I know it seems easier to shut it out right now. I know it feels like you should become more cold. I know you're hurting.”

The tears began then. Your thumb moving to wipe them away, “I just feel wearing my heart on my sleeve is counterproductive to what the Court needs-”

“The court needs more of it, actually,” he immediately stopped you, knowing where this was going. “The court as a whole needs more care and heart, Y/n. Change begins when one person cares enough to push for it, and even the smallest stone will make ripples. You have inspired me to take better control of Illyria and Hewn City. You have inspired countless in Velaris to work to help the Court's lower income families. You have inspired my heart, my darling.”

He pulled you impossibly closer, “Be glad of your big heart, y/n. Pity those who don't feel anything at all." One last soft kiss touched the back of your neck. “Come bathe with me. Let's wash today away.”

The idea had your body already relaxing as he stood, knees popping again. “Old ass male.” And there it was. A sign of you. A sign you would be okay. A sign you would fight.

“Cruel little thing,” he purred back. “Mocking my war injuries.” He pulled you up before a tendril of darkness and starlight handed him your crown. “Put this back on. You dropped it.”

[eroselless]

───────── wait for me // down to the riptide

summary: even divine favor can't save him from the price of doubt. [5.9k]

[charles leclerc x reader]

Greek!AU, orpheus and eurydice

dttr masterlist

warnings: smut, cumplay, cowgirl, death, description of death, religious/theological references (its a greek mythology story)

note: *throws fic, runs away* hehe, see you guys laterrr, bai :)

Charles had always been told he had been touched by the gods. The first time he’d sat down and brushed his fingers delicately a lyre, the melody flowed so effortlessly that even Apollo’s priests began to whisper among each other, wondering how a mortal could possess such a diving talent, one that could even challenge their god. 

Whenever he played, the air around him would still. Animals gathered and the restlessness of his fellow men would quiet. Kings sought him out for their courts, poets would beg to set their words to his melodies and aristocrats would pay millions for even a minute to hear him.

But he never cared for that, not really. Not until he laid his eyes on you. 

You were beautiful in the way soft things were beautiful: delicate but with a strength that made Charles ache just to look at you. It was as if you carried Aphrodite’s beauty in your smile, the way you seemed to light every room with your presence.You were the kind of woman that was written about, craved and yearned for. 

You were the daughter born of a high-born family, promised to Lord Damian an older man your parents had meticulously chosen for you. Wealthy and proud, his status was rivalled only by his towering ego. Your status paired with your beauty made you untouchable, promised to a man of power and ambition Though you were worlds apart, at every banquet, every court gathering you’d find your eyes lingering on Charles for just a moment too long. He would meet your eyes as he would expertly pluck at the strings of his instrument. Your eyes would be half-lidded, chin resting on your hand as if you were hypothesized. And Charles? He could feel your eyes like the warmth of the sun. It wasn’t something he could ignore, even if he wanted to. 

Your first meeting was almost accidental. You’d find him on a marble bench in the gardens late at night, taking refuge from the ongoing party, playing softly to himself under the light of the moon. Most of the guests were still enjoying the lavish reunion, conjuring the spirit of Dionysus in their wines and dancing.

You watched him momentarily from the shadows, admiring how the light flowed around him, as if the gods were watching him at that very moment. Your silk down brushed the hedge, catching on the little branches as you hesitated. 

“You play beautifully,” you call out, stepping into the moonlight. 

Charles looked up, startled momentarily, fingers faltering on the strings. For a moment, all he could do was stare. Having you so close and all to himself, he gave into the temptation. You were luminous, hair catching the silver glow of the moon only made the red carnation tucked behind your ear stand out more.  For the first time, he truly understood why the poets spoke of mortals shining brighter than stars. 

“Thank you,” he replied, his voice quiet but steady. “I didn’t realize I had an audience.”

“Would you mind if I stayed?” you asked, your voice coming out in a shy whisper. “Just for a little while.”

Charles should’ve said no. He should have packed up his lyre and left, putting distance between himself and the tragedy that was only waiting to happen. But he didn’t. He nodded, returning to a melody he’d never played before, inspired by the way you watched and the way you seemed to glow as he played on. 

Over time, you inched closer, asking him questions about himself long into the night. You sat among the stars, giggling together. He’d even placed his lyre into your hands, instructing you how to play as gently as he could. 

“I don’t think I should be here anymore,” you whisper suddenly. Your voice is low, something he can’t quite recognize dripping from it. He could see your eyes drooping, just as they did whenever he played his lyre. It was a look you saved just for him—a gaze that sent shivers down his spine and, now that you were so close, stirred a deep, undeniable heat within him. You were sitting face to face, now seated in the grass instead of the bench you’d been on at the beginning of the night. 

“Then why are you still?” he murmured back, his voice low, his lips close were enough to brush against your temple. 

“I don’t know,” you say, feeling yourself lean closer to him. 

He meets you half-way, his lips pressing against yours hesitantly. He thinks he can feel your mirrored hesitance, almost waiting for him to pull away. There’s a flutter in his belly that erupts in waves as you tangle your fingers in his hair, pulling him ever closer. You’ve risen up on your knees, moving into the space between his outstretched legs. His hands caress your back, bringing your chest to his, your breast firmly pressed up against him. He licks into your mouth to glide his tongue over yours, a silent confession of how long he’s been fantasizing about this moment—since the very first time he laid eyes on you. You carried the subtle sweetness of the wine you’d been sipping all evening, while he tasted of something richer, almost intoxicating—a flavor you knew you could never tire of. His hand slips up your torso, sliding over the hills of your breast before finding home at the base of your neck. It stays there, not squeezing but almost as if to memorize the feeling of your skin under his fingers. 

You settle into his lap now, hips gently beginning to rock against his. As your hands fall down to his chest, you can almost hear Eros whispering in your ear, enticing you to give into the feeling that was burning between the two of you, to slip your hand under his tunic or to bring his hand under yours. 

It’s distant, but you hear your name called from beyond the hedge, the voice oblivious to the predicament you’re in. You agonizingly pull away from Charles, staying silent, hoping they’ll move on, but instead, they call out for you again, louder this time.

You sigh, pressing a light kiss to Charles’s lips again before telling him to meet you after the next banquet. Charles nods, blinking as if he’d been pulled out of a dream. He watches as you flatten your gown before giving him a shy wave and disappearing behind the hedges. 

It wasn’t long before you’d see him again, the excuses flowing like water. You would meet with Charles again under the protection of the night, Nyx watching overhead. You’d sneak away from the feasts just as you did that first night, everyone at court whispering how you’d simply tired of Damian’s company. No one suspected where you went instead—slipping through the darkened halls and shadowed gardens to wherever Charles was.

☾ ⋆・゚:⋆・゚

“Oh how the gods have smiled upon us,” he says one night. He has you in his arms, your gown pooled in your lap. It doesn’t stay there, his hands impatiently pulling the scrunched piece of fabric from your frame. He drags his lips down your neck while his hands are anchored on your hips, shifting them gently on his cock. 

You can only muster a weak hum, quietly agreeing with him. You’re shaking a little, your legs exhausted from the effort you’ve been putting in all night. It is almost overwhelming how deliciously he’s pressed to your walls. His moves have been small and gentle tonight, yet he could feel as your walls would tremble with every little push. Your head lulls back, hands anchored to his shoulders, opening up your chest and he can’t help but smile as he sees your chest heaving. 

He kisses at the flesh of your exposed skin, tongue licking long stripes down to your breasts, eventually pulling a pebbled nipple into his mouth. He relishes at the sound of your voice and how it whines at the feeling of his tongue swirling over the sensitive bud. It makes you arch your back slightly, shifting him inside you. 

“Please,” you implore, eyes squeezing shut, begging him to do something, anything to ease the delectable ache he was causing between your legs. Charles sweetly presses his lips against the column of your neck, tilting your face back towards him. “T'es tellement belle comme ça, mon coeur,” he says warmly. No matter how many times he saw you like this, completely bare, he always had a way of turning you into a giggling mess whenever he spoke to you in French. There’s a flutter in your chest that pulls a laugh from your lips that slowly turns into a moan as he pushes you upward before dragging you back down.

He pushes his nose against yours, chasing your lips as he leans back in the bed and pushes up into your. His arm wraps around your waist to hold you steady as he pounds into you. Yesyesyes. You can feel your release nearing. There’s a flash of heat throughout your body as you feel it, a loud groan falling from your lips. Charles keeps pushing his hips, trembling as he pulls out, reaching for his cock. With one stroke, he spills onto you, painting your navel and chest in white. You’re heaving, the sounds of his moans making your center warm up again. 

You slump down to the bed together as he drags his finger through his spend that is pooled on your skin. You eye him, tongue poking out to lick your lips before taking the finger into your mouth as you giggle. He gives you a smirk before reaching for something to clean you up.

Once you’re relatively clean, he joins you back in bed, pulling your body on top of his. Your head rested in his chest, your fingers tracing lazy patterns over his skin. His arm is wrapped around your shoulders, his own fingers smoothing over your bare shoulder as he stared up at the ceiling. The high is dissipating, the silence makes you feel safe, cocooned in each other. You stay quiet for a while, not sure how much time passes before he speaks. 

“What’re you thinking about?” He murmurs, voice heavy with the oncoming wave of tiredness. His other hand comes up to brush a stray strand of hair from your face. You tilt your head slowly to look up at him, lips curving into a soft smile. “You were right, it is as if the gods have smiled on us and allowed us this night.” Your voice is soft, as if you didn’t want the gods to hear. 

Charles chuckles, the sound rumbling in his chest. “Yet I’m worried that it's a dream that could fade with the rise of the sun,”

“If it is a dream, then let me never wake.” He says, burrowing into the bed. You reach up at his response to trace the lines of his face—his strong jaw, the lips that you were so addicted to. 

“I could spend an eternity like this,” your voice cracks a little as the voice falls from your lips. “I can’t bear the thought of a life apart.” 

He blinks slowly, eyes filling with tears as he looks at you. “There’s no distance I would not travel, no risk I would not take if it meant keeping you.” 

Your throat feels tight as he says this, tears threatening to fall from your eyes now, hot and unbidden. He presses his nose to your cheek, pressing his lips there as his thumb brushes away a stray tear that has slipped down. “I love you,” he says, voice low with his confession.

Your chest feels tight as you shudder, tears cascading down your cheeks. “I have loved you since the very first moment you looked at me and saw not just a lowly musician but a man.” You smile as you let his words sink in. You kiss him, slowly and deeply, almost cradling his face in your hand. It was as if you were trying to imbue in your kiss what words could not. “And I love you,”

Your fingers gripped onto his as you pressed your forehead to his. “What if we left this place?” You ask. “We can run away to somewhere that no one will find us and live out the rest of our days the way we want to.”

Charles stills, his brow furrowing as he searched your face. “Damian will not let you go,” he puzzles, his voice heavy with foreboding. “He won’t accept this rejection, he won't let you slip away.” 

“He doesn’t need to know,” you reply swiftly, your eyes burning with determination. “We can vanish without a trace. He will wake to an empty house, and by the time he realizes we’re gone, we’ll be halfway to the ends of the earth.”

Charles closed his eyes, his jaw tightening. “It’s not that simple. He is a man who sees defiance as an insult, and insults must be repaid. Even if he doesn’t find us, he’ll punish others in your place—think of yours. He’ll ruin them to make an example.”

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t back down. “And if I stay, what then?” you ask, your voice sharp with desperation. “What becomes of me? A prisoner in a marriage I did not choose, chained to a life I cannot bear? I will wither, Charles. I will fade until there is nothing left.”

“Please don’t ask me to stay,” you beg, your hand gripping his. “Don’t ask me to trade my soul for his pride. We can escape him, Charles. We can outrun the chains he would place around us.”

“And if he catches us?” Charles asks, his voice trembling with the weight of the question. “What then? What price would you pay for this freedom?”

“I would pay any price,” you whisper. “Because freedom with you, even for a day, would be worth a lifetime in his shadow.”

He stared at you, torn between hope and fear. Slowly, he pulled you close once again, pressing his forehead to yours. “You are braver than I will ever be,” he murmured. “And more reckless.”

“Then be brave with me,” you whisper, a shake in your voice. “Be reckless with me, Charles. I love you. And I will not let him take that from me.”

His breath caught, and for a moment, he simply looked at you, his hand brushing your cheek as though committing your face to memory. “I love you,” he says at last, his voice breaking. “I love you more than I ever thought I could love anything.”

“Then let’s leave,” you declare, your  eyes burning with more unshed tears. “Together.”

Charles Presses himself to you once again, arms pulling you as close as he could. When he pulls apart, his hands linger on your face, his touch soft but steady. “The next full moon,” he said finally. “We’ll go. No one will stop us.”

“No one will find us,” you correct him, a small smile breaking through your tears. “And if they do, it will already be too late.”

“Together,” he said, his voice resolute.

“Together,” you echoed, your hand curling against his chest.

The weeks go by quickly. You disappear into the night, leaving Damian to ruminate in his study. He could see you weren’t tired, something in your eyes giving it away. “She’s hiding something,” He says one day, tone as cold as the marble floors beneath his feet. Lysander stands at the foot of his desk, the servant waiting for his master to give him the orders. 

“My fiancé disappears far too often to my liking. Follow her. Watch her. And when you’ve discovered what she’s been up to, you report back to me.”

Lysander bows. “Yes, my Lord.”

It only takes a few days for Lysander to catch you. He watches you from a distance, careful not to draw attention to himself. Your movements start mostly harmless—spending hours in the gardens, wandering through the halls and finally, like clockwork every night returning to your chambers early. 

It's not until one evening that he catches you leaving your room, through the abandoned guest wing of the manor. He follows you as quietly as he can, heart thumping wildly in his chest every time he follows too closely. You arrive at a secluded area in the woods, a small cabin nestled among the trees. 

It's there when he sees him. He can see through the window as you meet Charles in a kiss, hands tangling in his hair. He can see how you hold each other as if you’re each other’s lifelines, desperate to keep afloat. He watches as you writhe under Charles’s touch, a passion igniting between you two that he hasn’t even glimpsed at between you and his Lord. It makes Lysander avert his eyes, feeling disgust as he waits in his spot. 

He doesn’t leave. Lord Damian’s orders were clear and Lysander’s curiosity was stronger than his discomfort. He lingered in the shadows, watching as Charles loses himself between your thighs and how you toss your head back with a lust filled look on your face. He can hear as you call out for Charles, and how easily the iloveyous are exchanged between you.His stomach churns with unease, he wants to leave. But he could not come back empty handed, Damian would not tolerate it. 

Soon the space quiets and he dares look in through the window. You're draped over Charles’s chest, Hypnos’s touch making you hazy. Your voices are soft as you speak and Lysander can hear every word.  

“Just a few more days,” you whisper into Charles’s skin. “The moon is just about full and we leave all of this behind.”

Charles’s fingers cart through your hair, pressing a kiss to your hairline. “Are you still sure?” he asks, his voice low. “Once we leave, there’s no going back.”

“I’ve never been more sure about anything,” you reply, voice steady. ““He can have the titles, the wealth, all of it. I want none of it. I only want you.”

Lysander’s breath catches in his throat, his fingers twisting the fabric of his tunic. This was much more than just an affair—it was treason. He backed away slowly, careful not to make a sound as he retreated from the light of the cabin. 

His hands shake as he stands before Damian, recounting everything he’d seen. Damian’s eyes darken at every word, lip stiffening and knuckled whitening as he grips the edge of his desk. “The little bird thinks she can fly away.” he muses, his eyes drifting toward the open window overlooking the woods. A sly sneer curls his lips.“But I don’t think so.”

☾ ⋆・゚:⋆・

You’re breathless as you arrive at the clearing, cloak pulled tightly around you. You carry a satchel over your shoulder, some supplies from the garden and little things you could take from home that wouldn’t be missed. Charles is waiting for you at the edge of the forest, an almost identical satchel around hung on his shoulder. 

“Are you ready?” he asks, his voice laced with urgency. His hand holds the back of your neck, tilting your face to look up at him. 

You nod. “I don’t care where we go, as long as I’m with you.”

There’s a silent adrenaline in Charles’s chest just waiting to ignite as you begin making your journey through the woods. A feeling he can’t quite shake pools in his gut, but he doesn’t know what it is. The sun has long been gone and you’re guided by the light of the moon. It’s quiet as you walk, both of you too nervous to say anything quite yet, as if any word could break you from this dream that was slowly becoming reality. 

The pit in his stomach only grows the further you walk. He doesn’t regret this, neither do you. But it is as if Fortuna has turned her back on you tonight. 

It happens in seconds, the sound of horses and shouts coming from behind you. Lord Damian. 

“RUN.” Charles urges you, tugging you deep into the forest. Caution is thrown into the wind as you run. That adrenaline is now raging in your chests. You turn into a field, the grass shrubbery as high as your knees as you run to reach the other side where you could lose Damian in the trees. You’re exposed to the air, a clear view of you from where Damian calls for you. You can hear him as he shouts. 

“My little bird, you’ve disgraced our union with your actions. It’s time to return—we’ll marry at first light, before your reputation is further stained. In time, I may find it in my heart to forgive you.”

The words send shivers down your spine. What would he do to you if he caught you? What would he do to Charles?

You’re almost to the trees when you feel your gown catch on a shrubbery, halting your run completely. You pull it away and take a few steps, only to be yanked back, caught on the branches of a fallen tree. There’s panic in your voices as you call for Charles, tugging at it desperately. You can’t think straight. Charles pulls at your gown, trying to set it free. Damian’s creeping up slowly on his house, watching you as you struggle. He’s taunting you. 

You almost don’t feel it—the sudden, sharp sting on your ankle, like a thorn pricking your skin. But then comes the second bite, a searing pain that shoots up your leg. You gasp, Charles finally pulling your gown for the branch. You watch as a viper slithers away, hissing as it disappears from your sight. 

Charles urges you again to keep running, not yet noticing the limp in your step or the blood that's begun seeping from your leg. “Charles,” you whimper as you feel your vision begin to blur. “We’re almost there,” Charles promised, his voice low but urgent. 

You’re so close to the tree line but the world spins around you as you meet his eyes. “A snake, Cha,” you gasp, your chest feeling tight. He drops to his knees next to you, hands cradling your face. His eyes wander down, finally catching the wound. There’s a terror in his eyes, an expression you’ve never seen before. You try to pull yourself up, to stand, to run with him into the trees. If you could only just make it to the trees. But you can’t. There’s a fire burning through your limps, a newfound heaviness. The trees in front of you blur into one as your vision slipped away. 

You can hear Charles pleading with you as your vision goes out. You can feel him crying over you begging you to stay. Don’t go where I can’t follow.

You try to speak, to tell him you were still there but your throat wouldn’t form the words. Gods, no. I love him. But you can’t, Thanatos is already pulling you away. 

Charles feels his heart rip from his chest as he sees the light in your eyes go out. How cruel the gods were to grant you this one chance, only to take it from you in the blink of an eye. He can feel your warmth begin to fade as his shaking hands brush your hair from your face. You’re gone but he can’t help but plead with you over and over again. 

He can almost see the shadows that grow longer over him, Damian and his men drawing close. He had to move—had to escape. But how could he leave you here, alone in the dark?

He lowers you to the ground, closing your eyes as he settles you there. You looked peaceful, so heartbreakingly beautiful. He lingered for a second, fingers reaching into his satchel to pull out a single red carnation. He’d planned to ask you to marry him that day. Now he can only give it to you here as you lie. 

He presses the flower to his lips, tears falling onto the petals before tucking it behind your ear. 

“I’ll come back for you,” he whispers, his voice raw. “I swear it. This isn’t the end.”

The sound of Damian’s men grew louder, their shouts drawing nearer. Charles stood, his fists clenched, his breath coming in shallow gasps. He kisses your forehead one last time, turning and disappearing into the forest.

☾ ⋆・゚:⋆・

Charles wanders the woods aimlessly for days, his guilt weighing heavy on his chest as runs. He’s not sure where his feet are taking him—the only thing he knew was there he couldn’t let Damian’s men find him. There’s a faint pounding in his head as his breath comes in ragged gasps, legs burning as he pushes himself forward. He heaves as he ducks into an empty cavern, almost collapsing onto the ground. Tears begin to fill his eyes as catches his breath, mind filling with thoughts of you. Your face is burned into his mind, your smile, your laugh, the way you had once looked at him. And now, you are gone. 

He pulls out his lyre, wincing as he stretches to pull it from its spot slung on his shoulder. His fingers tremble as they find their home on the strings.

The first few notes are soft, trembling like the tears that streak his face. He plays, the gentle melody rising into the air like a prayer. It’s raw, unfiltered, a song born of grief, desperation and loss. The air around him seems to stop, the wind stilling, trees freezing in place. Even the stars he sits under seem to listen to him, weeping with him. 

He’s bathed in silver light that falls from the skies, slowly coalescing into two figures. One is dark and towering, his shadow stretching over the ground like an imposing shroud. The other is radiant, her eyes filling with immense kindness and sorrow. 

The woman calls his name, halting his playing. He’s never seen her before but he knows her name, Persephone, queen of the underworld. His voice is soft as her words gently echo through the air. “Your song has reached even the depths of my realm.”

“You mourn deeply,” observes Hades, his voice a deep, resonant growl. “Few mortals would dare to love so fiercely.”

Charles drops to his knees, clutching his lyre tightly as he does. “Please,” he begs, his voice broken and weak. “If my music has touched even the gods, I only ask one thing. Let me bring her back, I’ll do anything.”

Persephone tilts her head, studying him with endless, violet eyes. “You would risk everything for her?”

“Yes,” he says without hesitation, his voice now steady despite the tears in his eyes. “I would give my life if it meant hers could be returned.

Hades steps forward, his presence looming. “We are not so generous as to grant such a request freely,” he begins. “But your devotion… it is rare. We will grant you a chance.”

Charles’s breath catches, hope flickering to life in his chest. “What must I do?”

“You will descend to the underworld,” Persephone instructs. “There, you may plead your case for her soul. But beware, mortal. The path is perilous, and the rules are absolute.”

“If she is to follow you back,” Hades continues, his tone dark and heavy, “you must not look back at her until you both have reached the surface. Should you falter—should you give in to doubt—she will be lost to you forever.”

For you, Charles would face anything. 

☾ ⋆・゚:⋆

The path is dark, just as the goddess had promised. Charles stumbles as he enters the cavernous opening in the earth, like the mouth of a beast preparing to devour him. The air seeped out, heavy and damp, cold as it carried disembodied voices. 

The descent was steep, the darkness growing around him, growing thicker with every step. His feet carry him over a winding path of jagged stone but soon there is nothing but smooth obsidian beneath him, slick and unforgiving. His shoes slip on the stone, sliding further into the darkness. He loses himself, focusing only on the path in front of him. He can only think of you, the only thing that pushes him forward. 

His first arrives at the River Styx, the waters swirling endlessly before him. Charon, the ferryman, waits there for him. His hollow eyes watch Charles with disdain, disgusted as he sees the very alive man pleading with him. 

“I have nothing to offer you,” Charles admits, his voice hoarse. He’s thirsty but his fingers dance softly on the chords of his lyre. The notes are rich, weaving a melody of loss and longing. Charon pauses, his skeletal fingers curling back as he listens to the man. 

The ferryman’s expression softens the slightest bit and with a slow nod, he gestures for Charles to board his boat. It rocks under his weight, the journey across the waters eerily quiet, except for the steady splash of Charon’s oar. When they reach the other side, Charles slowly steps out, turning back only to bow deeply to the ferryman in thanks. 

The path takes him to the Fields of Asphodel, where he sees how the dead wander in eternal monotony. Their eyes are sunken and blank, their forms just a little more than shadows of what they had been in life. As Charles passed, many began to stir, drawing to the scuffing of his steps. 

“Play for us,” they whisper, their voice dry like the leaves of fall rustling in the wind. “Play for us and you will pass safely.” 

Though it makes Charles’s heart jump in his chest, he stops to bring the lyre up higher to play. He plays the only tune that comes to his head, the one he had played for you the night you had kissed for the first time. It begins soft as it did before, only growing sadder and he remembers why he’s playing it in the first place. The souls gather around him, their movements slow as they listen. Many weep at the song, their shadows trembling as the last note fades into the dark air. Slowly they part, allowing him to continue. 

It is not long after that that he reaches the palace of the king under the earth. Hades and Persephone wait for him, their thrones looming above him at the end of the hall. The queen looks down at him with sympathy in her eyes contrasted by her husband’s cold and unreadable gaze. 

“You have come far, mortal,” Persephone tells him, her voice soft. “And your music has touched even the dead.”

Hades leans forward, his tone as sharp as the edge of a blade. “We will grant you what you seek. She may return to the world above. But you must remember the condition: you must not look back at her until you both have reached the light of day. Should you fail, she will suffer in the fields of punishment for both of your treacheries.”

“I understand,” Charles said, his voice steady though his heart raced.

You appear just as he turns back toward the path. He hears you call his name, the warning ringing in his mind, don’t turn back. His eyes fill with tears as he feels you press your head to his face, the fabric of his tattered tunic wetting with your tears. Your fingers wrap around his wrist gently as if to tell him, I’m here. 

“I’ll follow where you lead,” you whisper. “Take me home.”

Your ascend begins, each step growing heavier than the other. The patter sounds like a faint drumming that pounds as the terrain changes and changes. Their soft scuffle of your sandals is the only sign Charles knows you’re there. But it doesn’t keep the doubts from slipping into his mind. Is this truly there? Have the gods tricked him?

You eventually reach the obsidian path, the final stretch, Charles thinks. You climb, higher and higher, Charles stopping every now and then to listen for you. 

“It’s ok,” you remind him. “I’m coming.” Though it reassures him momentarily, it soon disappears and he has to stop again. The whispers of the underground grew louder as the light at the top of the tunnel grew larger. They swirled around him, each word needling into his mind. She’s not there. You’re wasting your time. You failed her once already, why would they give her back?

His breath quickens as he doesn’t hear your steps, calling out your name. “I’m coming, I’m coming. Wait for me.” you huff and now he can hear you and your slow steps. You trudge on. His heart screamed at him to look back, even just for a moment, just to be sure. But he doesn’t, he knows he mustn't. 

The light is just ahead now, so close Charles can feel the warmth of the sun. But the silence has returned, making his chest tighten in his chest. His breath came in shallow gasps, it was too much. The urge to turn, it consumed him. He finally turns, his body trembling with the effort to resist, as if there was something begging him not to look back. He calls your name as he does, seeing you just a few feet away. 

You were there, alive and just as radiant than the moment he lost you. For a moment your eyes brighten as you meet them, but it doesn’t last long. 

The shadows surround you, wrapping around your legs and torso. 

“Charles, no!” you cry out, your eyes filling with tears. You try to push your legs to walk but with no avail, the shadows holding you in place. Your hand reaches out for his, desperate as they brush the air between you. He takes off in a sprint, lunging towards you. 

He sees the terror in your face as if to say don’t let them take me as the shadows begin to close around your face. It is the expression he saw in the moment just beyond the treeline. And he can’t bear the twisting feeling it creates in his gut. 

The last thing he sees are your eyes, tears steaming and evaporating into the shadows before there's a strong wind, pulling you away and pushing him out into the light. 

Charles awakens to the warmth of the sun as it caresses its cruel hand on his skin. It almost pains him as he opens his eyes and realizes where he’s laying. He sits up, seeing his lyre on the ground before him. Between the strings, there’s a carnation, its stem threaded there. He clutches his chest, gasping as he cries. “Gods, please!” he cries, fingers digging into the dirt beneath him. But there is no one there to hear him. 

☾ ⋆・゚:⋆

From then on, his music changes. People stop asking him to play at their parties, more asking for him to play at wakes or funerals. It still carries magic, and though people still stop and stare,  many say his songs are no longer for this world.  He plays for no one but you now, hoping the gods might take pity on him again. But they never do.

Index:

Apollo - God of the Sun, music, prophecy, healing, and the arts. Eros - Greek god of love, passion, and fertility. Hades - God of the Underworld and the dead, ruler of the realm of the departed. Persephone - Goddess of Spring and Queen of the Underworld. Daughter of Demeter. Dionysus - God of wine, revelry, and ecstasy. Thanatos - Personification of Death. Often depicted as a gentle, peaceful figure who guides souls to the afterlife rather than a force of violence or terror. Nyx- Primordial Goddess of the Night.

a/n: i genuinely have no idea how i got to almost 6k words but if you're here, I wanna say thank you so much for reading. Any feedback and reblogs are greatly appreciated :)

[grand-theft-carbohydrates]

i literally spend at least 2 hours a week just looking at various pictures of the terracotta army. utterly entranced. look at the details in the hair. you'd never see ANY of this when they're lined up in formation, but they're there.  

theres about 8000 of these guys down there, no two faces are alike. they're works of art. they're the manifestation of a cruel despot's delusions of grandeur. a talisman against the terrible inevitability of death, both pathetic and strangely pitiful. like watching a child clinging to his blanket, begging you not to turn off the light. they were a bunch of insignificant clay statues from a side chamber that was so small and unremarkable, no one bothered to write down the location. they were modelled after real people. their only purpose was to serve qin shi huang in the afterlife, so he could reign in heaven as he did on earth. now the emperor is just a ghost and his pawns are immortal. my dad and i visited them in the dead of winter, on a weekday, just so we wouldn't have to deal with tourists like us. the place had easily 500 people--not including the ones below ground. we traveled to xian via the old "green skin" diesel train. there are faster means, like highspeed rail but dad insisted i try the authentic way, the same way he would have traveled when he was my age it was also like, a quarter of the price but im sure that had nothing to do with it! back in the 80s carriages would get so packed people had to have their luggage passed in via the windows. as we chugged along, i read my book and my dad made us cup noodles. car is just a shortened version of "carriage", the word is the same but the mechanism is different. it's the same in chinese. i think if i told someone from the warring states period i could travel from the Kingdom of Qi to Qin in just four hours with my metal carriage, i'd be laughed out of town--or accused of being a spy and sentenced to 'death by carriage.' we hopped off the train at 4am and took a different "carriage." the taxi driver joked; "basically every dynasty put their capital in xian, stick a shovel anywhere and you'll turn up some national treasure or another." i wonder what it would have felt like to be a farmer digging a well and then out pops a remarkably realistic human head. statistical analysis show the soldier's faces bear a strong similarity to people living in the region today. the taxi stopped in front of a jewellery-hawking tourist trap and refused budge an inch until we went inside. did you know the terracotta soldiers were originally multi-coloured and painfully gaudy, just like the greek marbles? they were made assembly-line style. the arms and legs were made from the same workshops that made clay plumbing pipes and roof tiles. for quality control, the artisans were required to stamp their names. the workers who built these tombs were executed shortly afterwards, because only dead men can be trusted with secrets. qin shi huang's mausoleum is unlikely to be excavated in my father's lifetime, or mine, not unless i'm willing to take a BIG ONE for the team... instead of the tomb, they built some kind of qin shi huang-themed theme park next to it. not only was it tacky as hell the entrance fee was like $50. we went to the museum and i looked at bronze tools and pottery shards for three hours. look why can't we just crack the thing open i can't be the only one here whos dying from curiosity what if we all just took turns digging

[crybaby-bkg]

I loveee the concept of reincarnation bc it’s just so comforting!!!

oh to be reincarnated lovers with Bakugou where you find each other every life time and leave a memory of the other to find in the next lifetime. You see each other in a new lifetime, drawn to each other, swearing familiarity even though your minds disagree. But it’s something deeper within you that knows each other, misses the others embrace, and you can’t figure out why.

There’s a famous painting of someone who looks suspiciously like you made in the 1600s by some tortured artist, the muse a lover he had lost years before. There’s a statue that looks just like Bakugou from the 1800s, who everyone thought to be created after Apollo, but you beg to differ. There are letters found between two lovers, one gone off to war and the other at home, their exchange of love something poets discuss in contemporary times. Theres even skeletons found embracing each other, with one’s head tucked into the others neck.

And for some reason, every time, these figments of love appeal to you deeper than anyone else around you. They’re so familiar, and you think you might be going crazy when flashes of memories start to plague you.

Sitting in a darkly lit room, a slate of white marble in front of you, a point chisel in hand. There’s a blond man sitting behind the marble, with a sly grin, as your hands raise to start chipping away at its flawless perfection.

Sitting at home, writing away with a quilled pen to a lover you miss. Kissing the edge of the paper and pulling away to find it stained with red from your lips.

Laying in the soft grass, your face hidden in a strong neck as heavy winds start to take over you. Your arms entangled in another’s, tilting your face up to kiss a blond, stubbled jaw.

When Bakugou tells you he remembers the same things, you wonder if you’re both just on a bad trip from a drug you don’t remember taking. But you carve your names in tree trunks and wonder if you’ll find find it again hundreds of years later, if you’ll see him again, if you’ll create another piece of your unyielding love on every crevice of the earth.

[mediumgayitalian]

prev

———

For a moment there is absolutely nothing. No one moves, no one blinks, no one breathes. The rain stops, sunlight pouring slowly through the dusty room, but no one so much as twitches, cemented in position. Medusa could walk in and stare at them all and no difference would be made. There is nothing but the muffled chatter of the news program, and the sound of Will fracturing.

“—end of the rainy front! Nothing now but sunny days and warm fronts from the south, John, things are looking up —”

There is no sudden break where everyone jumps into movement, hovering over Will, clicking off the TV, running for Chiron. There is only silence. Silence, except the chirping of the birds from outside, hopping around for worms, and the upbeat chatter of the news anchor, and the rustle of Will’s shirt against his shorts as his entire body trembles.

“Will,” Nico says, except his voice is so hoarse he doesn’t say anything at all except a punched out exhale from his own chest.

In his head Nico stands. In his head he is calm, hands steady, voice clear, as he says let’s get to the hospital, as he guides him gently up, as he walks him out. In his head they make their way to Savannah General ask for Naomi’s room and find her recovering. In his head he handles things.

In reality Will makes a gaping, choking sound, like his organs have slithered up his throat and splattered on the floor. Like he has been flipped inverse. It is a sound like bone snapping, like scissors slicing, like thread unravelling fiber by fiber. He bends slowly over, until his knees touch his chest, until his hand-covered face hits the floor; he looks, startlingly, like the Algea, like the Statue of the Woman Grieving, hair curtaining his face, except for the speck of lint on the back of his shirt. A single little speck, that ruins the image. The Statue of the Woman Grieving, plus a speck. A chip.

“Mama,” he chokes out, and Nico flinches, a full, bodied thing.

Mama.

Ozone. Burning; burnt marble, burnt air, burnt flesh. Taste or pennies. Stale, frigid stillness.

Mama.

Father’s shimmering suit, quietly gaping mouth; Bianca’s wide, black eyes, blinking, blinking, blinking.

Mama.

Mama.

Mama.

Will makes the noise again, a horribly grinding groan, as a cry rips itself out of his chest, as air is yanked slowly through his vocal chords like the chain cranked around a tow truck. His eyes stay glued to the TV screen, hands fallen limp and open-palmed in front of him, turned to the heavens. His face is blank but the sounds don’t stop, they pour out of him, steady stream, rusted chain, beating heart. Nausea churns Nico’s stomach and saliva floods his mouth, like it did on the drive to the Lotus, when they passed a Nevadan slaughterhouse. Will sounds like he is being butchered.

“Mama,” he moans again, and this time there is a gag, this time someone jerks, out of the corner of his eye, darts out of the room. Retching echoes follows them, and then, quickly, clotting hooves, practiced and speedy. The doorframe creaks as someone hunches under it, walks through the threshold.

“…Children?” Children, children children; Mama, mamachildren, mothers, babies. “Will? What’s —”

The muscles in Nico’s body contract of their own accord, springing him forward. Upright. Diaphragm up, lungs in; out, inout. Quadriceps contract, release. Again.

“Will,” he tries, and this time it works. His tongue forms the word and it tumbles from his lips, bouncing off the floor, resting somewhere twisted in his hands. “Will, c’mon, I’m taking you to the hospital.”

Will doesn’t actually move. He doesn’t shift or stand. Nico doubts that he can. But he lets Nico manoeuvre him, and manages to put one foot in front of the other as Nico guides them, hand on the small of his back, across the room. Chiron moves back as they approach, and when Nico looks there is something in his eyes, something he has seen twice, now; dancing along the reflection of the pyre’s flame. A simmering kind of grief, a stilted, shut-off beg.

“Kayla,” Nico murmurs, pausing at the door, “Austin, c’mon.”

He doesn’t wait for them to move, but hears them, joints creaking along with the couch, footsteps even and robotic as a metronome following him down the hall, through the meeting room, over the porch. Across the common and to the ancient garage in the back, to the wet gleam of the van.

Will doesn’t make any more sounds.

They pile soundlessly into the van, Kayla and Austin crawling into the back seat, legs hooked at the ankle, fingers clenched until they’re bloodless. Nico settles against the threadbare driver’s seat and adjusts the rearview before he realizes that Will hasn’t moved; stands rigid, hands twitching in front of him, one shoe sliding slowly into a mud puddle.

Nico climbs nimbly across the dash, pushing the passenger door open and staring, for a moment, at Will. His mouth moves, ever so slightly, but the blankness hasn’t shifted from his face, and staring into his eyes makes Nico feel like he’s small in the dead centre of the Grand Canyon. Like there is nothing for miles ahead of him but empty air and the memory of rushing water.

“C’mon,” he says quietly.

Will does not move. His shoe slips, slightly forward, and he jerks along without, knee slamming into the dented metal of the door. Kayla flinches.

Nico pushes the door open again and stretches out as far as his arms will let him, fingertips brushing Will’s knuckles. With a tug he has him stumbling forward, barely catching himself on the seat, twisting by memory alone to situate himself properly. His head dips, low, like a wind-up toy rattling to its end, like a marionette drooping from behind the final curtain. Austin untangles himself from the back, reaching over and stretching the seatbelt around his brother, clicking it into place. He holds his hand there, waiting a beat, before shifting it to rest over Will’s.

“We’ll figure it out,” he whispers. “I brought — some salves.”

Nico chokes back a sudden and violent sob. He is reminded, right then, that Austin is eleven years old. He is also reminded that Will was eleven, the first time he lost.

He peels down the hill fast enough the whole car jerks, and speeds onto the road.

———

next

[irisintheafterglow]

Hello, I have a request. So I have these lyrics brain rotting me and I just know you, with amazing writer skills, will be able to bring it to life. So, from The Prophecy, "Don't want money, just someone who wants my company" and like reader being lonely for a long time before meeting katsuki. I see reader as a very important part of the society, like not a hero, but more as a spy that can also fight (the Hero version of a fantasy assassin) And she is paired with Katsuki for a mission and he sees her in her true colours. Maybe a series? It's up to you, or course, but thank you for writing and being so talented and considering this request <33 Hope you have a great day!!

lowkey this request broke me in all the right ways omg...i love the prophecy so so so much it's so heartbreaking and definitely one of my favorites off ttpd <3 ty for your ask and all the love, hope you like this :)) so sorry that it took so long to get to and ty for your patience, i haven't had much time to write lately

cw: explicit language, implied fem!reader but no she/her pronouns (reader does wear heels), angst/fluff with happy ending, angry forced coworkers to lovers, bkg being lowkey mean but he's just psychoanalyzing you

you liked the sparkle, to a certain extent.

it was nice to pad around in designer satin, your name embroidered in gold thread on the back tag. you could appreciate the crushed velvet sofas in the living room of your high-rise penthouse, the walls covered in abstract art gifted to you by painters whose names you don't remember. your closet was larger than your university dorm and lined with enough expensive fabrics to start a hospital. everything about your lifestyle screamed luxury, yet even a marble bathtub couldn't provide much comfort when you came home at two in the morning to a cold, lifeless apartment. tragic.

bound by contract, you weren't allowed to live with civilian roommates, and pro heroes looking for places to rent were as scarce as dust left behind by your cleaning crew. you figured it was better that way, not needing to explain to your roommate why you're gone for weeks at a time on assignments and coming back with several broken ribs and a staggering sum of money. instead of friends, you had your job, however dangerous it became sometimes. you were good at playing a character (it's why you had your current job in the first place) and made it look like you weren't lonely, but you'd be lying if there weren't times you were just begging the sky to send you...who? who do you even want? love was a foreign word, a privilege reserved for those not in your profession. so you withstand whatever life throws at you like a statue made to wait, constantly on the brink of crumbling.

it's mid-january when you receive the call informing you that you'd be working with a partner on your next assignment. you wrack your brain for the few people trustworthy enough to join you, only for the words to catch in your throat when your agent says they're assigning someone for you.

if you were bad at working with others, bakugo was unapologetically worse.

"could you walk any louder?" you hiss into his ear as you stroll through the lobby of the most luxurious hotel in the city. his bicep flexes under your fingers, something you can only perceive as him stiffening in annoyance. "your big-ass feet are gonna get us compromised before we even make it past the perimeter."

"i'm not trained for stealth, genius," he argues, adjusting his suit jacket with free arm for the fifth time in twelve seconds. "i usually go in, blast the shit out of people, and call it a day."

"well, your thundering steps are doing the opposite of helping us blend in," you reply bluntly with a pretty smile toward the concierge desk. "we're doing recon, not infil." you take an abrupt step to the right, simultaneously bumping bakugo in the hip and making him stumble. with the way you start to sway and lean into him, your perfume makes his brain go fuzzy and his ears pinker.

"what the fuck are you doing?"

"you are literally the funniest person i've ever met. i can't believe i fell in love with you, sweetie," you drawl, fluttering your eyelashes.

"what the hell is wrong with you?" he cringes away as you beam at him with a lovesick smile, one hand keeping him flush against your body while the other brushes the pant leg of a passing security guard.

"just play along, darling," you seethe through a fake smile. without taking your eyes off your partner's face, your prize finds itself between your fingers and you unbutton the keycard without blinking, bringing it to his chest and smoothly slipping it into bakugo's jacket pocket with the guard none the wiser. once you catch the guard round a corner behind you via the reflection of a gilded mirror, you drop your act and detach yourself from a very flushed bakugo. "yikes, you're worse at this than i thought you'd be," you deadpan.

"you-you just used me to get that guy's card," he sputters in pure disbelief while you continue to walk down the side hall in the direction of the bar and banquet room. "the hell is wrong with you?"

"i work alone, bakugo," you say boredly. your heels click against the glistening marble and you roll your eyes as his loud steps catch up to you.

"yeah, that much is obvious," he glowers. "we're supposed to be working together on this shit-"

"you are not my partner in this job. you are a tool." you have half the mind to think that your coldness was too harsh, but remember that working alone is what you're best at, for better or for worse. "look, i'll get the job done; you just sit there and watch so our agencies can get off our asses about this being done through 'official means.' got it?"

"you think you're good at being alone, but it's actually killing you," he states in a tone that barely echoes off the sparkling walls. "you think you're good at being alone, but what you think is the farthest thing from reality." if you weren't running four minutes behind schedule, you'd whirl on him and slap his pretty face. you settle for stamping his foot with your heel and he lets you, an ungratifying fuck you all you get as a reward.

"i should have told my agent that i'd quit if she made me work with someone else," you snap with your arms crossed as he fishes out the keycard from his jacket pocket. he gives you a look that enrages you further, something between loathing and sympathy.

"take my arm, for fuck's sake. let's get this over with so i don't have to deal with you and your self pity ever again," he snarls and, for the first time, he catches you off guard. you obey without a word, eyeing him warily while he swipes the keycard and guides you into the crime boss' exclusive campaign gala.

"you know nothing about me, so don't try to analyze me since i know it's not your strong suit," you mutter under the sound of blaring jazz trumpets, sidling past investor after investor as they chatter excitedly about the your target's recently announced run for mayor. "i've seen the leaks about you heroes' IQ scores."

"yeah, they were faked by some extra in the todoroki agency that wanted to undermine him. wanted to imply that he was a nepo baby or some shit like that," bakugo replies without missing a beat and you're barely able to detect any malice in his answer. it confuses you. shouldn't he be pissed that you just insulted his intelligence? "icy-hot's one of the smartest guys i've met, so don't you fucking dare discredit him for one second." he's angry that you insulted...a different hero?

"that doesn't change the fact that you don't know shit about what i do," you dodge, spotting your target at a table near the banner-flanked main stage. he's surrounded by a dozen women who fawn on him like moths to a fire, caressing whatever body part they can get their hands on. it's exactly the scenario you need to bypass his defenses. "there, 3 o'clock. he's got his harem with him."

"so what's your play, lone wolf?"

"dance me toward him and then get out of my way," you order, dragging him onto the dance floor while the jazz band in the corner eases into a mellower tune. "what, got two left feet?"

"no, i'm just trying to figure out why you are the way you are," he questions, slipping one arm around your waist while his hand intertwines with yours.

"don't go hurting that handsome head of yours," you reply coldly without thinking, suddenly feeling your ears go hot when he smirks. "what?"

"nothing. 's just funny when you actually act human rather than the killing machine you were made to be," he admits and your jaw clenches.

"again, you know absolutely nothing about me." you subtly try to move your dancing bodies toward the crime boss' table, but meet bakugo's eyes with a glare when he actively spins you in the opposite direction. "we should be going that way, idiot."

"what if i wanna keep dancing with you, idiot," he retorts. "now," he takes a deep inhale, "i'm gonna tell you exactly what i think you are so maybe your next partner doesn't have to dig into your ass and get your head out of it."

"you are putting this whole operation in jeopardy--"

"don't care, especially if i'm being told by a self-pitying, pathetic excuse for a public servant who hides themselves away because they're too scared to make human connections," he rants, looking you directly in the eyes so you could see just how molten they were.

"stop," you warn, looking for any excuse to go in on your target so you could get out of the spotlight that bakugo was putting on you. he doesn't let you, though, effortlessly dipping you in a way that outsiders could consider flirtatious. it's an unfamiliar sensation, your spine curved under his steady hands, but all you can register is the intensity of his expression inches away from yours.

"you hide behind your callousness and say you don't need anyone fucking else because you've never had anyone else. and then, one day, when someone comes along who actually wants to know you for you, you're gonna be too much of a little bitch to realize that there are people who care about you. even if you are the most irritating being to call themselves human." he abruptly stands you both up and steps back, both of you burning and withstanding each other's wrath. your voice is smaller than you want it to be when you finally manage to speak.

"how would you know any of that?"

"because i was that." his attention flicks to behind you, toward the boss' table. "now would be your best chance. i'll sit at the bar and you finish the job, alone."

"...alone?"

"that's what you want, isn't it?"

no. i don't want it.

you don't catch him in time, some shackle like pride chaining you to the floor. it doesn't feel like relief, you realize when he turns to leave and disappears into the crowd. it feels like a punishment, an unbreakable curse that you'd put on yourself. you were a fool in a fable and it was sinking in, even as you worm the information you need out of your target and slip out of a back window, alone.

always alone.

---

it's not until ten months after your initial mission with bakugo that you finally work up the courage to tell off your agent.

"you have no place to be making such demands!" you lean away unbothered while your agent screams, her anger distorted by your phone speaker. "you have no idea how to--"

"don't care. i'm done working alone in the shadows," you interrupt with the callousness that once benefited you in your job. now, you realize, it was only impeding you and making it harder to find people who saw you as a human, not a tool. "put me in the infil mission or i'm quitting. for good."

"you don't know anything about infil. they'll eat you for breakfast if you join the op now," she hisses. "you need me."

"you made me think i needed you. you and the sparkle, and the fancy pajamas, and the smelly bath salts. you made me think that, to keep all the nice shit, i needed to be alone. but now i know i don't need to be."

"how would you know anything--"

"i know that you've purposefully delayed the infil operation so that you can cover up your ties to the boss' campaign, and that you sent me in with bakugo that night thinking i'd take the fall for your corruption. too bad he caught on and helped me investigate the todoroki IQ files you gave me and said they were official leaks."

"you're making a big mistake."

"and you should have learned sooner that i don't want the money. i never did."

"bullshit. money is all we have in this hero-run society, the only way we can be equal to them. what else would you want?"

"company." your agent falls silent at the same moment you hear a faint knocking on her line. "speaking of, looks like you have some." the tell-tale beep beep beep! of the call being ended echoes off the walls of the apartment and you sink further into the plush couch cushions, counting down leisurely on your fingers.

five,

four,

three,

two,

one.

"got her, babe!" you hear from down the hall. "and we got her good," katsuki says as he appears from your shared bedroom and grins at you. he leans against the door frame, waiting patiently as you delete your ex-agent's number from your contact list and show him the phone. "i ever tell you you're a natural at getting confessions out of people?" you giggle and let him pad over to you on the couch, sliding down so that he could lie his entire body on top of yours. even after all the time he'd been with you, the skin to skin contact still made your stomach burst into uncontrollable butterflies.

"i guess it comes with being a spy for so long," you suppose with a shrug. "but i'm not one anymore." your fingers absentmindedly trace the creases of back muscle through his shirt and he hums like a cat purring contentedly.

"yep, and now you're stuck with me until one of us dies in combat." you click your tongue with a tsk and lightly pinch his side, feeling him snort in triumph against your sternum.

"why can't you just say you love me like a normal person?"

"because neither of us are normal, genius," he explains, his eyes shut against your chest. "how normal is it to be so lonely that when you're around another lonely person, your shit cancels out?"

"i guess not that normal," you concede. "but still...what do i do now?"

"as much as i wanna say it, i don't think 'me' is the correct answer," katsuki proposes and you burst out laughing. "but really? anything you wanna do, baby. your hand's off the throttle, so now you're just cruising."

"since when did you use so many metaphors?" you ask with a teasing smile. "last week you said 'lightning in a bottle' and 'cursed like eve.'"

"since i met your dramatic ass."

"you know you love me."

"mmm, now you're finally starting to get it."

if you enjoy my writing and would like to support me, you can buy me a coffee on my ko-fi! commissions and nsfw requests can be sent through my fiverr! you can also check out my full masterlist here :)

[annwrites]

⸻ being the septa-in-training that ser criston is in love with would include:

· tags: oral (f receiving), p in v sex, loss of virginity

· tw: religious guilt, dubcon

· ꒰a/n꒱: at the end, some of the text is both regular & small sizes bc tumblr's formatting can be stupid, & this post wouldn't cooperate in my drafts.

The first time he sets eyes upon you, he deems you the maiden made flesh.

He knows it is unforgiveable—for so many reasons—the way his feelings begin for you. The root they bloom from being that of lust.

But you are...perfect.

He cannot help himself in his draw toward you.

It is your young, supple flesh.

Your wide, innocent eyes.

Your perfect lips, which sanctimonious prayers spill from.

Even if he knows they would never be able to save him from the corruption within his soul.

First, he desires his queen—a married woman who rules over the realm as a loving mother—and now a septa. Rather, one who will become as much in due time.

That is not to mention the vows he took as a member of the Kingsguard.

Not that any of these sins are the first occurrence of him sullying his white cloak.

It has already been stained with blood which came from between that whore's thighs.

But you...are untouched.

Pure, in every essence of the word.

Criston seats himself upon a cushioned bench behind Queen Alicent as she kneels to begin her morning prayers. His eyes inevitably wander, looking for another. For you have so enraptured him. And then he spots you across the way, polishing the marble base of the statue of the Smith. Your hair is pinned back and held within a pearl-laden net, while a sheer white veil falls over your shoulders as you begin placing fresh candles upon the God's alter. The thoughts which plague him even here, in this most sacred and holy of places... He cannot bear to even acknowledge them. When you turn, your eyes meet—always his most anticipated of moments—and you smile softly while he bows his head to you in reverence. And all too soon, the moment is over, and he returns to brooding thoughts of loneliness. He wonders if he ever crosses your mind, even fleetingly. He says a silent prayer then, for you not to think of him at all. He cannot bear the thought of tarnishing you as well. Such a sin would be most unforgiveable in nature, and would deserve no less than for him to finally complete what he started all those years ago, and throw himself upon his sword, ending his torment once and for all. After a fleeting moment, he rises and heads toward the statue of the Warrior to pray to be given strength.

You always remain quiet and attentive in your duties. For they bring you much peace. But you are, admittedly, the least bit curious about the queen, as well as the knight who often accompanies her here: Ser Criston.

Many visit this most holy of places, of course.

But royalty, as well as one of the seven from the sacred order of the Kingsguard...

It is very interesting to observe.

Even if you feel badly about it—making the two of them into something akin to an anomaly within your mind.

So you pray for forgiveness.

It's just that you wonder what their lives must be like at the grand castle that is the Red Keep.

You doubt very much that you would like it there amongst politicians and liars.

And so you pray for their souls to remain one with the Faith.

Ser Criston thinks of you often during his days.

Whether it is while making his rounds, while guarding the queen outside her door, or while sharpening the edges of his sword, he does.

You are with him always, in his heart and mind and soul.

He tells himself every day to be the sort of man that you would look upon with admiration.

It is what keeps his resolve to not abandon his post, come to you, and beg you on his knees to allow him to spirit you away across the Narrow Sea.

For he has already made such a folly once, and so he knows what such an offer would be met with: repudiation.

Rightfully so, he knows.

Because your place is there, amongst the Gods, holy men, and your sisters.

Not with someone so internally corrupt and broken as he.

He could never dream of being worthy of one so angelic.

Had he known one like you would one day come into his life...he wonders if he would've ever taken up his post and made a vow to never take a wife.

But you yourself might've still chosen a path of enlightenment, led to the Sept by the Gods' own hands.

And he despises the thought of being the one to tear you from it: your divine purpose and correct place within this horrid world.

You are precisely where you are meant to be.

And it warms him to know it.

To think of it.

You, there, safe and sound. Tending to the ill and downtrodden and weary. To those looking for direction and instruction from the Gods.

You are too good for him.

Too good.

And so, as he closes his eyes before finding rest, he imagines your sweet, comely face illuminated by candles as you pray before the Maiden's altar for your virtue to be protected.

For it is so sacred a thing.

Each day is different in nature for you, but somewhat the same.

Your tasks can vary, but each are familiar.

You wake, tend to yourself by making your bed, washing your face, changing, and so on.

Then you break your fast with your sisters.

Afterward, you either tend to those in the Sept's infirmary, or to the Sept itself.

Both bring you joy and a feeling of fulfillment.

In the infirmary, you tend to those who lay upon sick beds either by administering medicine or food, tending to wounds, changing linens, praying over them, fetching things they require for their comfort, and so forth.

To the Sept itself, you remove candles from altars and scrape up dried wax and polish surfaces until they're gleaming. Then you fill the spaces with fresh candles and wooden lighting sticks while cleaning out the receptacles where patrons place their used ones.

You scrub the floors, dust surfaces, mop, clean, and ensure the space is fit for the Gods.

At times, you have the task delegated to you to help with bringing in supply orders. Fresh fruits, vegetables, cheeses, bread, meats, water, spices, and so forth. As well as herbs, poultices, salves, tools, and so on.

But everyone is always of much help. There is always a hand ready to aid you should you need it.

You cannot imagine being happier than you are in this place.

Cannot imagine living in the gutters within Flea Bottom.

It is not that you look down on those who do reside there. You have befriended many of the location's residents who come to the Sept seeking the Gods' guidance.

It is just that...it seems a place which breeds undesirable behavior, if not company as well.

Corruption does not do well for a soul.

So you remain here, where things are better and more suited to you.

There is truly no place else you would rather be.

He comes to the Sept alone today.

An unusual occurrence for the knight, but not the first time it has happened.

What is unusual is that he does not don his gleaming silver armor.

You don't know that you've ever seen him without it.

For you do admire the lovely, intricate metalwork.

He seems different today in more than just his attire.

In disposition as well.

His shoulders appear tense and drawn together as he kneels before the large marble circle-shaped altar that lies in the middle of the room.

His hands are clasped so tightly they appear to shake.

But you are halfway across the corridor.

Perhaps it is just a trick of the flickering candle flames before him.

But they also cast shadows across his brooding features.

You take note of the way his brows are tightly furrowed in concentration.

Something is ailing him. Spiritually.

You can tell.

Mayhaps you should fetch a septon for him to confide in?

He may be offended by that, however.

You taking his own personal, spiritual matters into your own hands without his asking for you to.

So you decide quickly against it.

You will instead keep an eye on him, should he appear to need anything.

Criston eventually rises and rests back on a cushioned bench while leaning forward, hanging his head between his taught shoulders. He feels at the end of his rope. Around every corner is temptation, he feels. And not necessarily of the carnal nature.  Temptation to violence.  To disorder. To destruction. To disobedience. Disorder in finally speaking aloud the truth all know: that her children are bastards conceieved with another out of wedlock, but still yet in her marriage bed. Destruction in giving proof to the sinful nature of her blasphemous husband and the things he does with his own squires. Disobedience when the king commands him to be silent in what he has witnessed. Death when they take his head for it. But at least he would finally be free at long last. “Ser Criston?” Calls a sweet voice to his left. He raises his head and straightens himself, gazing up at your affectionate, smiling face. He glances to your dainty hands which are clasped softly in front of you, then back into your eyes which sparkle from candle flames. “Sister,” he replies with a bow of his head. You gesture to the seat next to him. “May I?” Temptation around every corner… “Of course.” You gather flowing skirts of white and soft grey, then seat yourself gently next to him and rest your hands delicately in your lap.  “I hope it does not offend you for me to say, but you seem troubled,” you state quietly. He rubs his palms together while keeping his eyes trained on the altar before the two of you. “I suppose I am.” You consider for a moment. “Shall I fetch a septon for you to speak to? So as to unburden yourself?” He smiles softly at your kind consideration for him. This Sept is truly blessed to have your presence within it. He shakes his head. “I think, mayhaps, my suffering is deserved.” Your brows knit together in concern. “I do not believe that.” He doesn’t reply, so you continue, wanting to reassure him that there is no shame in confession. “The Gods may be just, but so, too, do they love us. Each and every one. For we all are made in each of their images—by their careful hands. We each have their attributes and strengths. As such, they would not wish to see us suffer unnecessarily, for we are their children. It is why they offer us their forgiveness through confession.” He swallows thickly. “I don’t know that what I’ve done can be forgiven.” You cannot believe that. That someone like him—honorable and righteous—could ever do something which is beyond redemption. He is incapable of it, you’re sure. “Do you think you are the first to feel as much?” He looks at you.  “You are not, Ser, I assure you,” you say, while resting a comforting hand atop his shoulder. It is the first time you’ve ever touched him, he quickly notes.  It may be fleeting and somewhat impersonal, but he cherishes it—you.  You are always so unfailingly kind. He does not deserve your attentions. You remove your hand then, settling it back in your lap. “May I…” He quickly shuts his mouth. “What is it?” You press.

In truth, if there is any one person within this place he would confess to, it is you.

But to have you look at him differently from then on—with disgust or loathing…

No. He doubts you are capable of such a feeling—the latter-most, that is. 

Someone with a heart as open and accepting as yours… You would never, surely.

“Would you take my confession, sister Y/N?” He asks while dragging his eyes back to yours.

You still.

Septas are not meant to.

Especially one which is still in training.

But, at the same time, many have confided in you before.

Mostly in the infirmary.

The point is, you have listed to individual confessions before.

Typically, you are bid to relay what the people tell you to a septon so they can be properly prayed for—you do not consider it a betrayal of their trust, as there is no judgement in the things you tell said septons, or in their receiving the information—as to judge is to sin—but you somehow feel that to Ser Criston, it would be.

And you are sure that whatever is it is surely inconsequential in nature.

It is easy to…what is the phrase? Ah, yes: make a mountain out of a molehill.

Finally, you nod, merely once. He tears his gaze away from you, unable to meet your eyes as he begins. “I have soiled my white cloak. With…a young woman’s maidenhead.” You bristle beside him. You allow a brief pause before speaking. “Continue.” “To name her…” He begins, then trails off, growing silent. “You needn’t if you do not wish to. But if you do, I assure you that whatever you tell me does not leave this holy place.” He considers. “Rhaenyra.” Your head shoots up, but you do not speak. You should have retrieved a septon after all, you fear. For this is far out of your realm of expertise. “She herself has sinned further, but that is her burden to bear and one day admit to before the Gods when she stands in judgement. Between the two of us, it was one occurrence, but since… I have lusted. For others. Two, in particular. Both of them…sanctified by the Gods. Women who are…” He shakes his head. “It plagues my every waking f—” He sighs. “Forgive me.” You think. And then you think some more.  This is something which clearly torments him, so you wish to respond properly. You do your utmost to not judge Rhaenyra, but instead see her in a light of understanding.  He took her maidenhead, meaning she was thus young. And so, she was not thinking with a woman’s wisdom—as you hope she does now—but instead with a girl’s carelessness. It was something she ought not have done, but so long as it did not result in progeny—even if there are dastardly rumors about her royal issue—then you suppose that what’s done is done. Onto the matter of his attraction to others, then. “I cannot forgive you for your…transgressions with her, as I’m sure you are aware. But I would ask you to pray to the Gods to earn theirs. And if they should be good to you, they will grant it. He remains silent beside you while you merely wait for reply. "How am I meant to be forgiven when my soul remains corrupt? As I said, two others still remain who I...want for. I fear my lust to one day be my undoing. It has already nearly been once." You wonder what, precisely, he means by that, but do not ask. "Have you done more than feel, Ser Criston?" You turn to him to explain. "It is our actions which determine our true character, I think. Try as we might, we cannot, admittedly, truly control our thoughts or feelings. Attractions included. But, so long as you do not act upon it as you once did, I fail to see how you have done wrong in—" "I have embraced it at times," he says quietly, interrupting you. Your brows furrow. "What do you mean precisely? Have you...lain with—" He shakes his head. "No. Rhaenyra was the last. Even if that in itself seems a cruel jest: for her to forever now be that for me." He sighs. "The first which I garnered affections for I cannot name. It is simply best...left unspoken. But the second..." He trails off and his eyes flutter closed. “You say it is our actions which matter. And I have acted upon this sin. Solely, but I have. I have…pleasured myself by mine own hand.”

You are in over your head now. Such an admittance is not fit for your ears. You swallow nervously while attempting to come up with a reply which will serve to reassure his faith. You open your mouth. “While thinking of one woman. The object of my affections,” he states, interrupting before you can speak. You turn your head, but barely. Only enough that you can see him somewhat from the corner of your eye. “I fear I have sullied her in that. For when I explore my imagination… I am exploring…her.” You glance to a passing septa, wondering if you should attempt to signal her. But then Ser Criston would be wounded in his finally sharing these hard truths, you’re sure. It would only serve to make things worse. So you remain silent. You may as well be a Silent Sister in how quiet and demure you always are. But it has always been your nature, which is part of what made you feel all the more suited to this path. Criston turns slowly toward you. “Her lips. Her womanly form. That which she keeps…hidden beneath…” He rests his shaking hand gently upon your knee, sliding it higher, to your thigh. And you promptly stand, filling with shock and panic. “Ser Criston, this… You cannot—” He stands as well and hangs his head in undeniable shame. “Forgive me, sister, I…” His eyes meet yours fleetingly, and then he turns. You watch as he leaves.

For the days that follow…you feel unclean.

You had listened to sinful admittances, knowing it was not your place to do so—that you were going against the order of the Faith.

He had touched you in a lustful manner.

Had insinuated that he thinks of you in a blasphemous way.

And the more you think and hypothesize as to whom the other woman could be…only one ever comes to mind: Her Grace.

You want nothing more than for you to be wrong in that, but you have seen it: the way he gazes upon her when her eyes are closed and she is unaware.

You consider going to the High Septon with all you have learned.

But what if you are wrong about who else he lusts for?

For many ladies reside within the Keep. Titled or otherwise.

There is his confession of what he and Rhaenyra did, but you would be the cause of chaos and worse if the knowledge was taken before the king.

So you resolve yourself to remain silent as always.

And you return to your duties and pray for forgiveness…and for Ser Criston’s soul.

Most of all, you want nothing more than to stop thinking of him.

Particularly when it is late at night and all is silent and you begin to think of dark silken curls, warm brown eyes, and a heavy hand ghosting across your body.

Criston had been ignorant to think he hated himself before.

For now he has truly damned his soul to one of the seven Hells.

To have attempted at tainting you with his own hand… What had he been thinking?

The truth is, he hadn’t. Not with the part of himself he should have been.

He is sick inside.

And he cannot rid himself of the vision of you staring at him with fear and betrayal in your innocent eyes.

You, more than anyone, are ignorant to the ways of men.

He despises that he desires to be the one to change that.

Hates that he spends so much of his spare time now with his fist wrapped tightly around his cock as he fervently strokes at it while fantasizing about you bare before him, giving yourself to him, allowing him between your legs, where he finds absolution at last.

At least you are clean and untouched, unlike that poisonous fucking whore.

You are good in every essence of yourself.

He wishes not to ruin everything he touches.

But he does it anyway.

It’s three days later before Ser Criston returns. 

He does not do so during the daytime. 

He had desired to come sooner to pray and pray and pray for penance, but refrained out of the fear of running into you. 

He wishes not—more than anything—to make you feel unwelcome in your own home. In such a holy and blessed place. 

So, now he is here when the sky is dark and many have gone to bed to rest—you likely among them.

He goes, unexpectedly, to the Stranger—for he feels so often now as one to himself.

You pause when you emerge into the main hall of the Sept and are met by the lone sight of Ser Criston, kneeling in prayer before the statue of the Stranger.

You hesitate, glancing back to the direction you came from, which will lead you to your room, and then back to the knight.

You know you shouldn’t.

That you should walk away.

You know not if it is ignorance or stupidity or concern, but you go to him.

“You’ve returned at last,” you say quietly, seating yourself next to Ser Criston. He clenches his jaw. His fault once again, for he was praying for this. For you. He lifts his head and unfolds his hands before standing.  He puts a healthy amount of distance between the two of you on the bench you now each sit upon. “Sister.” You fold your hands in your lap, now suddenly nervous. “You—” “I wish to ask for your forgiveness,” he states, interrupting you. “My behavior when last we met was…inexcusable. It was an offense to you, your piety, my vows and the cloak I bear, and the Gods themselves.” You blink and breath steadily, and Criston turns his head slowly, looking you over—studying, waiting. “You are still human, Ser Criston. You feel—or, at the very least, felt—as you did, and you admitted to it so as to unburden yourself. I cannot fault you for that. The Gods heard your confession. As did I. And while I cannot speak for them, I do so for myself.” You turn to him and grant him a warm and gentle smile.  “I forgive you,” you whisper, resting your hand atop the back of his own.  Ser Criston hesitantly turns his own until his palm is lying flat against yours, and then he twines your fingers together before lifting your hand to his lips, granting you a loving kiss. “You are too kind to me, I believe.” Your eyes flit between his and he brushes his thumb affectionately over your knuckles. You slip your hand away and rise, suddenly feeling quite overwhelmed. “I should bid you—” Criston rises as well, suddenly, stepping toward you. “I ask for your forgiveness, I know. And yet I mean to… Only serve to…” He shakes his head. And then he considers naught else but his own wants.  He hates himself for his selfishness.  Hates. Hates. Hates. He cups the back of your head and crushes his lips to yours. And as he melds his body against your own, you stiffen and stare with wide eyes at his which are now closed.  Your heart has lodged itself in your throat and you fill entirely with shame.  Shame with yourself. For enjoying it. The sturdiness of his form, the fervor of his kiss, the way in which you fall willingly into his arms.  And it is for those same reasons that you pull away. Tears gather in your eyes and you glance away, looking toward her statue. “I have made her ashamed of me,” you mutter, wrapping your arms around yourself. Ser Criston follows your line-of-sight to the Maiden, and the pit in his stomach grows ever-deeper.  He steps toward you and you step back. He nods—once—and then he leaves. You do not watch as he does so, instead choosing to kneel to begin praying to be forgiven.

Despite your best efforts, your and Criston’s guilt over your actions does not lessen, no matter how much you may pray, or how you may prostrate yourselves before the Gods.

And while you do your utmost to busy yourselves in your respective duties, when night comes and the day is done, you each step out and look across the city to where the other makes their home, wanting nothing more than to cross that distance.

But you refrain.

Until Criston can bear it no longer and he inevitably goes to you.

It is late once again when he does. 

And you would be lying if you said you have not been waiting for him night after night.

“Ser Criston,” you whisper—his name practically an answered prayer upon your lips.  “Y/N,” he replies in answer, coming to you with outstretched arms. You step toward him and nuzzle against his chest while he holds you close.  “I’ve missed you,” he says, sliding his hands up your back. “Trying to keep myself from you is the true source of my suffering. What are the Seven Hells in comparison to being without your affection?” He leans back and gazes down at you. “I mean not to be presumptuous. For we still know so little about one another. But…” He cups your face between his hands. “Let me show you.” Your brows furrow. “My adoration for you. My passion.” Ser Criston takes your hand in his and leads you around the statue of the Crone, knowing that she is the one out of all the Gods which will not see what he next intends to do. He grips your soft hips and hoists you onto the marble base...and then he pauses. The two of you stare into one another's eyes while your chests heave for breath. You know not what he plans to do, and you know you should not want to discover it. That you should instead shove him away. You should run screaming in another direction. This is wrong. Unseemly. Blasphemous. Especially here. But it was not until he touched you a few days ago that you finally realized just how starved you have been for tenderness, and for so very long, at that. He is making you reconsider taking your vows, while you have made him reconsider, yet again, those which he already has. He kneels before you and you grip the edges of the marble base while you stare down at him and he up at you. You are one most worth worshipping at the altar of. He begins to slide callused hands up the back of your calves, over smooth, soft skin, and you jolt. "Do you wish for me to stop?" He whispers. You blink innocently at him with wide eyes. "I don't know what it is which you...you mean to..." He takes one of your trembling hands in his and brushes a kiss along your fingers. "Do you trust me?" Your eyes flit between his while your heart hammers between your breasts. "Yes," you answer quietly—tentatively. He reaches up and cups your cheek. "Then trust me." Criston begins to push the skirts of your dress up, past your thighs, and then is when you panic and grip the hem, holding it in-place to hide the most intimate part of yourself. "We—my...my virtue—"

"Will remain intact," he states. "I swear it. I would never defile you in such a manner." Your eyes fill with tears. Criston then hooks his fingers beneath the waistband of your smallclothes, and he tugs them slowly down your legs until they're resting in a pool of fabric upon the polished floor. He marvels at the untarnished sight of you. At the most delicate and lovely thing he has ever bore witness to. He does not see the tears slipping down your cheeks as he begins to kiss along your skin. Does not hear when you whisper for him to stop when he eases your legs over his shoulders. Does not bear witness to your confusion as he begins to lap at the sweet nectar of the Gods which flows freely between your thighs, for you do not see it as that. This most vile part of you is where he deigns to gain his pleasure from? You bite your lower lip and squeeze your eyes shut as he moans, losing himself to you. The thoughts which torment every corner of his mind quieting. Just once. Because of you. Meanwhile, you open your eyes and stare at your patron Goddess, and as you dig your fingers into Criston's curls, bringing him closer, you feel yourself slipping further from Her. As you finish against the tip of his tongue, prayers fall from your own, begging for her not to damn you to a hell of hedonism and horror. To instead save you from your own undoing.

And then Criston rises, wraps his arms around you, and begins to grind his cock, which is concealed within his breeches, against your weeping core. And then you begin to beg elsewise: for her to look away, for you have lost all control. Something evil has taken hold of you. Criston tangles his fingers in your hair, and tugs the net from it, allowing soft curls to spill down your back. He pulls down the top of your dress, freeing your breasts, and he takes a taught nipple into his mouth, suckling. "Please," you whimper. You are unsure what it is which you are asking of him: to cease or continue. And so he chooses for the both of you. He cups the back of your head and begins to suck on the soft skin of your neck while moaning at the feel of you coating his pants. "Criston," you whisper. He presses his lips to yours, quieting you.

It becomes a habit before long.

Criston comes to you in the dark of night and steals far more than just kisses from your lips.

No, he steals all.

Your resolve.

Your faith.

Your virtue.

Your soul.

Your maidenhead.

You lie beneath him, feeling wet all over. Your lips, your skin that is slick with sweat, and between your legs where his member is buried. The first time he had presented it to you, so as to teach you, it had turned your stomach. It had seemed so alien and foreign in form and feel. Hard, but like soft velvet. Squishy, but stiff. The source of your undoing. You understand why there are eunachs now. You wonder what the equivalent is for a woman. You wish for it to happen to you. "I love you," he whispers, easing in and out from where you are now sore. You remain still and silent, waiting for him. Always waiting. Waiting for him to taint you further, as if you are not also to blame. Waiting for him to come to you in the dark of night when shadows are the only witness to the unspeakable things you do to each other. You loathe how pleasurable it feels. How you always want for more. "I love you," you reply with a kiss. You do not know if you wholly mean it. Sometimes, you wish you'd never met him. Wish he had died during the Dornish incursion. And then you feel wretched when you do. For you have never wished for another's death. What has he done to you? You had been so happy when you were ignorant. Now...you are ruined. You had cried in his arms after the first time, when your maiden's blood glistened against your fingertips and you felt as if a fire was burning inside of you where he'd eased himself in. Where he would remain. You had wondered if that is how Hell is to one day feel when you are cast into the pit of it. "I don't wish to leave you," he utters against your naked skin. War has broken out across the kingdoms. He has a hand in it. He has a hand in many things you wish not to name or think of. For when you do so for too long, you consider doing terrible things to make your mind quiet. To force your guilt to find its end at last. Kingmaker, they call him. Oathbreaker, you think. "Do not weep for me," he says. "I will return to you. I always do." You nearly sob at the thought. "I will carry you with me in my heart." You fear that you will carry him elsewhere. He gazes down at you and wipes tears from your cheeks. "Will you pray for me?" He asks. You nod, just once. He presses his lips to your forehead. You do not tell him the nature that your prays will be of. In truth, you do not pray as you once had. In that you have begun to resent the Gods for allowing you to suffer so at another's hands. He has destroyed you from the outside in. When he finishes, it is on the sheets beside you, while you feel numb. When the morn comes, and Criston and his soldiers march out of the city, you gather your things and make for a sept further south, praying for him as he asked: for him to come back. But it won't be to you.

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[fawninthesnow]

𝐎𝐟 𝐒𝐚𝐧𝐝 & 𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝: Pt 5, Misfortune

Series: 1, 2, 3, 4

𐙚 Lucius Verus x fem character! 𐙚

Summary: Former Gladiator, Emperor Lucius, takes his rightful property-- the wife of his conquered enemy.

Warnings/Contains: fem character, slow burn, f4m, mentions of violence, fluff, no proofreading-- english is not my first language

a/n: slowburn warning!

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“There is a boy.” She quickly smiled, holding her forehead. “Gallus. Lord Gallus, he calls himself.”

The emperor looked away from her form, rather distracted and annoyed with himself. “My brother.” He said softly. She thought about what to ask him. Is this a sensitive topic in the royal family? Yes, she wants her freedom but for the first time in months, she was actually entertained! She begged to know what was in the Geta’s journals! Who was the mother of his child? Did it matter? “What is it that you wanted to ask?” He observed her distant body language. He walked around her; his hand went to her waist.

“Emperor Geta.” She whispered, a frown on her lips. Lucius pondered what to reply as she said the former emperor’s name. She was once a slave to the empire, just as him. “That is his son.”

“Yes.”

“He told me just about everything.”

The man scratched his beard as she began to walk outside of the room. Lucius followed her without thinking, “I figured as much.”

“May I read Geta’s journals?” She asked, walking towards the nursery room. He held open the door for her.

“Ahem, Journals?” He sighed for a moment as she kneeled beside her daughter. He tried to keep a stern expression as the plump baby rested in her arms. Gently, she began to pat her back to make her burp. “You may not read those, unfortunately. Whatever he wrote in those journals, it is private.” The child giggled and reached for the emperor. The young woman offered Yasmeen to him. He hesitated, however, was quite distracted by the baby that now rested in his arms.

“*Whatever* he wrote?” She questioned with a confused yet provocative expression. He held the door open for her, the baby in his right arm. “You have not read everything in the journals?”

“Why would I? All that I did read was merely recollections of his daily life. There is nothing of subsidence in there.” He laughed as he recalled the emperor’s personality and how absurd he could be. Yasmeen held onto his forefinger. “I would not lie to you.” He spoke in a soft tone, more or so to the baby rather than her mother. “He was an ill man, as was his brother. The entries will confuse you.”

“I know…but I cannot rest. I am curious!” He chuckled, following as she went into the main kitchen. The servants and cooks scattered as they entered. “I am begging you! If they are of no reason, no meaning…why does it matter if I read a few?” She chuckled and stood close to him, holding her child’s head in her hand as he cradled her body.

The man looked down into her chestnut-colored eyes, debating with himself as she smirked. He did not know her intentions, however, with that look in her eye…she had to mean well. “You may read them.” She giggled with delight as she offered her child a bit from a pastry in the kitchen. For the first time, he heard her joy. “I am warning you, there are a lot of journals.” She watched as he kissed the top of the child’s head.

Inside of the tombs beneath the palace, they were followed by a few guards with torches. They lit the room as they continued. The young woman hid behind her hair, looking away from the decorated and reflective caskets made of marble, gold and steel. “You may relax.” He whispered. “We do not keep the bodies here. Only their belongings.” He shrugged and took her towards the back of the expansive room. Through another corridor, a small room was divided in two. “Septimius Geta and Caracalla.” He waved a hand towards the items scattered about the room. Keepsakes, clothes, crowns, writings, paintings and toys from their childhood rested at the feet of the two statues.

She took a torch from the hands of a guard and raised it to the two marble men on their thrones. Every detail of their faces was carved so sweetly. Almost as if a mourning mother or aching lover etched their faces into the marble. The folds of their clothes wrapped around their forms. Both leaned in opposite directions, away from each other with heavy crowns up top their heads.

She stood beneath Geta’s figure and looked up at his face. “You seem awfully forgiving.”

She turned around to the man, “I am not. This is merely stone.” She turned away from it. “Where are the journals?” Lucius directed her to the stacks and stacks of binded leather books filled with handmade paper. Each sheet covered in ink; messy words and thoughts.

She kneeled beside them. “I organized them to my best ability a few months ago. For Gallus to eventually read. I am aware he has skimmed through a few of them.” The young woman touched the worn books before lifting the first from one of the stacks. “I believe he started writing these when he was Gallus’ age. Just from grammar and the manner of storytelling.” He shrugged. “I must tell you; the boys acquired the thrones when they were young. There was not much time to educate them with an empire to run.”

“I think I will be able to comprehend.”

“If you do not mind me asking…”

He walked around her and kneeled by the books as well. “Go on.”

“Are you distracting yourself?”

“From what?” She asked without lifting her eyes form the first book.

“From your past. Well, it was not too long ago.” Yasmeen pulled on her mother’s hair. “[Y/n]?” She went silent, picking up books out of order as she read through them. “[Y/n]? Are you listening?”

“I am. I mean, I am listening, but I am not trying to distract myself.” She shut the book closed and turned to him.

“If you are looking for anything specific, I would gladly find an answer for you, [Y/n].” She dismissed telling him anything about what she planned to find and instead took her child into her arms.

“It is time for Yasmeen to eat.” She bowed her head. “If you would excuse me; I would like all of these brought to…my- mine and my daughter’s quarters.” The woman looked to him and the emperor agreed with a sigh.

“In the East quarters...”

“Yes, thank you.” The young woman smiled. She was led upstairs to the ground floor of the palace.

That night, in her lap, she held her child. In her hands, she read through the former emperor’s journals. She cringed at how mundane his everyday life was although him and his brother caused so much pain in a short span of their rule. Millions were affected by famine, death and years of enslavement. Rome was hell.

In a matter of seconds, Yasmeen began to A few knocks upon her door made her place one of the journals down. “Yes?”

An unfamiliar voice called, “May I come in?”

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[jinuaei]

Different Route

Heyyyy remember that idea I had for self aware Resident Evil 4? I made a small fic/drabble for it but got hyperfixated on hazbin hotel so it wasted as a WIP until I started to miss Leon and now here it is!!! I forgot how this was supposed to go so like the last 10% might be shit

I miss my babies so much 🥹

Warning: VERRYYYY small yandere behaviour

This is insane, everything is too crazy!

Ashley grips the lantern closer to her, the heat of it warming her up despite the shivers running through her body due to the cold marble floor she was  laying on. Tear streaks can be seen as she laments how awful everything has been. She still can't believe what has happened to her the past couple days, god, even what transpired an hour ago felt like a nightmare she desperately tries to wake up from. They were so close to escaping the castle, or at least she thought so.

After Leon successfully put together the heads of the chimera statue, gold bars, akin to jail cells, suddenly sprung up from the floor, surprising both her and Leon. Realizing that he's stuck, Leon tries to find a way out before rapid footsteps are heard from below the staircase. He then quickly commands Ashley to run, which she promptly follows by stumbling into the unexplored room behind her. While in there she proceeded to complete a puzzle that can help Leon escape the cell, encountering multiple scary moving armours on the way. Luckily, the blue lantern she found earlier helped her immensely, although she did lose it after trying to grab the key inside the strange mausoleum. The armours swinging its swords down almost made her pass out.

Once Ashley arrived at the elevated platform just above Leon, she was able to grab a key that could free Leon from his holding cell. However, before she could come back down to where he is, someone grabbed her from behind. Immediately struggling against the cultists grip, a sharp pain in her head stopped her from further movement. The pain was so immense that she could feel herself start to pass out, darkness started to creep in her vision as her ears rang loudly against Leon's screams of…pain? Her head lulls to where Leon is and she sees him drop to his knees and clutch his head, gripping his hair in pain. She tried to shout for him but she couldn't even produce a sound, she was only able to mouth a small 'Leon…' in the process. Just as she was going to lose consciousness, she heard two voices echo against her skull, loud and clear amidst the ringing in her ear.

"NOT HER…NOT YET," the first voice growls, masculine and very very familiar.

"Not her… Not again," the second one begs, soft and comforting, she almost cried hearing such a melodic voice. Perhaps this was an angel sent to bring her soul to heaven? Nonetheless, the pain was too much to bear and she passed out at the same time as Leon.

Given how Ashley has been the target of Los Illuminados, she would think she would wake up tied up in a pole, being forced to become one of the monsters that has been hunting her. Instead, she felt the cold floor pressed to her skin, waking her up from her unwanted sleep. Sitting up, she notices a warmth coming from right next to her.

On her side was the lantern, glowing brighter than she remembered, it flickered momentarily as her hands hover to grab it. Something tells her to keep this lantern very close to her, and she does. Orbs start to surround her, covering her with warmth, caressing her skin with the blue glow emitting from it.

Sobs come out from her mouth when the sudden feeling of love and affection rolls over her, it might be just from her starting to go crazy, but she doesn't care. This lantern is the only thing that made her feel safe with everything that happened. Sure, Leon has been there protecting her, but she admits that he's a bit weird muttering to himself about how ‘They came back’ or how he’ll ‘make sure that They won't leave him anymore, not again’. But that doesn't matter anymore, not when Leon needs help, not when she has the lantern with her. 

Ashley clutches the lantern tight against her tear streaked form, determination filling her as the thought of Leon needing her help filled her mind. She knows she needs to help Leon and even though it's scary, the blue light has given her enough confidence to proceed. Something tells her that nothing bad will happen to her when she's holding the lantern.

“Leon… wait for me, I'll save you!”

[d1s1ntegrated]

basilica

tomura shigaraki

cw: religious trauma, religious motifs/themes/imagery, catholicism, defiling of the church, angst, hurt, slightly ooc

a/n: just a short angry religious trauma post drabble bc i'm feeling a type of way rn and it kinda sucks lol. sorry for projecting this onto u tomura i love u

try reading with the song! it adds a layer to the writing i feel honestly is kind of important

Tomura wanted to cry. Wanted to scream in anguish, beg and plead for a miracle or a sign from a God, any God. But the pews of the rotted church served little to sanctify him as he crumbled each one with an angry fist. Shaking fingertips dug into the deep grooves in the mahogany and crumbled them into forgotten prayers. Scattered pages of proverbs and psalms littered the marbled tiles, and the sun rays twinkled in through the ornate stained glass, reminding him just how small he was against the hands of God. There was no God here- only Him, and He alone could stand the tides of change with a battering ram for a heartbeat. It hurt, it hurt so badly, to be forgotten and known all at the same time. Who was he? Tenko Shimura, the sweetened cherub boy, with scraped kneecaps and bruised elbows? No, never. It was a dream, a softened hymn that only time knew the words to. Now he stood, an adult in the eyes of society- though his body never felt quite big enough to be- Tomura Shigaraki. A man, a disciple of the Feared One, a machine created to destroy. And destroy he would. Starting here.

He didn't believe in God. He didn't follow the practice of any one religion, especially not the Catholic Church. Hell, the fact that there was even a church to find out here was a one in a million shot- they weren't exactly few and far between in the cities, but the Catholic population in Japan was a small decimal compared to Shintoism or Secularism. But for this moment, he felt it was best to be in here. A lot of western media he had consumed over the years painted church and Christianity as some all-consuming Light, like this is where miracle happened. Well, the only miracle here was that Tomura even set foot inside.

Every step pressed another layer of dust into the deep red runner up to the sanctuary. The altar remained pristine as he caught his breath, his throat tight and dry. The sound of his thumping heart swelled in his ears and head, the pressure reminiscent to being underwater. Looking up, the height of the cathedral shrank him down to atoms. It felt like a mockery. Like even God was reminding him he was small.

Small. Tiny. Pitiful.

Each word of arrogance against him made his blood turn darker, thinner, rushing through his veins as he grasped at the elegant pillars, dragging himself to the ground with a gasping cry, so that he fell to his knees at the altar rails, his tired bloody eyes locking with the adorned chancel, and the poignant, giant statue of the Son, hung plainly in front as if to scream "I'm here, too".

He felt more alone at this revelation, that human faithlessness was so overlooked because of sin, that people like him weren't meant to be here not because of their trouble finding faith, but for their lack of it. That he too would be damned because he chose not to find light in God, and instead found his own way of safety through destruction and chaos and everything Sensei had taught him. His own scripture, signed in viscera, torn at the edges. It wasn't his fault no one taught him to believe, but it was damn sure his fault he didn't seek it for himself- and he felt it, now, as Mother Mary's half-lidded gaze held above his wakened frame as if he were a pestilence on this world that God created.

Was he in the wrong for keeping his head low? Should he hang it high, be grateful for the hands that supposedly formed him and molded him? This, Tomura knew, was the entire reason behind his aversion to faith. Because he needed someone to listen, and not a single ear fell for him. Not even Sensei cared enough to listen to his alleged son, his pride and joy as some called it. He felt neither prideful or joyous when face to face with him, instead it was a sinking, sorrowful feeling, that could best be described as grief. Grief for his old life, or for the new one he failed to perfect for himself, his Sensei, his friends- try as he might, he was just so small here, and could do only so much.

Church was a last-ditch effort to feel something. Anything. His time was low, and the unfortunate arms of fate were every turning and chiming, reminding him that his goal was only so far. It was seconds away, he felt as he could reach out and grasp it- but he was too well trained, he knew better than to reach out to the things he really wanted, in fear he would destroy it all in the blink of an eye. Not even Gods hands could hold him now, though, as he pretended to pray for one last chance.

His hands pressed into the cold tile and he felt the ground beneath him rumble, his body quaking and splintering in wretchedness, the power lifting him entirely. The pure white turned a murky grey as they shattered and cracked under him, the giant spires atop the roof even quivered at the desolation. And as he screamed, as his throat burned in anger, poor Mother Mary fell to the ground from her pedestal, an ironic display. The caricature of fallen angel, in the house of God, airing his grievances to no one but marble and blood wine, he stood. Destroying it all.

Not in the name of God, but the name of Tomura Shigaraki. Because there was no God that could ever come close to being this angry.

[betterfettered]

Hi! So I was reading through some of your older works (which I enjoyed very much btw) and I noticed you mentioned that yandere Lucifer would want to marry reader (albeit against their will) which made me curious, so if it’s ok may I ask if any of the other brothers would want to marry their darling? And if so, what kind of weddings would they have?

Hey Anon! I'm glad you've enjoyed reading. I have a related ask to yours, so I'll smoosh em together and answer both

Could I request the yandere demon brothers dealing with an MC who refuses to have sex with them before marriage? Totally not as an excuse to get out of being intimate

Which ones ignore MC's request and which ones rush to get married ASAP and spend the honeymoon railing them into oblivion?

(Gn!reader x AMAB!yandere)(noncon)(somno)(violence against reader)(victim blaming)(gaslighting)(18+ readers only please, mdni)[This is fetish content and rape, victim blaming, and abuse are disgusting and inexcusable in real life.]

As you mentioned, Yandere!Lucifer would want to get married, and I think he'd want a proper, traditional ceremony because of his status. You would have lessons starting months before the actual ceremony, making sure that your etiquette and behavior at the wedding is absolutely flawless. They'd probably be with Barbatos, who might be the only non-Lucifer social interaction you get (it depends). You'll be punished by Lucifer if you mess up or act out, unless you manage to befriend Barbatos so he doesn't tattle on you.

If you said you wanted to wait until marriage, Lucifer would accept that. His demeanor would be such that you wouldn't even think he is sexually attracted to you at all. That being said, once you are married good luck ever walking normally again, he's going to have ur ass using crutches. For weeks afterwards you will be (continuously) covered with bruises and hickeys, and cum will always be leaking down the insides of your thighs. Being that Lucifer is a sadist, in many ways this outcome is actually worse than if you hadn't made him wait because he's not going to slow down, stop, or have mercy even when you cry and beg for him to.

Yandere!Mammon, like all Mammons, would want the gaudiest, most tacky ass wedding possible. Everything will be platinum or gold, the cake is covered in platinum and gold leaf, his tux is crusted with diamonds, there are marble statues of him wearing luxury things everywhere. The gift registry would just say "Give us 2 million grimm" and nothing else. Despite the goofiness of his desired theme, he is thrilled about the prospect of being married to you, and would get really carried away by it. He'd hold you while saying once you're married, you'll be his and never leave the house again and wear a huge shawl when you go anywhere so nobody can look at you but him and you won't talk to anyone else because you're focused on your family.

He would promise to wait for marriage for you, and the speed with which he would break that promise would make you wonder if he every really meant it. He is really compelled by the need to mark you as his, and he thinks about it as soon as he's alone with you, so before either of you know it he'll have slipped his hand into your pants. Afterwards he would insist to both you and himself that you wanted it, that you'd been purposefully tempting him. He'll mention that anyone would do what he did, would need to fuck you as soon as they saw your body; that's why you'll need to wear concealing things once you are married to him.

Yandere!Levi would never admit it because weddings are for normies, but he actually would like to get married. Surprisingly, rather than the sort of cringy gamer wedding you're expecting him to want, he would want a traditional wedding like Lucifer. It's always been something totally unattainable in his mind, because he never expected to find someone who loves him. So it would be a dream come true for him to see you in your wedding attire even if you had to be forced into it - someone is really all his, just like everyone else has. That said, don't be surprised if the wedding colors are like, Ruri-chan's palette or his vows have not so subtle TSL references.

When you said you wanted to wait for marriage for sex, Levi wouldn't reply to you, instead just kind of sulk. In the days following you saying that, he would start groping you more, trying to pull off your clothing, putting your hand on his cock when he's hard. He didn't respond to you because he has no intention of waiting and will eventually resort to pinning you down and fucking you in every way he can imagine (that is many ways, reader).

Yandere!Satan doesn't really care for having a wedding. It seems unnecessary and overly involved to him on the face of it, and he doesn't really find the event romantic enough to make it worth while. He sees it as all about the people attending rather than you and him. If you wanted a wedding he would agree and play along, but he'd make it clear that he's doing it for you and not for himself.

He would agree to wait until marriage, but that means when he considers you both to be married, not you. He'll go with you to a courthouse and get the paperwork officially filled out, and once that is done he considers himself to have waited for marriage. If you think the same way, great! If not, he'll laugh at you with his close eyed, cheery smile because he finds what you said so ridiculous that it's a big joke to him. It will just make the things to come more fun in his eyes.

Yandere!Asmo will want the exact same thing as Mammon except if Mammon had good taste. Asmo probably married himself a few hundred years back (though once he realized that you and he were permanently in love he then divorced himself) so he has experience with wedding things and could do all of the planning, asking questions like which flowers you like and which drapes you like. If you refuse to help, he'll assume it's because you're grumpy and punish you with predicament bondage . For example, using rope to tie you to furniture in a way that if you stand on your tiptoes nothing hurts, but if you lower your heels because of the strain on your calves and feet, you pull the slack out of the rope attached to your nipple clamps and they get painfully tugged on.

To be frank there's no way Asmo is waiting for the wedding LOLL he'll make sure to make you moan and cum a lot so that he can point out how silly it was of you to try and resist him.

Yandere!Beel doesn't really want a whole big wedding -- he finds the long ceremony boring and hard to sit through without getting hungry, and the more important thing for him is domestic life with you, like waking up in the same bed as you. If you want a wedding, he will try to talk you out of it; if it's really important, he will agree but be mopey and kind of...out of his element.

Assuming that you're saying you want to wait for marriage when he's coming on to you, he'll just say "Sorry, I can't" and continue having his way with you. If you're announcing it another time, he'll tell you that he doesn't think it's possible for him and maybe cheer you up if you seem upset about it.

Yandere!Belphegor would want a wedding, but not a traditional one. Probably once he trusts you not to run away, he'd want to elope with you to see some beautiful nature, or just try something neither of you have done before. If he doesn't trust you, no wedding at all because there's no way he'll be able to make it through some long ceremony without falling asleep standing up, and he finds the whole thing to be a drag.

In response to you asking to wait for marriage, he'd probably dismissively say something like "Okay fine, sit on my face then. That's not sex." He'll try his luck that way about basically anything, including actually fucking you ("It's not sex if we don't make eye contact," he says, knowing that he will absolutely make intentional eye contact). He'd pretend to leave it up to you, mostly to see what he can get away with, but if you keep resisting he'll probably fuck you while you are sleeping. He likes the idea of you having a dirty dream because of this, and really enjoys watching the sleepiness quickly evaporate out of your expression to be replaced with shock/fear/horror/maybe all three and a fourth thing when you realize what is happening.

Did you like this, anons!!! Think I missed something? Have a follow up question?? I hope either way that you liked it~

Always taking more asks and requests uwu

[mammalsofaction]

Lunch Break

Rating: M

Relationship: Heinz Doofenshmirtz/Perry the Platypus

Add tags: Human Perry, mute Perry, Professor Time timeline, AYA CATU and MML s2 compliant, established relationship, they're married y'all, concerns about Dakota and Cavendish being fired, inadvisable sex locations for anyone but especially 55+year old men

---

Perry has mixed feelings about the Clock Tower.

It was not, actually, to be fair. Named the Clock Tower. It was actually the Time Industries Headquarters. But everyone, including Perry and Heinz himself, called it the Clock Tower. It's a clever enough play on words, and they were both dads, at heart. 

It sat in the very middle of the Tri-State Area, a gleaming tower of titanium, gold and glass. It was largely sterile, cold and white, to match current aesthetics, and parts that weren't were gold or purple. It was beautiful, majestic, grand. On some days, it reminded Perry of the Stark Towers from New York, though he doubts their entrances were flanked by 10 feet tall marble statues of it's owner and founder. 

(And on others, it reminded him of a castle in black and vile green, on a separate yet parallel Quantum Plane manned by a twisted tyrant with a face both beloved and unfamiliar.

On those days, he had Heinz come visit him instead. They were both too old to be courting nightmares.)

We digress. While Perry's tastes may not generally align, love begged for compromises. Heinz would not be Heinz, if he did not demand for bigger, better, shinier, for bolder. In every universe and timeline, he is the same--Heinz was born for greatness, and he made sure everyone knew it. 

In the lobby, both people and bots made way for him. He'd preferred if they didn't, but Carl had laughed at him once, said that Perry had always carried an aura to him that  demanded respect. Larger than life. They would have made way for him even if they didn't (and within these walls, they all clearly did) know who he was. 

"Good morning, Perry the Platypus." Chirped N.O.R.M, in that familiar, cheerful sounding boom as he approached the reception desk. Heinz had been loath to dispose of his very first successful robot, even as the gradual progression of technology began to far exceed the capabilities of his initial body. He had the rust bucket stored lovingly somewhere deep within the basement of the building, Perry is sure: but the rest of his sentience, and computed consciousness was hooked to the entirety of Time Industries, making him their artificial eyes and ears all throughout every property on the globe, and some where there weren't. A gesture of pride and trust that had not gone unnoticed; it only took them 20 years and the development of time travel, but Heinz was finally proud of AI “son”.

Of course, the unfortunate side effects of keeping an AI that was so familiar with their history were names and labels so ingrained that they couldn't quite be re-programmed and removed. Perry had no complaints, and he knows Heinz feels at least a little bit of affection for them. How, despite everything, some things remained the same. 

Perry pats N.O.R.M's monitor affectionately, and pointed up. N.O.R.M beeps. "Ah! You are here to visit Dad." 

Perry chuckles, and signs freely, knowing that N.O.R.M would be able to read him. I am. Is he busy? 

The AI whirred in the approximation of a laugh. "Never too busy for you, Perry the Platypus! And it is almost Muffin Time. I have informed him of your arrival. Do you need me to carry those for you?" 

Perry looked down at his baggage; a folder and a take-away bag of take-out he had practically forgotten he was carrying. He thinks, and shakes his head. N.O.R.M beeps curiously, but complies with an easy, "As you wish, Perry the Platypus." 

The elevator empties as he is about to climb on, and Perry catches the eye of Dr Aloise Alpaca--one of his three chosen B.O.T.T council members in charge of domestic judicial matters. Aloise startles, and Perry raises an eyebrow. Instead of answering, the alpaca bows hurriedly, and clops away with the rest of the crowd. Perry hums, but slips in quickly before the doors of the elevator closes, and Perry slaps his watch to the chip Reader so N.O.R.M could grant him access to the penthouse. 

From outside, the top of the clocktower was simultaneously reminiscent of DEI as it was of Big Bertha, the old pride and joy of Jefferson County. The roof was a bulletproof dome of glass that could be retracted into an open space plan for the telescope and other large machinery that lets in natural light by day, and an unobstructed view of the stars by night. Four analog style clocks faced four cardinal directions, 3 of which portraying the timezones of each of Time Industries' major headquarters (Tri-State Area, USA; Greenwich in London, England; and the Null Island), and one, incomprehensible and erratic, which does not follow any sort of timezone known at all to man. 

When Perry steps out into the Penthouse, he finds his husband staring out the eastern clock, a one-way glass window looking out into Danville. The light of the late noonday sun paints him in strips of yellow and blue, bringing out the whites of his hair (more salt than pepper, now) and making him glow. 

He'd brought Melissa up here, once. Now Nicholson, not Chase. She'd said the backlight makes him look like an angel. She couldn't figure out why the comment had made Perry laugh as hard as it did. 

Heinz turns at the sound of Perry chuckling at the memory, his tired expression blooming into that wide, familiar smile that grows even wider as Perry circles around the imposing glass and mahogany desk to plant a sweet kiss on Heinz's lips. 

"Good to see you too, Schnuckiputzi." He said softly, and rolls his chair to the side to allow Perry to sit on the edge of the desk. "Ah, you  came here to cheer me up." He continues when he sees Perry put down the take-out bag, but sours when Perry pointedly takes out and waves the folder that had been tucked underneath his armpit. 

Read the rest on Ao3

Bad news. Perry signs importantly. Heinz groans, rolling his seat back close to his deak so that he is tucked between the vee of Perry's legs. Perry pats his hair sympathetically.

[slyvester101]

Fuck it, I’m posting the first part while I finish the rest take it

Here’s God!Tucker au: Part 1

+++

Wash found Tucker by accident.

He had been traveling, trying to get back to Armonia in time for the peace talks, but he’d gotten sidetracked helping out a town with some trouble makers and then was delayed when the bridge that marked the border crossing into Chorus broke down, forcing him to go all the way around.

And then the storm rolled in.

By the time he found shelter in an abandoned temple, he was soaked to his bones, armor completely ruined by the wet that seeped into them. He guided his trusty steed in, mumbling a quick prayer of thanks for the shelter and please don’t strike me down for bringing my horse in here. I really don’t want to leave her outside in the rain.

Wash gasps when he enters, gazing in awe as he looks at the scenery around him.

The temple is large and open, beautiful columns of stone lining the whole room. Even with the flora that has seeped in, vines winding around pillars and across the ceiling, flowers blooming from their bushes, branches of a large unkempt tree escaping into the ceiling, it all has an air of elegance that has Wash holding his breath, like it’d be disrespectful to let the air from his lungs taint the marble and stone.

But the most glorious thing about this place, the thing that has Wash making his way deeper into the temple, is the giant sculpted statue on the back wall. It almost reaches the ceiling, the figure depicted kneeling as he reaches out with his hands cupped. Rain water fills it now, but Wash sees the glisten of gold coins as an offering sunken at the bottom.

The figure is surrounded by decaying gifts, bouquets that have long since eroded, food that is barely identifiable, and trinkets made of the finest metal and gems rusted and broken after years of neglect.

Wash thinks he understands why this god was so well-loved. His face is soft and kind, the curl of his lip happy and maybe a little mischievous, long locs fall over his shoulder and down his back, gold making up the beads of his lovingly carved hair. He looks like a dream, a figure Wash would’ve been more than happy to worship just to look at him.

He steps in front of the statue, carefully observing every detail. On the back wall, right above the figure, a single line of carved text reads:

Long live the god of giving

God of giving, huh?

Something rises in his gut when he realizes the name of this god has been left out, not a trace of it written anywhere on the walls or on the trinkets left behind.

It dawns rather suddenly on him as he tries to name the feeling, something oddly familiar about the situation of a god so beloved also being so quickly forgotten.

This wasn’t a god the people worshiped, this was a god the people used.

The decaying gifts ring hollow under Wash’s revelation, the statue, while still beautiful, humming with a new sense of entrapment and sadness. By the state of the temple, it seems like this god ran out of things to give, abused and rung out for all he was worth until he stopped being useful.

Wash has seen it before, watched people beg for favors, for miracles, for the impossible, only to ditch their god the minute they receive their blessing, never even giving thanks, only ever coming back to ask for something else. He’s seen temples be built, be full and then be torn down and left for ruin in a matter of months.

He usually doesn’t care, doesn’t pay enough mind to all the new gods coming and going. He really only prays and worships out of habit, a polite set of manners that have been engraved into his soul (and he doesn’t have a death wish. There are certain gods willing to kill if you disrespect their temple or their people).

But there’s something about this statue, about this god of giving, that makes Wash wonder if maybe he’s a spiritual man after all.

“I would’ve never stopped worshiping you.” He whispers to himself, slowly getting on his knees and reaching up to cradle the underside of the statue's hand.

“I would’ve given you everything. Lose myself by offering you all I am. Maybe it’s a good thing you’re gone because…

Because I think I would’ve given you all my love.”

“Is that a promise?”

Wash turns to face the voice, his sword already unsheathed and ready to cut down the intruder—

Oh. Oh shit.

“You— You’re—“

“Lavernius Tucker, god of giving. Pleasure to meet you.” The man smiles brightly, the same warm and mischievous one depicted on his statue.

Wash eyes widen as he snaps to look back and forth from the man and the statue and—

Holy shit.

He’s… smaller than Wash was imagining, not the same plump and soft figured man they carved into the stone. He’s got more angles to him, lean and thin without much mass covering his body. There’s a tired droop in his shoulders, eyes weary and slanted. Wash thinks he’s leaning on a pillar more for support than for seduction.

“Are you alright?” Wash snaps out of his daze, shaking off the shock as his blood bred need to help takes over. He steps towards him, dropping his sword without a second thought in case the god keels over suddenly.

The man—Tucker—seems surprised at the question, standing a little taller as Wash comes forward with the same energy as a mother hen. He lets Wash crowd him, his hands gently skimming over his body for injuries.

“Uh, yeah. I’m okay. Just been a while since anyone has come here, especially someone as… sweetly devoted as you are.” He sways forward into Wash’s touch, his eyes fluttering as he soaks up the blessed affection.

Wash shuffles in his feet but doesn’t pull away. He’s never really met a god before, so he’s not sure what the proper reaction to a god showing favor is. It certainly doesn’t feel right since Wash just got here. “I— I haven’t

even worshiped you before.”

“Mmm, but I can practically taste it off you.” Tucker traces his hands over Wash’s chest until they hang gently on his shoulders, the touch sending shivers up Wash’s spine. “You may have stayed here to hide from the rain, but you didn’t need to say anything to me, didn’t need to pray or give thanks. But you did. You did and now I’m bound to you, my loyal little devotee.”

“Bound to me?”

He nods, giggling as he pushes himself closer to Wash to clasp his hands behind his neck. “You’re my only follower now, silly. You’re the one whose belief gives me power and with power…” He nudges his nose into Wash’s cheek and Wash can’t help but drop his head to meet him there, something deep in his bones singing as this gorgeous god seeks out his attention.

Tucker practically whimpers at him, resting their foreheads together as Wash moves to place his hands respectfully on his waist. He’s shaking, Wash notes, possibly from years left neglected and bound to this fragmented temple.

He breathes in deep and slow, savoring the feeling of being so carefully worshiped, something he’s never had in all his centuries of existence.

“With power,” He continues, “I can give you anything you want, just say the word.”

Right, god of giving. Probably thinks that Wash’s affections are an offering in turn for a wish or a miracle. It leaves a bad taste in his mouth, but he doesn’t want to seem rude or ungrateful to this fragile looking god. He deserves to be worshiped, to be loved and respected, his name sung in glory by all those who follow him.

Wash makes his choice.

“What if I just want you?”

Tucker startles at that, shock evident on his face. Wash keeps his face serious, not a single bit of doubt or hesitation to be found. He wants this, wants him, whatever that means.

His god seems to drop at that, like a puppet without its strings. He practically glows when he smiles again, something so much more genuine and happy then the one he had before, the one that’s immortalized on his statue.

Wash thinks that this is the Tucker that they should've worshiped all those years ago. Tucker kisses his cheek, a submissive little thing that has Wash heating from his cheeks to his shoulders, and proudly proclaims to Wash—

“Then I’m yours.”

Part 2

[raithwithwings57]

WIP rough draft Stucky fic where they both go down in the plane together

Just posting some bits and pieces because I have so many unfinished Stucky fics in the wings and I want to show them off a bit and I've not posted anything of my fics in months so, yeah I'm making several posts like this. I do intend to finish these out and post them on ao3 at some point, and if y'all really like any of these, let me know.

Bucky had always wanted to see the future. He’d dreamed about it, read about it, listened to the radio shows about it, dragged his best friend to science fairs he’d not been terribly interested in, gone to those free college lectures where professors pontificated about advancement. He loved the future, he wanted it, he read the technology journals and gushed to Steve over the new artists and their styles. Bucky was always looking forward.

Steve was always looking back. He was a man of the past. A man of possibilities the same way that Bucky was, and yet a man who saw the possibilites like missed opportunies, a reason for pennance rather than hopefullness. Maybe it was the Catholic guilt that Steve carried around, maybe it was his dead war hero dad, or later, his dead nurse mother. Maybe it was being small and weak and having something to prove (no matter how much he claimed he didn’t). Steve liked the old art, the history, the classic literature and the old architecture. He delighted in sitting for hours and sketching old buildings. He memorized all the old prayers and recited them in Latin with a fervor and consistancy that seemed to Bucky beyond just religous, though he didn’t have any other word for it. Steve lingered at history lectures and in muesums looking at marble statues made by the greats. He went to the old graveyards and lingered over the plain stones of soldiers.

Bucky and Steve couldn’t be more different, but they couldn’t have been more the same. And even if one looked forward and the other looked back, they always did it together. Balanced each other out, had interesting long conversations in the dark when they couldn’t afford to have candles or lamps to burn in the night. Or when they huddled close on one bed for warmth in the depth of winter. They could look both forward and back and not stumble, not forget anything important, because they did it together. Steve and Bucky. To the end of the line. Looking out for each other.

Steve would probably not live to see much past the other side of thirty. That was what the doctors had said when he was born, and they’d always maintained it. Bucky couldn’t help but think that Steve didn’t look forward because he didn’t know how. That he saw himself a bit like a still living corpse, or a ghost drifting through this world of the living. Because Steve would never live to see the future. Bucky wasn’t sure he would live to see the future either if Steve died before he got there. He didn’t try not to think about it, because he wouldn’t do himself the disservice of the lie. So he did think about it. Steve was his person, and Bucky wanted his person with him when he was admiring the future. If he was Catholic like Steve he would have begged and prayed.

However Bucky didn’t believe, and he wouldn’t do himself the disservice of that lie either. Nor disrespect something Steve held in such high esteem by blasphemy toward it.

But for all that Bucky wanted to see the future, he’d never really thought that he would. But he did. Oh how he did. Bucky saw far too much of the future.

The ice was rushing up to meet them, and Bucky was facinated, transfixed. Steve’s hands were on the controls, pushing the plane down into the water. They were going to die, and they both had a few moments to know it. To maybe say something, if they had been the kind of people that left things unsaid. But they were neither of them foolish enough to leave things unsaid. To the end of the line. And the end of the line had come. Bucky had seen his future, and Steve had seen his past. And now they were going to die together. Steve wouldn’t see the other side of thirty after all, and neither would Bucky.

There was nothing to say. Nothing at all. Bucky had seen the future in Hydra’s weapons and the experiments on his best friend and on Johan Schmitt. Steve had seen the past in the horrors of war and the power of becoming a hero that would surely outlive them both.