#he's devastated--his own wife?!
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wildsaltair · 28 days ago
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me: to really understand the tragedy Maximus bears throughout Gladiator, we have to take into account the fact that his entire worldview is based on the idea that Marcus Aurelius was a good man and that everything Maximus had done up until that point was in the service of an empire whose values he could trust and support. I would even argue that, excluding the loss of his wife and son, the greatest loss Maximus has to grapple with is the loss of his unswerving belief in the goodness of Rome. once he sees its corruption and becomes its victim, he has to reevaluate everything he's ever done and believed in, which affects not only his desire to free Rome from tyranny but also—
the burglar who broke into my house: his guilt about his role in the fate of Rome and his service to a man who was indirectly the cause of all this corruption?
me: exactly. now,
#i just kinda think that maximus is tragic in even more ways than we give him credit for#like obviously the loss of his wife and son is the primary tragedy and the main grief of his heart through the movie#but even more than the death of marcus aurelius is the fact that maximus has to reconcile the marcus he knew and loved and trusted#with the marcus who (1) allowed rome to focus on conquest rather than progress#(2) neglected his own son and indirectly caused rome to fall under the tyranny of a dictator#and (3) is both the opponent and perpetrator of many of the evils maximus has to bear#maximus has always imagined rome as a golden place filled with light#and he has to go through quite a painful enlightening#to see that rome is corrupt and brutal and dark much like he considered the barbarians#and what an incredible thing that maximus begins fighting alongside and allying with the very barbarians he used to conquer!#juba and haken would have been his enemies if they were not his fellow gladiators#and he becomes their brother in defiance of the roman emperor (an office he has always served)#the battle of carthage is INCREDIBLE because maximus is not only winning the victory humiliating commodus introducing himself as a champion#but ALSO showing that he has ZERO love for rome by becoming the leader of the “barbarian horde” and defeating the roman competitors#it's a statement just as his removal of his tattoo is a statement#i just. think this movie is amazing and i love it so much#and i love maximus so much more knowing he has to overcome so much more tragedy than is immediately apparent#he has to overcome his own devastation and disillusionment to find himself again#and it's in finding his quest for revenge and redemption that he accepts the past and creates a new future#literally MARRY ME SIR#gladiator#maximus#maixmus decimus meridius#gladiator 2000#russell crowe#text posts
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ashraffamilynew · 6 months ago
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Please help secure a future for an entire family - me, Ashraf, my wife Ghadeer, and our lovely innocent son Yamen 👶💙
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Vetted by @el-shab-hussein and @nabulsi , fundraisers list Number (#328)
Vetted by @gazavetters, my number verified on their list ( #74 )
Vetted on X platform on this spreadsheet (#391)
Shared by @90-ghost | Shared by @a-shade-of-blue | Shared by @dlxxv-vetted-donations
Please bring us back to life without war, destruction, genocide or killing because this is what fills our memories after we forget what a life full of hope is like ‼️
I'm Ashraf from the war-torn Gaza. I've lived an entire life under siege in Gaza, facing relentless military actions and life-threatening conditions daily. In October 2023, the conflict escalated drastically, devastating my newly built house, my neighborhood,my workplace, and jeopardizing the lives of my family.
My wife, Ghadeer @ghadeerarqan , and I live in Gaza with our baby son Yamen. My wife gave birth to Yamen during the war, and it is all he has ever known. Yamen has spent the tenth months of his young life without a stable home, surviving a genocide.
I mourn the loss of our safe haven, but more urgently, I need to secure a future for my family away from the constant threat of bombings that have become our grim reality.
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Meet Yamane, our precious tenth-months-old. Who was born during this war, We aspire to provide him with opportunities that surpass our own experiences, fostering a future filled with joy and prosperity.
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This campaign is a call to arms for all who believe in the transformative power of community support. By contributing, you're not just donating; you're actively shaping Yamane's world, ensuring his journey is filled with the promise and potential every child deserves. Join us in making a profound impact on his life
Yamen... he's only a baby. He doesn't understand the fear that grips us, the darkness that engulfs our lives. He just smiles, his eyes bright with innocent wonder, oblivious to the terror that surrounds him. He reaches for me with tiny hands, his laughter a fragile melody in this symphony of destruction. 💔
can we shield him from the reality of this war ⁉️can we keep him safe ⁉️
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Your generosity is a beacon of hope for my family, especially for my little baby boy Yaman👶🩷, who deserves a future free from fear and filled with opportunity.
Thank you for standing with us during this incredibly challenging time. Your support means the world to us, 🌺🩷🌿🕊
But we still need your help to reach our goal. Please continue to share our campaign and consider contributing if you can. Together, we can create a brighter future for Yamane and all children affected by this conflict.
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Vetted by @el-shab-hussein and @nabulsi , fundraisers list Number (#328)
Vetted by @gazavetters, my number verified on their list ( #74 )
Vetted on X platform on this spreadsheet (#391)
Shared by /@90-ghost
Shared by @a-shade-of-blue
Shared by @dlxxv-vetted-donations
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tonycries · 6 months ago
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Madam Zenin - T.F.
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Synopsis. There’s nothing that rouses Toji, the infamous head of the Zenin clan, nothing that will make him lose control - until they take what’s most important to him. You.
Pairing. Toji Fushiguro x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem! reader, arranged marriage, clan leader! Toji, kídnapping, the elders súck, Toji goes INSANE, BRÉEDING, talks of an heir, oraI (fem), fíngering, Toji’s powers, FÉRAL Toji, créampie, spítting, overstím, AU if Toji didn’t leave the clan, slight misogyny from Naoya, slight bIood, pet names, swearing.
Word count. 6.2k
A/N. Didn’t realize how much clan leader!Toji made me quake so…Hope y’all have a good day <3
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“Who took her?”
“M-master?”
There wasn’t a single individual in the Zenin Estate that didn’t think Toji Zenin wouldn’t kill them in the blink of an eye. Happily, at that. 
It was rumored he was cursed, ruthless. And out of everyone - elders, servants, children - not one didn’t look over their shoulder behind every corner of the sprawling Zenin house, flinching at his mere shadow. Broad, towering, wrenching out nothing but hushed apologies and deep bows - they never dared to look into his devastating eyes. 
And right now, that pale-faced attendant of yours could only tremble - pray - she won’t be next on Toji’s long, long list of victims when the looming man himself bends to meet her lowered gaze. And oh-
Fuck. 
No one ever saw the vicious head of the Zenin clan smile - no one. 
Except you.
And here he had the most dangerous grin gracing his features, darkened olive eyes wide - crazed, when they halt on that slightest drop of red sinking into the tatami mats.
“My wife.” The other woman jumps when he loudly kicks your chamber door open. Abruptly barking out a deep, humorless laugh at the disheveled emptiness inside, “Who took my wife?”
---
Young master Zenin - Toji Zenin. Your husband.
It’s only been a few months since your stiff, lavish wedding ceremony to him - part of an arranged deal made between his clan and your own. Your parents practically leapt at the chance to marry into such an esteemed jujutsu name, forgetting all those dark rumors swirling around the young head at the first golden glint of the Zenin family’s massive treasury.  
Sure, they promised to treat you well, to prime you into becoming the new madam of their distinguished household. But you knew better - it wasn’t your upbringing or your cursed technique that brought you here, they couldn’t care less - no, it was because of an heir. 
The one thing that the Zenin family didn’t have. 
And the one thing Toji Zenin refused to give them.
That much was obvious when just minutes after exchanging vows and the ceremonial sake, a group of todgering elders had thrust a heady antidote for conception into your hands, smiling smugly as if they’d just given you the wedding gift of the century. Of course, your all-new husband didn’t even look at you properly on your wedding night - opting instead for a short, husky goodnight and to sleep in a separate bedroom down the hall from the newly-weds’ chamber. 
He wasn’t a cruel husband, you think, and he was attractive - painfully so - and felt more like a gruff acquaintance than anything. But the only problem was that he didn’t embrace you, not even a fleeting kiss.
Even when you really wanted Toji to.
“-T-Toji?” you’re breathing shallowly, eyes blinking up hazily at the dim lighting. It comes out small, cracking so pathetically at the end.
“---Toji--even----”
“No use--- had--months---”
“---keep her to myself--”
Instantly, you’re sitting upright in a cold, wooden chair. Heart thumping wildly against the ribs of your body, it bangs at the thickly digging rope wrapping around your body.
Shit shit shit - where were you? The last thing you remembered was chatting with your attendant in your room, and she’d handed you a brand-new perfume to smell- Fuck. Where was-
“Ah, you’re awake.” There’s a high, sing-song voice from somewhere on your right, and your blood runs chillingly cold when you recognize that voice. “Honestly, I hoped you wouldn’t be around for this part but-” Naoya Zenin claps his hands to get the attention of every other elder hunched around the traditional Japanese room. “-that just makes it all the more fun, right?”
With the one tiny lantern being lit overhead, you could make out those scraggly smiles, the sharp glint of the Zenin Clan’s famed katanas. A tear stumbles down your trembling cheek, tasting salty on your lips.
“Aww, not the tears.” Naoya guffaws, “You know m’not good with the tears.” Those ropes pinning your hands behind your back rub raw with your frantic movement, creaking and unstirring despite your best efforts. “Try and try all you want, sweetcheeks, but a failure of the Zenin clan will only be met with the appropriate consequences.”
A failure.
The words would’ve cut deep had they not been the very same ones spat at you at every clan meeting - the exact reason you didn’t accompany Toji to the one today. Toji, you think. Fuck, how you wished you’d have gone just this one time. 
Straightening your spine the best you could in this binding chair, you ask - firm, pretending for all the world to be as confident as you’re not. “What do you want from me?”
It’s as if your question is the biggest joke that every scowling man in this room had heard, and they all burst into wheezing, riotous laughter. Some even slapping their knees - even Naoya gives you a cold, leeringly gleeful grin, “Just as mouthy as he is, huh?” He turns back to the elders, “She’s asking what we want!”
You bristle at another bout of cackles, struggling to hiss out a strangled, “Well- well if you bastards just fucking told me-”
“An heir.” 
Fuck, you had a feeling it was this.
“What? You pussies get your rocks off by wondering about mine and Toji’s sex life?” you let out shrill laughter, mouth moving before your brain because fuck, if it was all going to end now, might as well spew out everything you’ve wanted to since you walked in here. You shake your woozy head, “Oh fuckin’ grow up, if the man himself wanted an heir then you’d know-”
Eyes enraged, he takes a heated step towards you, “You little-”
“Naoya.” The strained drawl of an elder you’d seen around the corridors stops him straight in his tracks, and Naoya gives the man a hasty, reluctant bow. “Finish it. Before he gets back.”
Those last few words splatter a few drops of panic into your words, and a few more exhausted tears stream down your face. 
“Heh, whatever.” he’s taking one last greedy lookover down your rattling figure. “Would’ve taken y’for myself if I didn’t think he’d kill me, sweetcheeks. What a shame.” Trailing off airily, he turns back towards where you spot another spiking glisten in the dark, a metallic twang! rings through the thick, musty atmosphere. “Who knows, maybe his next wife will actually listen to a thing or two.”
Next wife. 
You’re not sure why but the thought made your heart clench. And you’re gasping when he turns back around - silver katana in hand - trying to scream, yell, anything for help. But no sound comes out. 
Instead, all you can do is gape when Naoya crowds in menacingly closer, you can just hear the smile in his voice when he coos mockingly, “You’re much better when you shut up, doll.” You press your lips tightly together at the same, sullied use of Toji’s nickname for you - wondering how he would react to all of this. Wincing at the cutting whoosh! of the katana being raised up, up, up- “Any last wo-”
BANG!
You’re grimacing at the loud crashing of wood and panels, sliding doors ripped to shreds. And in the hazy cloud of dust you could make out the outline of a tall, heaving figure. Big arms swaying with his choppy breaths, he’s standing still - dangerous.
And even in the soft darkness, your unblinking gaze caught on his gleaming, feral smile, sharp canines bared like some beast. Eyes carnivorous, widened as he assesses the room like a predator lurking in on its prey.
The drop of fear hits you before the realization - Toji.
Letting out a strangled yelp, “T-Toj- mmpf!” Before cold, wrinkly fingers come up from behind to cover your mouth. But even the slightest sound of your voice has Toji’s form jolting - fingers twitching on the handle of his blade, like electricity zapped through his entire body, and you can hear the elder behind you take in an obvious gasp when his eyes lock onto the two of you. 
Finally. 
Toji’s lips part silently, and abruptly, you’re being let go of as if you burned. “You.” 
It happens so fast that you’re not even sure you imagined it, in a split-second, the long, jagged dagger in Toji’s hand is being flung right at his shivering target. . 
And you knew he won’t miss - he never will, because you’re not even blinking when a drawn-out groan of pain echoes from behind you. Followed by an echoing thud!
“My wife.” Toji’s rasping baritone sends goosebumps racing down your spine, you’re puffing in a quick inhale at just how close he sounds. Sure enough, when you look up, you’re met with softened sage eyes, and crooked beginnings of a smile. “My wife.” he breathes out, as if he still couldn’t really believe it. But any and all tenderness in his body bleeds away when Toji abruptly looks over his shoulder at the men crowding around the entrance with a thunderous glare, “Next.”
Naoya is the first to dare to speak - to even move. Yelling, “Y-y- do you even know who that- the crime it is to kill one of the elders-”
Fuck, you swear Toji looked elated at that, that savage grin still plastered on his face, he grits through clenched teeth, “Next.” 
Next. Next. Next. Next. 
It’s all that kept being laughed - laughed - out when Naoya activated his own cursed technique, absolutely nothing against Toji’s rampant ravaging. The thrum of jujutsu makes your head throb, and Toji’s steps sound deafening. Pressurized lunges towards the man himself, and before he can think - before he can even breathe - Naoya’s being pinned face-down on the tatami floor. Face stinging with the force of the stronger man’s foot on his head, pressing it underneath his wooden sandals. He speaks softly - as if talking down to a child - over the strained pop! pop! pop! of joints. “For taking my wife, for insulting the very soul of my soul.”
Toji wasn’t done, he wasn’t even stopping. He was out of control. Ready to kill. To break. 
And none of the elders could do anything - in fact, they fall fatally still onto their knees at Toji’s growing smile, the slow turn of his head. All knowing they were on the very brink of death himself. “Who’s next?”
Fatigue and relief hits you like a semi-truck - five of them, in fact. And you can feel your body drooping lower, vision tinging with black at the corners. Over the grotesque crunching of limbs, you think you could hear a faint, gruff laughter of, “Yeah, ya might wanna sleep this one out, doll.”
---
Toji never wanted to let you out of his sight. Never. 
And with you so vulnerable like this - dozing off gently on his silken bedsheets, body curling subconsciously into his benevolent hold - he thinks he never will.
Mellow, rounded tips of his thick fingers glide down your skin, sensitive from the hot water and the way he’d washed away every evidence of the blood and pain from just a few hours before. 
“I’m sorry.” Toji breathes, hushed, a thumb gliding away a stray droplet of water on the apple of your cheek. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry-” He connects his forehead with your damp one, eyes fluttering shut. “I’m sorry. If I hadn’t come to see you early from the meeting- just knew something felt wrong.”
“Sorry for what, Toji?”
Your teasing tone of voice shocks him to his very core, and yet he can’t find it in himself to pull away - fuck, he can’t even dare open his eyes to look. “All of it.” he’s spitting out, tormentingly.
It takes you a while to find the words, “It’s- it’s not your fault.” you nod, a wet hand coming up to comb through Toji’s soft black tresses. “It’s neither of ours.”
There’s a few seconds of silence, in which he’s scrubbing non-existent beads of water off of you. Long strokes - slow, and purposeful - and you have to hold back your sudden yelp when it hits you that this was the first time that he saw you naked.
“But-” he falters, shaking his head - before thinking better of it. And you take the moment to appreciate just how gorgeous he is up close, every spike of pink in his worried lips, dark lashes kissing his high cheekbones. “But it’s over now, you can- you can go back to your clan.” he grimaces, still looking like he wanted to rip something - someone - apart. “The Zenin family is done.”
Done. 
“Toji.” you exhale, luring in your face so close to your husband’s. Too close. “Come with me. Fuck this Estate, fuck having an heir- and fuck the elders, if they’re not dead by now anyway.” They were - every single one - bodies piled high in the same room you were carried tenderly out of, you find out later. You steady onto your elbows on that unfamiliar mattress - Toji’s, you distinctly realize. And his brows crinkle upwards into an expression you’ve never seen on him before.
“I…”
“And-” A hand of yours wraps around his throat, nails digging into the racing pulse of his at the side of his milky neck. “-kiss me.”
Then he’s raising his eyes to look at you and fuck-
You were fucked. 
You might as well have just signed away your own will because here was the man that was covered in blood not too long ago, here he was with his lids hooded, pupils blown. “My wife.” he repeats that same mantra from before, lips parting like something so dark, visceral, was poked dangerously awake. Like he couldn’t quite believe it. His eyes flicker in a lingering triangle across both of your eyes, your lips. Just a hair’s breadth away. Straining out a raspy, “Oh fuck.”
Depraved - Toji’s lips are so depraved . And he’s drinking you in like all his bloodthirst from before had liquidated into pure need. 
You’re mewling when a large palm brushes over to cup your cheek, tilting that pretty head of yours to deepen the kiss. “Toji.”
You shouldn’t have done that - oh, you shouldn’t have done that. Because the sound of his own name in your syrupy sweet tone makes him jolt. Jolt. His entire body rumbles with a deep, wrenched-out growl, followed very closely by a loud slam! of Toji’s fist banging down on the nearby bedside table. Only later will you find that perfectly indented hole in the shape of his hand, splinters scattered across the floor. 
Like wanted to keep in control - needed to keep in control. But was failing - miserably. 
“F-fuuuuck-” he draws out huskily into your mouth, that tiny scar always at the corner of his mouth catching on your lower lip when he takes it between his. Sucking on that slick-glossed seam harshly, it almost hurt - but it hurt so good. “You have no idea- absolutely no fuckin’ idea how much I’ve wanted to do this.”
And suddenly you’re so painfully aware of the way your robe hadn’t been tied up properly, feeling the cinch of your sensitive nipples against his rich yukata, the warmth of all five of his long fingers splaying out just below the curve of your tits. 
You can feel his needy hips rutting into yours - such raw strength in the way he holds your own still so easily. Pushing right into the bullseye between your legs with the outline of his massive, heated bulge. Languid, delicious drags.
“Fuck we shouldn’t-” he cries out when you’re reeling him back in with his plump lip tucked beneath your teeth. “You need to-” Before he’s being tugged back in again. And again. And again and again like one taste of your candied lips and he was addicted. Barely able to choke out a single syllable before mashing them back onto yours. Gruffing out a deep rumble from the depths of his sculpted chest, “Shit- y’know why I didn’t do this sooner? Why I didn’t just fuck you right then and there in front of hngh- everyone whenever I wanted to? Because I knew-”
He cuts himself off with a convulsing shudder, pulling away just enough that you whine disappointedly. “I was gonna fuckin’ ruin you.”
“Couldn’t- hngh-” you’re mewling at the delicate little strings of syrupy spit snapping. Spying down at the way his yukata was disheveled now, displaying such delicious panes of warm skin for you. “Couldn’t have guessed.”
Toji’s brows raise at your slightly bratty tone, lips curling into such a sinful smirk that it makes your cunt throb so hotly, despite the slowly cooling water. His eyes darken - as if something snapped. “Oh- you’re gonna fucking regret that, ma.”
And something did -  maybe his whatever restraint he had left, probably you by the end of this.
In an instant, you’re seeing a flash of that man- that monster from before. Baring you the most vicious grin inhumanly possible, if you didn’t know any better you’d have wondered how high the death count would be. The hundreds? The thousands?
He’s worshiping down your body like an apology for all that transpired before, hot, wet brandings of his mouth across each and every inch of skin he could reach. It made you whimper, it made you feel the powerful hum of his strength at his fingertips, it made you need more more more-
All you can let out is a drawling moan when he unapologetically snaps! the hem of your panties onto your heated skin, “Don’t be such a t-tease.”
Oh, you were so weak against the dark head of the Zenin clan, against the way he circles his two hands around your ankles. Easily pulling - hauling you across the plush mattress like some ragdoll. 
Not even hesitating before ripping your poor yukata off your body, until you’re left spread so shamefully underneath him, Toji knocking down hard onto his knees before you. 
“Well- whatever my wife wants…” the same dangerous grin grows along his face, glinting white teeth bared where they held your flimsy excuse of panties between honed canines. He murmurs the final few words hovering over where you needed him the most,  “...no elder or god themself could stop me from giving you.” 
RIP—! 
It’s the last thing breathed out of his heaving lungs before your poor underwear is being torn off of you by his very mouth, not wasting a moment before spitting them out, and burying his face between your trembly thighs. Not even taking in one last gulp of air, not even thinking because all Toji Zenin knew was that he was going to fucking die if he didn’t taste your sweet sweet cunt right now. 
“Oh f-fuck-” he’s musing, sharp tongue stuttering for once in his life. “Fuck fuck fuck- fuck-” You’re yelping when your jelly-like legs are pliantly thrown over Toji’s broad shoulders, digging into the muscles of his deltoids. “Can’t believe you’ve been-” He trails off so deliriously, planting a hot, thick glob of spit on your spread pussy lips once. Twice. Smearing that glistening coat along your puffy folds with the fat of his thumb, “-been holdin’ out on me like this.”
“Shit- s’too much.” you’re whining at the slippery gloss of the mess he’s made down below leaking down your slit. Threading your fingers through his silky locks, “I wasn’t holding out on anything, y’know-”
His wide-eyed gaze was locked on your sloppily winking hole, circling the rim of that needy ring of muscle with his pointed index. “God…” his hot breath fans your dripping cunt, “You might just be my god. Didn’t wanna bring a kid into this family but you’re so- so sweet m’thinking it might not be too bad.”
Those words are barely even registered in your mind before his pretty pink lips wrap themselves around your throbbing clit. Handsome cheekbones hollowing, droopy eyes rolling to the back of his head when Toji sucks. Whirling his tongue erratically around the sensitive nub, such lewd little squelches ring in your ears. 
“T-Toji—” your purring moans only make him bury his face even deeper, nose pressing up against the edge of your sopping slit. And each thorough drag of your slobbering cunt down his face makes you knock against the end of his chin, so thirsty with the way he was making out with your cunt. Like he couldn’t get enough - never will. “Y-you were the one-” the heels of your feet move up higher to loop at his neck. “-holding out.”
And you knew that Toji the strongest of his clan - you knew it took more than a mere, barely-lucid tug to have him clashing even deeper into your pussy. 
But he does for you anyway. 
“Fuck- fuck you little-” Toji’s own heavy tongue betrays him with a throaty moan, and he looks so furious. Seething at the way he was pussydrunk already. Greedy gaze so crazed that you’re back to wondering how high the kill count would be- would they all even fit on the Zenin Estate? “-f tha’s what you fuckin’ want.”
“Wha- oh!” you yelp at the sheer burning stretch of your legs being pushed up, up, up until your knees were knocking against your tits. And Toji takes the shamefully spread opportunity to bully one rummaging finger past your swollen folds. “Oh fuck- you’re reaching so- so-”
“Finish it.”
It takes you a second to realize that Toji’s addressing you, his tone so jagged. Words muffled when he pants them out into your weeping cunt. 
He’s pulling out his finger - intentionally curving exactly against all those sweet spots mushed into your velvety walls - only to brand your poor clit with a sharp smack! “Finish that fucking sentence, ma.”
“-deep!” your hips are bucking up at another hefty intrusion, Toji’s fingers relentless inside your elastic wall. Molding out your insides to memorize every bump of his knuckles, every neat curve of his short fingernails. “So so- deep, Toji.” you whine, your shaky hands coming to rest at where you could feel him pumping in and out feverishly into hidden nooks and crannies of your sopping cunt. “C-can feel you right- here!”
This earns you another smack! gifted once again on your awaiting clit, but any and all irritation is swept away when he’s clashing his lips with yours down below in such a messy kiss. Meshing around the bulge of his own large fingers, tongue rolling placatingly over your glisteningly ravaged clit. Flicking, “Yeah- definitely my kind of fucking goddess.” His own free hand dances up to rest about midway up your stomach, pressing down. “M’gonna be in even deeper soon, y’know. Trust me.”
It’s at this moment that Toji’s exploratory fingers find their greedy way to your bulbous g-spot, immediately crashing into it - hard. 
There. There there there, you want to say - but you don’t have to, because he could tell. Could feel the vice-like grip of your slicked walls, the way it’s almost difficult to hammer back into your cunt. 
“Yeah yeah I got it-” he’s humming cockily, back to dragging his lips all over your clit senselessly all over. “All you hafta to do is- hah-” He’s being cut off by his own ravenous thirst, slurping mouth grinding even faster into your pretty pussy. And all you can hear are those syrupy squelches and the smacking of Toji’s mouth, your whining ah! ah! ah! following with every push of his fingers forming around your gummy walls. Curling deftly to massage all your sweetest spots he’s already mapped out so scarily well. “-ahh fuck- can’t get enough. Would kill them all over again just for a single taste of this. Would kill everyone- burn down this entire fuckin’ city.”
You didn’t doubt it, and Toji didn’t let you - not for a single second. 
Because he was almost violent in his approach, bruisingly pushing apart your legs further and further with each sloppy, stumbling second. Looking up at you with his wild gaze, with such a feral grin you could feel along every crevice of your overwhelmed cunt. 
“Can tell ya liked that-” he’s huffing out a surprised bout of laughter, “Ohhh- ya like that very much, huh?”
His tongue was alternating between ravaging your clit and brushing against the teasing edge of your entrance now. Over and over. And you’re gifted with another imprinting smack! onto your quivering cunt - and another and another and another until you’re all but sobbing out such a broken, “Toji- m’so close, fuck- m’gonna cum, m’gonna cum–”
“Then cum f’me, my wife.”
It only takes a few more messy rams of Toji’s fingers knuckle-deep into your eagerly swallowing pussy until you’re crashing so aggressively into your high. Wave after wave of white-hot pleasure running down, down, down your spine and into where he was relentlessly stuffing your convulsing pussy. 
Fucking you over and over through your orgasm, the pretty sight of you so splayed out and ruined makes Toji’s mouth water. He feels like a damn dog with the way his tongue lolls out, grin widening, he murmurs absent-mindedly, “Yeah- wouldn’t be bad at all. Swear you’re gonna be the end of my sanity.”
Fuck, you shamelessly ogle the way his dark robe falls down his broad shoulders, revealing so many dips and curves of muscle after muscle. He was so large - so meticulously sculpted that your restless legs fasten around Toji’s slenderly toned waist, drawing him close until your bare chests were rubbing up against one another. “Heh- you don’t get to hold out on me anymore, doll.”
It sounded almost like a threat - but your bleary, orgasm-drunk mind only has the chance to wonder what exactly he would do if you did. If you didn’t give him - the one head of the Zenin clan that didn’t get everything he wanted handed to him on a silver platter since birth - the one thing he would kill for. Die for. 
You. 
So you’re smiling drunkenly, head tilted to one side, “What are you gonna do about it?”
Toji doesn’t answer - doesn’t even bother to. And the only response you’re getting is a strained laugh - delirious almost, like the mere thought of that was enough to shred away whatever was left of his sanity.
And yours - clearly - because in that very moment, Toji lets his throbbing cock finally spring out, smacking against his abs to leave a glisteningly wet smear of precum. So so angry, his fat weeping tip lets out another wave of syrupy precum at the chill of the heady air. 
Shit - he was big. 
Long, long shaft blending so prettily from a feverish red at his tip to the tan skin behind those tufts of black at his happy trail. Veins pulsing, girthy enough that you’re wondering back to his kill count, thighs twitching nervously to a close. 
“No- no no-” you could tell his tone was trying to veer into scolding, but you caught the way it cracks with so much raw need. “Don’t you fuckin’-” His hands just wrench your knees back open, green eyes just aflame at this point. “-dare.” 
His pointed smile was so dripping wet with your sweet sweet juices from before, trickling in a sloppy trail all the way from the glossy corners of his lips, down to his chin. And his eyes follow the splattering, thick puddle on your collarbone. 
“Oh-” Toji’s mouth falls into a wicked gasp, immediately, he’s surging forward to pool the syrupy mess on his hot tongue. “Heh- guess we really are just now consummating our marriage, huh?”
The movement causes his painfully rock-hard cock to just kiss at your puffy pussy lips, just mashing the fat round tip of his length between your slit. Teasing. So fucking filthy. 
“Toji-” you’re wrenching him by his dark hair to pant into his open mouth, like a mantra. “More- need more- fuck I need-”
“More?”  His shuddering rap is barely even audible, ringing straight to your very heated core, because he sounded so wrecked. So fucking utterly ruined. Voice a few octaves higher in disbelief, “My pretty girl wants my cock? Fuckin’ want-” And then it’s like all the air is being knocked out of your lungs - literally. Feeling as if you’re being split apart so sinfully so, “more?”
You couldn’t have answered if you’d wanted to - because Toji Zenin was fucking ruthless. Just as mean as those greedily lingering juts of his hips, pushing and pushing his massively rotund length past your first snug channel of muscle. 
But that didn’t matter, because your slutty cunt was speaking more than enough for the both of you - or at least that’s what Toji mutters, over and over when he pushes in jutting, unrhythmic jabs to squeeze himself deeper inside you. 
“Oh- oh my god–” you’re batting your heavy eyelids open to take in the way your overstuffed pussy just bulges around him. Lips spread so widely it was like they were conforming to each ridge and vein down Toji’s fat cock, beading a glossy sheen down every inch by fucking inch you were being fed. “So much- fuck, don’t know if I can take it.”
Toji Zenin would rather die than not have his pretty wife all overfilled with cock if that’s what it takes him. 
And by the way your teary eyes grow wider, he suspects his pussydrunk mind might’ve just babbled that out loud. “Heh…didn’t I tell ya, ma?” His low whisper puffs hotly against your ear, tugging tensely on your earlobe. “M’gonna fucking ruin ya.”
And it’s times like this that it’s so clearly impossible to forget that Toji is inhumanly human - that you are so unfairly nothing in a match up against him.
CRACK!
Because with one, harsh ram of his sharp hip bones smacking against the globes of your ass - every solid inch of his intimidating cock is slammed against your tightly cushioning walls. It’s such a ravaging intrusion and you swear you could feel him everywhere. Feel him thrumming hotly against sweet spots inside you that you didn’t even know existed. Finally, buried all the way to his thick hilt, yet still nuzzling his hips upwards for more-
“S’broken.” Toji muses, and for a second you didn’t know if he was talking about you or the suspiciously sagging bed. “Plan B.” 
It takes only two seconds for his beefy arms to pick you up as if you were weightless - god, he was treating you like some object. And the only time he’s not enveloped by your heavenly cunt is when you’re being shoved down like some slut onto the cool mahogany of Toji’s work desk, his firm front pressing up against your arched back.  
“Plan C is to just fuck you into the floor until it breaks.” he snorts throatily into your ear. 
And you wondered whether it was a joke - you hoped it was a joke. You almost half-believed it until he was back to bulldozing his plump tip back into your briefly-neglected cunt. Stretching the clingy rim of muscle to bend to his round length, fully. Oh, he’ll never get used to this sight. 
Yeah, you definitely weren’t making it out alive. 
“F-fuck you really are-” One hand of yours scrambles to blindly white-knuckle the smooth wood beneath you when Toji’s bludgeoning your pussy with powerful, long thrusts. Feeling every minute flex of his thick thighs behind your own, shuddering with each forceful hammer of his sweeping cock inside you. “-you really are in so deep.”
As if to confirm, the man himself glides down an open palm to your stomach. Pressing down hard with all five splayed-out fingers until Toji could feel the same incessant slam of his thumping cockhead, the cascading ripple of his heavy, cum-filled balls smacking against your ass. 
“Told ya- hah told ya so.” his cocky groans are whirling all throughout your mind, such a hot, melty mess with the sheer fucking stretch of Toji’s cock. “Y’know…I can’t help but imagine just how pretty you’d hngh- look all stretched out n’ swollen as a momma.”
You’re nodding deliriously, and the way his crashing thrusts were just bruising against your spongy cervix, bouncing off onto every sweetly hidden sensitive spot inside your elastic walls. “Shit- ya jus’ got wetter- ya like that? The thought of me fuckin a baby into ya?” he spits, long sloppy tongue coming up to taste the dredges of tears streaming down your face- shit, when did you even start crying? 
“Shh shhh- don’t cry–” he’s cooing, rewarding you with another heavy smack! right onto your poor clit. Every steady clash against your over-sensitive g-spot only sends a fresh wave of big fat tears for Toji to kiss at. “-don’t cry, don’t cry. Never f’me, m’never hah- gonna kill off anything that makes my pretty wife cry-” A soft, salty peck on your lips, “-n’ that includes me. If ya asked me to, ma. I’ll give ya anything you ever want.”
There’s a creaking slam! on the wooden surface, and a hasty look over your shoulder shows that Toji has hiked his knee up onto the desk. For a second, you wonder whether it hurt - whether the throbbing shaft of his cock wasn’t rubbed raw by now, whether his abs weren’t just burning with movement. Fucking you so recklessly into the desk.
But oh, you think Toji Zenin would care?
You think he would give a fuck about anything other than rutting riotously into your gripping cunt? Drilling into you again and again until your tip-toes don’t even reach the ground at the force of his pressurized thrusts. The change in angle has his leaky tip glide glossy lines right across the bottom of your dripping pussy and pressing down harshly onto your g-spot. So rough. So mean. You’re scrambling further and further up the desk and-
“Now now-” Toji hoists your weak hips up ever-so-slightly back to him, before pinning you to the desk with his full, heavy bodyweight. “No running away. Heh…how funny would it be if I actually did jus’ hngh- fuck a baby into ya right now?” His fingers get so sloppy on your clit, “Fill ya up- rub an heir right in everyone’s faces?”
“Shit- m’so close- again-” Your ears are popping at the pure saturated stimulation when his hand down below rolls over your clit. Desperate. Depraved. Glossing up the curve of his thick thumb with all the sweet slick beading out with each broken thrust. It’s like he was out of control - losing his fucking mind. And your delirious mind wondered whether you’d be next, that faint cracking of joints certainly not boding well for either of you. “Toji, m’gonna-”
He’s so erratic - sloppy. And so it only makes sense that your orgasm was the same - fuck, you didn’t even realize it at first.
So hard that your vision flashes red and white, breathing raggedly gasping in lungfuls as you rock your sticky hips back into Toji’s so greedily. Your voice is shot - because you’re moaning Toji’s name so loud that it almost felt disrespectful, echoing across the sex-thickened air. “Tha’s right- scream as loud as you want, ma. It’s just us in this house.”
And maybe it was that - maybe it was the feeling of your velvety walls clamping down hard around his achy length - maybe it was just the way you’re whispering out such saccharine sweet, “Cum inside.”
Because Toji’s fractured sanity can only handle a few more unkindly bullying drives into your gushing cunt before he’s cumming and cumming so much he thinks he might die. 
Doesn’t know if he can - if he wants to - stop.
“Oh- ohhh fuck- didn’t think I’d actually-” You feel a branding bite inside the crook of your neck as his sloppy white seed splatters at your inner thigh with each rummaging thrust forward. Oozing down in messy, thick dredges. “-hngh- gonna fill you up so good- until you can’t take it anymore.” You didn’t know if you already could - because you felt so full. Toji’s syrupy cum sloshing around with each ram of his hips, coating your walls in a creamy, slick-like sheen on the inside. 
“Yes–” you sigh over another splintering crack! from somewhere, “Fuck fuck fuck- need you to- hngh, wanna make you a daddy- give you an heir, To-”
It’s as if he couldn’t bear to hear your swollen lips part with his name, because Toji’s shutting you up with a sweltering kiss. Still mounted and rutting into you so animalistically, “the best- the best momma, you’re gonna be the best momma-” he hushes into your mouth. Pliantly kneading your body into a sinful arch for him, you barely even register it when he’s carrying you away. Two thick fingers pooling his glistening cum, inching them back into your stretched-out cunt - “Don’t waste a single drop now- hngh- fuck, you’ll look so pretty all full.”
Before you know it, you’re being sprawled out so easily on the clean tatami mats below, face down, your hips being propped up by one of Toji’s. And in your bleary peripheral vision, you could just about make out how ruined that desk was - how broken. How the fuck haven’t either of you broken any bones, yet?
Or maybe you have - you wouldn’t even know at this point, because Toji was still slamming into your poor, overspilling pussy again. His harsh grunt puffs out in a feverish breath against your ear, “Told ya I was gonna ruin you, doll. Better get ready-” He’s punctuating each word with a sloppy, sold thrust, pace picking up to fuck you so thoroughly into the floor. ��Because I have a Plan D and a Plan E until m’sure you’re givin’ me an heir.”
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A/N. Ooo what if I made a clan leader series? Thoughts?
Plagiarism not authorized.
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sttoru · 7 months ago
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⠀ 𝝑𝑒 ⠀⠀ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒. you’re heavily pregnant with sukuna’s child and so desperately need to have your specific pregnancy cravings: mangoes. when you realise you’re out of them, you turn into an emotional mess.
tags. true form!sukuna x wife!female reader. fluff, sfw. pregnancy. size difference (reader referred to as small). reader gets called ‘woman, brat’ wc: 1.8k
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you’re crying in your chambers, the volume of your cries overshadowing sukuna’s arrival at the estate. you hiccup and sniffle as you sit in the corner of the master bedroom. there really doesn’t seem to be an end to your mental breakdown.
you’re prone to mood changes because of your pregnancy, already being seven months along. your belly is as round as a globe as it sticks out from under your kimono.
you hold onto your lower abdomen while mumbling to yourself. “not fair,” you rub your blurry eyes with your free hand.
the bedroom doors suddenly swing open. you lift your head from your knees and make eye contact with your husband who looks rather . . . upset. more upset than you are at the moment, that’s for sure.
you whimper as his big and intimidating stature dwarfs over yours while you’re stuck in the corner. when you look up at him, you cry even louder. seeing that familiar face after two whole days of suffering in this place alone gets you even more emotional.
after sukuna entered the room, his gaze had immediately fell upon your quivering figure. he raises an eyebrow as you cry louder once you spot him, the sound breaking his ear drums. he lets out a sharp exhale, a hint of annoyance seeping into his tone.
“enough with the tears,” sukuna grumbles as he crosses the room in a few long strides. his presence is both imposing and protective as he looms over your small figure.
his eyes flicker over your body—taking in the sight of your round belly. he can’t deny that the view makes his shoulders relax, relieved to see his wife do well after two days without seeing you.
sukuna kneels down before you, his eyes narrowing as he notices the tears running down your cheeks. who knows how long you’ve been sobbing? the realisation that no one has checked on you while you’ve been crying like this irks him.
the king of curses will make sure that every single servant - and especially the ones assigned to you - pay for not noticing your sour mood sooner.
“damn it, woman,” sukuna curses under his breath, his words laden with both irritation and a sense of concern, “what’s gotten into you now, hmm? why the blubbering mess?"
you hiccup, gasping for air as sukuna kneels down to your level, something he rarely does. one of his hands reach out to wipe a tear from your cheek, his expression stoic and unreadable while he does so.
“welcome home,” you utter, remembering to greet him properly. you wipe your own tears away and try to explain the situation without it sounding absurd. “i—i went down to the kitchen to get som-something,” you stammer, trying to spit it out before sukuna’s irritation spikes.
“but they didn’t have the food i craved—they’re out of mangoes,” your wailing starts again just at the thought of your non existent fruit. it felt like the most devastating moment in your life when the maids told you that they were out of mangoes.
sukuna’s annoyance quickly dissolves upon hearing your explanation. the revelation that you’re crying over mangoes seems so unbelievable, so absurd, that he couldn't help but let out a dry huff of laughter. an amused smirk tugs at the corners of his lips.
the pink haired man brushes the remnants of the tears away from your face. his rough fingers pause at your chin, giving it a light tap. “mangoes, huh? y’re out here bawling y’r fucking eyes out like a baby for some damn mangoes?”
despite his tough exterior, sukuna knows that pregnancy hormones often amplified emotions, making even the smallest things a cause for crying. and right now, you’re stressing and sputtering over some mangoes.
“mangoes,” you nod and cry softly, watching as sukuna rubs your cheeks with his manly fingers, enjoying his rough touch. you easily guess by just the increased toughness of his calluses that your husband has worked hard while he was gone.
though, mangoes are your current pregnancy craving and not having them meant war to you. it’s all you can focus on—even if your beloved sukuna is right in front of you.
“i need them,” you whine and pout. your hormones made it difficult for you to calm down.
you do, however, try your best to stop crying. you clean your face with the sleeve of your kimono and bite on your bottom lip to refrain from bawling your eyes out for the nth time. “i want my mangoes,” your voice is hoarse as you glance up at sukuna, “please?”
sukuna hates to admit it, but his expression softens upon hearing the hoarse tone of your pleading voice. the view of your tear-streaked face and the knowledge that you’re experiencing pregnancy cravings makes it difficult for him to maintain his usual firm demeanor.
the king of curses sighs, his annoyance replaced by a reluctant acceptance of your plight. “tsk, damn it,” he mutters, lazily resting his head against the palm of one of his hands, “y’re really gonna make me fetch you some mangoes?”
here you are, a grown woman crying and begging like a kid for a sweet, juicy mango. he’s seen you in many states - happy, sad, tired, excited - but never quite as emotionally overwhelmed just for a piece of fruit. sukuna’s large hand reaches out to pat your head in a surprisingly gentle manner, a rare display of his softer side.
you pout at sukuna and lean into his touch as he pats your head. you come up with something witty to say, as you always do. “well, you’re the one who got me pregnant,” you comment in a teasing way, sticking your tongue out at your husband.
no matter what sour mood you’re in, you can still be sassy. though it doesn’t last long before your bottom lip trembles again. “i can’t do anything about it. the baby craves mangos,” you whine as you rub your baby bump to emphasise your words.
you are eating for two people after all—for you and the baby.
sukuna’s smirk widened at your retort and the playful gesture. even in your distraught state, you had the audacity to sass him. damn cheeky little woman.
the pink-haired man chuckled darkly, his hand clumsily ruffling your hair again before pulling away. “‘n i don’t regret a thing. even if i gotta put up with y’r cranky ass.”
you roll your eyes at sukuna’s reply. you know you’re an emotional mess, but you couldn’t care less. anything for your mangoes—those juicy ones that you could eat a dozen of in one sitting.
“the maids said that the mangoes were out of stock in the towns ‘nd villages nearby,” you continue while you carefully stand up from the corner. you’re trying your best to stay rational. you’re extremely hungry and haven’t eaten ever since breakfast. that’s how stubborn you are being.
“but i’m hungryyyyy. want my mangoes,” you sigh and nearly stomp your feet out of frustration.
“yeah, yeah—fuckin’ hell,” sukuna groans, watching you slowly stand up, your pregnant belly protruding like a perfect sphere. it’s a constant reminder of the effect he has on you, and somehow, it makes him proud.
he helps you stand up by holding onto your arm, sharp eyes focused on your body to make sure you don’t strain a single muscle.
after you manage to stand up straight, you walk with sukuna to the kitchen to find something to eat—perhaps some other fruit will satisfy your cravings for now.
sukuna follows behind you, his steps long and leisurely while your shorter strides keep the pace with him. as the two of you walked towards the kitchen, he continues to listen to your repeated mantra. it’s driving him insane.
“mangoes, mangoes, mangoes. i get it, brat,” the king of curses swears he can feel the vein in his forehead throb. you’re lucky that he . . . tolerates you as his wife.
it’s something more than just ‘tolerating’ you, of course. but openly admitting to loving you, even in the slightest, is something sukuna would never do.
if someone would ask him why he goes the extra mile for you, his answer would be that it’s simply because you’re carrying his heir. however only sukuna knows the full truth, the sappy secret he’ll forever keep to himself.
before you arrive at the kitchen, you bump into uraume. they glance from sukuna to you and bow. “good day,” they greet you with as much respect as they do to sukuna. they’ve been doing so ever since you gained your title as his wife.
the king of curses folds all four of his arms over his chest. his lower pair of eyes are still focused on your impatient self, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. he just knows you’re holding yourself back from asking for your active pregnancy craving again.
sukuna clicks his tongue and nods his head at you while he speaks to uraume. “keep an eye on her while ‘m gone. feed her what she wants,” he says in his deep voice, his tone commanding and firm.
uraume remains quiet for a second. sukuna had recently came back from a mission and is once again heading out for some ambiguous reason, but they know better than to question their master.
“where are you going, hubby?”
you of course, get a free pass. you don’t hesitate at all before questioning your husband. sukuna scoffs when he hears your voice ask him that in such an oblivious manner. you should’ve known where he was departing to.
“where’d you think, smartass?” he pinches your nose, causing you to swat his fingers away out of instinct. he gives up on your nose and moves to squeeze your cheeks together in a gentle yet firm manner.
you huff at his antics. sukuna grins at your frown and pout before releasing your jawline with a faint push.
“you better hold on ‘til i come back with y’r stupid mangoes,” he scoffs while turning around to walk to the entrance, “and when i do, i don’t wanna hear ‘nother squeak, understood?”
sukuna seems to have made another mission for himself; find his heavily pregnant wife mangoes before she goes absolutely insane.
your face lights up and you nod repeatedly. your heart melts when you realise that sukuna is actually putting effort to satisfy your needs. he may be harsh and stern at times, but his actions speak louder than his words.
“okay! love you, ‘kuna!” you call out to your lover while he disappears behind the gates. as expected, your words are met by silence.
that’s fine with you. not hearing an ‘i love you’ back doesn’t hurt you as much as it did at the start of your relationship.
you know sukuna cherishes you in his own special way. if he didn’t, you’d be dead long time ago. on top of that, he would not go out on a hunt for mangoes right after coming back home if he didn’t like you.
you know sukuna would let the world burn for you.
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porcupine-girl · 2 months ago
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Can we please get one thing straight?
Nobody should be giving Mao Zedong any ups. None whatsoever.
This is a man who accidentally killed tens of millions of his own citizens (look up Great Leap Forward) and then killed or brutalized millions more on purpose while also decimating his country’s intellectual and artistic landscape in ways that took decades to recover from (look up the Cultural Revolution - and if you could stomach that Neil Gaiman article, you may be able to stomach firsthand accounts from survivors of it).
I LOVE what’s happening on 小红书 right now! I am SO EXCITED for more Americans to realize the lies they’ve been sold about modern China and to discover this rich cultural, historical, and linguistic landscape that many of us in Chinese fandoms have become obsessed with.
But do not romanticize Mao or the devastation he wrought. The only reason he’s still venerated there is that the CCP felt like admitting he was wrong would undermine people’s trust in The Party and so after his death they managed to blame most of the worst of his shit on his wife Jiang Qing and the Gang of Four.
There are other issues, obviously - it will be interesting to see what happens when TikTok refugees run up against CCP censorship, which tends to be harder to get around than just saying “unalive” - but this is one that I’m truly worried about. Don’t forget that capitalism and communism are economic systems, not systems of government, and they can both be paired with many types of government - yes, we’ve got a guy who wants to be a capitalist dictator, but that doesn’t make Mao less of a communist dictator.
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aboudalhaj · 4 months ago
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Help My Family Escape the Devastation in Gaza
🚨Urgent Appeal 🚨
I am Abdullah Al-Hajj, 25 years old. I graduated from high school with big dreams of earning a university degree, but life took a different turn. Due to the difficult circumstances we faced, I couldn’t pursue my academic aspirations. Instead, I joined my brother in the field of chemical manufacturing, and I quickly learned the craft. It became the primary source of income for our family. Through this work, I was able to get married and start building my own life.
But everything changed when the war broke out in Gaza. The relentless bombings destroyed not just our workplace, but also every hope and dream we had built. The factory that had provided for our family was reduced to rubble. I found myself struggling to provide for even the most basic necessities—food, water, and medical care for my pregnant wife, who is expecting our first child.
As the war intensified and the destruction spread to our neighborhood, we were forced to flee to a safer area. We found shelter in a makeshift tent, which barely protected us from the scorching summer heat or the bitter winter cold. Life in the tent has been harsh, and survival has become a daily struggle.
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My younger brother, Bilal Al-Hajj, always had big dreams. From a young age, he aspired to become a professional football player. Recently, Bilal graduated from high school and enrolled in university, determined to balance his education with his passion for football. His dream was to play for one of the major football clubs, a goal he had worked tirelessly toward for years.
But the war shattered Bilal’s dreams as well. The harsh realities of our situation—the struggle for food, water, and basic medical care—have made it impossible for him to chase his passion. The war has not only destroyed homes and buildings but also ambitions, hopes, and the future we once envisioned.
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🎯Campaign Goal:
Your donations can make a life-changing difference for my family. We need to evacuate my family of six from Gaza, and the cost of permits and coordination to leave is about $5,000 per person. Once we reach Egypt, your support will help secure shelter and cover initial living expenses as we adjust to a new life. The ongoing siege in Gaza has made survival increasingly difficult, with skyrocketing prices and severe shortages of food and water. Your generous contributions will help us meet immediate needs and begin rebuilding our lives. Please consider donating through the link below—your help can offer us a chance for safety, stability, and hope.
Donation Link: https://gofund.me/40968e1f
Your kindness can give my family a chance to escape the devastation, protect the next generation, and reignite hope for a peaceful and dignified life. 
Thank you for standing with us in these difficult times.
Warm regards, Abdullah Al-Hajj
✅ My Campaign ✅ 🔍Vetted by @90-ghost here 🔍✅️Vetted by @gazavetters, my number verified on the list is ( #300 )✅️ here
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bi-writes · 4 months ago
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an eye for an eye | knight!ghost x f!reader
your husband bends to your will. men must learn from difficult lessons how far that bending goes.
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type: a continuation of a hand for a hand, but can be read stand-alone (11.6k), AO3
cw: 1600s au, dark!ghost, reader described as curvier/plus-sized, graphic depictions of war + violence, possessive!ghost, war-criminal!ghost, inaccurate historical settings probably, unprotected piv, cumplay, breeding kink, size kink, simon "i'd do anything for my wife no matter the devasting consequences" riley (18+)
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Your husband has an insatiable appetite. Such a big man he is; he towers over you, so much so that you must tip your head back always to look up at him. You had to make many arrangements in your house to accommodate his hunger–a pantry stocked full of eggs and less fabric for your skirts.
Your house isn’t like others. Neither you nor Ghost have ever lived in luxury. When he showed you your home for the first time, you had shaken your head–you didn’t believe that such a large place was supposed to be yours, and even now, sometimes you feel like a stranger, out of place when the maids ask you what you want for supper or where you’d like to take your afternoon tea. You don’t like the fuss, the asking, the women that curtsy when you come near, concentrated over the creases in your skirts or the loose thread of your sleeve or the wispy hairs that fall out of your braids. You are told all the time that you must behave like a duchess, that you must poise yourself with your new title and your new money, and you must do the things that duchesses do–but no one says the same to your husband.
He is still allowed to sleep in the barracks. Lick the blood off his gauntlets. Polish his sword in the dirt. He’s still allowed to be everything that you cannot be anymore, he still lives the life he had before.
He still kills; and he is still very, very good at it.
Your queen told you in a letter that the king is very pleased. Ever since your union, Ghost has been quite the conqueror. Bloodthirsty and very determined, your husband has been taking his men across the water. He is not any less impressive off land. Not even the pirates have tried to negotiate; they bend the knee or taste the salt water. You breathe shakily when you read your queen’s letters—her praise for your husband’s conquests, how blessed your family will be and how valuable you are to the crown, how grateful she is that Ghost is no longer a fiend in court but rather a little more polite and a little quieter.
All for your sake. Ghost’s name is now your own, and he refuses to embarrass you now that you have it.
You won’t lie; the bodies that Ghost has stacked since you’ve been wed do not scare you. He’s doing it for you. He has never said it out loud, never told you so, but you know it. He wants to show you what kind man that he is, what kind of soldier—you know he’s trying to prove himself worthy. If he killed a thousand men to have you, how many will he slaughter to keep you?
He sends you letters of his own. Not many, but he does send letters, and while Ghost seems to be ineloquent and entirely too brutish, he has quite the voice when he writes.
To my wife,
The sun falls quicker here. I’d like to come home. Tell me of your day, and I will tell you of mine. There were a fleet of ships that came to meet us at dawn. When we sank three, they begged for us to spare the rest.
I have you to think about now. So I burned them.
Simon
A poet, your beloved.
He signs his real name in his letters. Your eyes skim over most of it–you don’t even blink when he tells you what he does to them. Sometimes he writes in great detail about the screams of a hundred souls, the way burning flesh smells, the taste of dirt in a new place when you know it is finally yours. He doesn’t like having secrets. He tells you all his thoughts, even if they might scare you, because you are his wife, and he has discovered quite quickly that you have been cut from the same cloth.
Even when he is home, and he tells you these things all over again, he can’t help the way his cock hardens when you merely blink and ask him if he has added any scars to his collection.
Ravenous, naughty little duchess, and you are all his. He knows he picked well–he knows, he knows he wasn’t wrong when he saw you across the throne room hiding behind his queen, he knows now that he was right about what he saw in your eyes.
You do hate when he’s away. You’re not used to the maids helping you dress, and you secretly abhor the help. That is why when you hear the shuffle of your house early in the morning, your heart thuds in your chest knowing he’s home.
The staff get antsy when Simon is around. He is very good at keeping an estate for someone that has never had to or ever been taught to, but he leaves the responsibilities with you and only you every time he goes. He doesn’t trust anyone else to do it, and every time he comes back, he makes you sit on one big thigh as he teaches you something new that you need to remember for when he goes away. He demands much of those he employs, and they are eager to please him. Whether it is because they respect him or are afraid of him, you aren’t sure.
Perhaps it’s both.
You sit up as the bedroom door opens. You smile, big and wide and sleepy as he steps into the room. He shuts the door with his boot, slipping his hood off, and you sigh as he grips the clasp of his mask and unhooks it. He tosses it onto the floor, bare-faced, and as he makes his way towards the bed, he sheds the rest of his clothes until he’s completely naked.
You cannot stop yourself from the shaky breath you take. He is all muscle and fat, strong and entirely too scary, but it’s hard to focus on what he really is when he stands before you like this. He has fat thighs, big shoulders, carved muscle of intense labor around his middle and along his biceps. He has large hands with calloused palms and split knuckles, and your eyes meet his own as he comes closer. He’s so gorgeous, even with a face like that. He has a long scar that stretches from one brow to his lower jaw, another that cuts his nose and splits his lip, but those eyes are dark and lovely, and you can’t help the warmth that comes over you when he catches you staring at him, closer, right to his cock that hangs heavy between his legs.
Just as he begins to lower himself onto the bed, you hold out a hand, giggling.
“Simon, if you think you are getting into this bed without a proper bath, you’re mistaken!” You laugh, and he raises a brow.
“Mmm…” He smacks his lips together. “Tha’ right, my lady?” He clicks his tongue. “This is my bed. ’s oll mine. Every blanket…every pillow…” He grips your ankle from under the covers and yanks you towards him. “And every part of you.”
You giggle again, shaking your head, “Please, Simon!” You push him away with your toes. “They only changed the sheets yesterday. You’ll dirty them…” You flutter your lashes. “Will you bathe if I join you?”
He grins wide, licking over his teeth.
“Can’t refuse an offer like tha’.”
You hold out your hand for him, and he takes it gently. You watch as he brings your knuckles towards his mouth, and you bite back a smile when he decides to kiss each one, slow. He tugs finally, pulling you up, and you wrap your arms around his neck as he hoists you up into his arms. You would worry about your weight normally, but Simon holds you so easily, barely even a grunt as he wraps your legs around his middle. You don’t waste another second, cupping his cheeks in your hands and kissing him softly.
It’s never just a kiss with Simon. He slides one of his hands up your back, into your hair, and you whine as he tips your head back just enough to slip his tongue into your mouth. Simon doesn’t just kiss, he consumes. What he did to get back to you, the things he endured, the places he has seen and the bodies he has buried and burned and scattered across the places he now calls country, it’s always to get back to this place.
To you.
“How’s my boy?” He asks when you pull away. He carries you to another room, to where the tub sits, and he rings a bell by the door to call the maids in. You snatch a robe off a hook and cover him with it as he sits with you, but all he does is put a few fingers under your chin and make you look at him again. “Oi. Asked ya question, luv.”
Your lip wobbles a little, and you look away.
“I…”  You wait until the maids have gone to fetch hot water to tell him. “I bled while you were gone. I…”  You smooth your hands over the robe, distracting yourself. “I’m…I’m sorry, Simon.”
You close your eyes as he leans close, resting his forehead against yours, and you shake a little as he lets out a warm breath against your lips. He moves a warm hand over your soft stomach, cupping you there, and you lean your head back a little at the tender touch.
“It will happen,” he says finally, and your mouth opens to respond, but he sticks his thumb between your lips to shut you up. He doesn’t want to hear you blame yourself. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s his, for not being here with you, for not be able to take care of you. You give in, suckling on the salt of him, and he grits his teeth as he watches you. “I know. Seen it in m’dreams.”
Simon has dreams. Lots of dreams, but he tells you that they are not dreams, they are glimpses into something that has already happened. When you asked if he was some kind of seer, the kind that the king used to have at parties, Simon doesn’t laugh.
He says the dreams are why he knows he won’t die. Why he is never afraid, because he knows somewhere behind his eyes what’s to come even if he didn’t see the entire painting of it. It is why he knew he would marry you; it is why he paid you so much attention, why he knew he would win his battles, why he always knows whose blood it is in his mouth because he has tasted their death before and relishes in the knowing of it all, in the certainty.
It’s never I think, it is always I know, and Simon is nothing if he is not the most honest man that you know.
So if he says you will have his babe, it is as good as truth. As green as the grass grows beneath his feet, as blue as his sky, and as red as the blood that is caked underneath his nails.
When the tub is filled with water, you let Simon sink into it first. You kneel beside it, picking up a glass of oil, pouring it into your palms before sinking your hands into his hair. It’s gotten longer since he left, in need of a cut, but you smile when he leans his head back into your shoulder. You can feel his content as he relaxes into you, and you admire his physique as you use the warm water and scrub the mud and grime off of him.
“I missed you, husband,” you whisper, and he only lets you massage his hair for a few more moments before he grips you by the wrist and tugs you forward, right into the bath. “Simon!” you laugh, “my night dress—oh!—it’s ruined!”
“Too far away,” he mutters, practically ripping the silk off of you as he tosses it besides the bath. “Mmm…” He cups your breasts with two big hands, smoothing his thumbs over your nipples, and you whine a little as he pulls at them just enough to make them stiffen. “Y’should be naked when I come home,” he says lowly. “I’ll soil y’r bloody gown next time, m’lady.”
You giggle, and he smiles. A real smile. As real as he’ll ever give anyone, maybe the only one that anyone has ever even seen. He has never shown his face in court, and while it angers the women and irks the men, you revel in the fact that all of this is only for you.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
You kiss him softly. The water sloshes, warm and inviting, and sometimes you forget your life used to be anything but joy. A year ago, you would not believe that you would be here, titled, wealthy, in a stone room lit by candles bathing with a blood hungry ghost.
A year ago, you trembled whenever he looked at you. You cowered when you heard his footsteps. What a stupid little girl you had been. What a fool. She had no idea what she could have, the kinds of things she could hold in her hand.
Real power wasn’t being able to command a room with your words. Real power was being able to say anything and have it be believed as truth. Real power was making someone look in one direction and have them see what you see, even if what you see isn’t real.
He lays you down in your bed afterward and eats. Your wet hair soaks the sheets, but you can’t seem to be really bothered as he fits your legs over his shoulders and bends you at the waist, his mouth suctioned to your clit as he eats you slowly. One of his hands is spread out over your tummy, the other you can hear making a squelch as he fists his own cock. It’s slow and methodical, and he slides his tongue between your folds firm, catching what dribbles from you on the tip of his tongue before he swallows it and leans in for more.
He has eaten you in nearly every room in your house. Frightened the cooks tossing you onto the dining table, given a servant a scare as he ducked under your skirts in the library, had the gardeners fleeing as he dropped you onto the grass near the lake and disappeared with a frenzy to eat your cunt during sunrise. It’s maddening, the kind of need that Simon requires, but it’s hard to refuse when you feel so warm and bubbly and happy after he’s finished. A pampered princess you are, never lifting a finger, only awake long enough when he’s home to eat until you’re full and cum until you fall asleep again.
Maybe that’s why you’re not pregnant yet. Simon likes to be here, between your thighs, mouth fixed on your wet pussy until he’s practically exhausted himself with a sore jaw and lax tongue.
He kisses you sloppy after. Licking into your mouth, practically spitting onto your tongue, wanting you to taste—tastes so good, luvvie, don’t ya see, yeah?—wanting you to know why he’s so eager to be on his knees all the time.
You sniffle, a little dizzy, shaking your head.
“’s not what I really want,” is all you whimper, and he nods, because he knows, he always knows.
“I know, luv. I know wot ya really need.”
“I must be broken,” you sob, cradling his face in your hands, and he shakes his head.
“Not broken,” Simon assures you. He speaks so surely that it’s hard not to believe him. “It wasn’t time.”
“You can’t see the future, Simon! You don’t know!” You cry, and he snarls a little, shaking his head again.
“You listen t’me,” he growls. You shake a little as he grabs your face with one hand, fixing your jaw under his grip as he holds onto you firmly. “Wot I say goes. Y’r my wife, so listen t’me, and listen t’me good. Y’r not broken. Not time. Say it back t’me.”
Your lip trembles, and he rattles your head a little.
“Say it,” he snaps, and you hiccup.
“It’s not time,” you whisper, and he plants a fat kiss onto your tear-soaked lips.
“Just need my cock, luv,” he murmurs. “Tha’s oll. Just need me t’fuck it outta ya.”
You nod, pressing your face to his, and he tuts, reaching down and spreading your legs wide to accommodate him between them as he lays over you.
“’s oll y’need,” he repeats, and you nod again.
You have to take another bath in the same morning; and this time, you weren’t able to walk there.
You like when Simon is home because it’s quiet. The only one that dotes on you here is Simon. The maids do not dress you or do your hair or moisturize your skin. It’s always Simon.
You smile at him in the mirror as you sit at your vanity. He has a brush in one hand, and he’s using it delicately to detangle your hair how you like. His hands are practiced and gentle, and when he finishes, he leans over you as he starts to part your hair to braid it. He did not have sisters, but his mother had him always do her hair after she lost the use of her hands with age. You don’t know where his mother is, but you assume she is not here anymore, because he never invites you to meet her.
He oils your skin. He slips the robe off of you, revealing your damp skin from the bath, and he slathers oil in his hands before using it to soften your skin. He takes his time, smoothing those big hands over your shoulders, down your back, along your arms. You tilt your head back when he warms your breasts, squeezing and fondling your tits. He murmurs in your ear the entire time, and he has to fuck you with his fingers to quiet you when he stops because just his hands on your tits has you wet all over again.
He dresses you, too. Helps you slip into your undergarments, fastens the cage for your skirts over your hips. He ties them skillfully, and after he layers your skirts over the farthingale, he gets you into your corset. It’s intimate as he does this. Even with your wide skirt, he comes closer, over your shoulder, and he tugs at the laces at your back, pulling it tight with firm grunts. You sigh when he buries his face into the crook of your neck, his hand skimming over your breasts as they sit nice and perky between stiff fabric and whalebone.
“Fuck,” he mutters. “Fuck, unnerving…the way ya look…”
You close your eyes, “S-Simon, please…I’m already dressed…”
He chuckles, “I know. I know.”
But when he has to leave again, you nearly come with him. You fasten his armor for him, help him slip each piece of leather on and click every piece of metal into place. You tie his cloak and slip his mask on, and you try and duck your head when you flip his hood up, but he catches you, tilting your chin up.
He huffs when he sees your face. Tears sliding down your cheeks, lips wet with them, eyes all glassy and red. He draws you up onto your toes, pressing his mouth to yours through the mask, and you hold onto him tightly, digging your nails into his chest armor and threatening to not let go.
“I want to go.“
“No.”
“Simon, let me go,” You gasp, begging, gripping his hood in firm fists and not caring that his armor is cutting into your front. “Let me go with you, I can’t do this anymore, I want to go, I can do it.”
You aren’t sure if Simon underestimates you. You think it’s more that he does not want you to see him in a place where he is most true. Where he wears the least of a disguise. He does not know he wears it the least with you, and that you have already seen his blood and how it curdles under his skin. You like it that way. You like him angry…and mean…and terrible. You like him when his sword is dirty and his armor needs polishing and his mind thinks of nothing else besides war. He should know this by now. He should know that you see him and see what he is even more than his king, more than his men.
He couldn’t scare you, even if he tried.
“War is not where women go,” Simon snaps. His tone is harsh, even for you, and you stiffen when he grips you by the jaw and rattles your head a little. “Especially not one like you, my love. War would eat ya, eat ya fuckin’ whole. Look at ya…” He huffs, deep, sliding that gloved hand down your throat to slip it beneath the neckline of your dress and fondle your breast with a firm grip. “Beautiful. Meant for my lips…for these dresses…meant to be held in my hands, not bleed from stray arrows, because tha’ is surely the least of wot they would do t’ya if they knew ya were my wife. Now ya will wipe these tears, ‘n see me off, and then ya will come back inside like a good girl, ‘n you will wait for me here until I come back.”
Your bottom lip trembles, and you scowl up at him. Not indifference, but frustration, and Simon doesn’t think it suits you.
“I’m sick of waiting for you, Simon,” you spit. “It’s all I ever do, wait. Wait for you to come back, alive or dead, I never know. And don’t say you do this for country, that is a lie.” You shove him backwards, but he barely budges when your hands touch his chest, a rigid wall that does not give. “You do it because you like it. You’re a bloodthirsty dog, and all you do is bend to our king’s will.”
A lie, but you tell it anyways, because you want something, and he will not give it to you.
“That is my duty.”
“Your duty is to me,” you snap. “Kings come and go, but I will not.” Simon stills. He glares down at you from behind his mask, and perhaps this might terrify his men, but that you are not. You are his wife, and you are protected by that title alone. The only man to ever lay a hand on you would not live to see another second, himself included. “Now you will let me join you, or so help me God, Simon, I will not be here when you return.”
You do not expect the full-bellied laugh that leaves him. His armor shakes with him, and you grind your teeth, narrowing your eyes. He uses his thumb to force his mask up, and then he cups the back of your head and draws you in for a sloppy kiss. You resist at first, but when he feeds you his tongue, you melt. You kiss him back, letting him draw you closer, and you sigh as he tangles his fingers into your hair and cradles you with those big hands.
There is nothing more to say. Simon neither confirms nor denies, but you taste it in his mouth, his devotion. Not wrong, not right, but just so–he has many responsibilities, but you are the only one that will remain the same. One day, his king will die, and he will serve another, but the space you have made beside him will never change. Even when you die, because he knows you will go before him, there will never be someone else to fill it. You and you only, the woman he found and made his, the one he demanded lest he kill his own country for it, it will always be you. Soft and sweet, you are, but the Lord knew Simon could only have one woman, and he made it be you; the one spitfire enough to defy her own king because she trusted his love enough for it.
Would you commit treason to save his life? Would you watch a king die if it meant your beloved lived? 
Would he?
He thinks about what you have said when he takes his fleet across the water. He runs his tongue over his teeth behind his mask, breathing deep when he thinks about your proclamations of duty. Of change. Of what remains when other things move, of the kind of life that waits for him when he comes and goes with a king’s order. He thinks about how easily he is taken away from you, and he knows there is truth in what you feel. It is not really Simon that sacrifices, it is what he leaves behind, and that is you.
It’s never angered him before. He had accepted the fact, as early as your wedding day, that he would leave and come back, then leave again. It has always been the way of his life, come desire or not, so it bothers him that of all the things that surprised him in his life, it would be missing someone that shocked him the most.
Missing his wife. Missing the serene perfection of one woman, and the perfect place between her soft thighs. Every day that he finds himself between them is the best day of his life, he reckons, so now he feels bitter about staring at a freezing ocean amongst his men because he will go weeks without her.
Her. Her. Her.
He is bitter, yes, until he is not.
It comes in a letter from a messenger on horseback. They have been stationed in a foreign land for weeks now, watching slowly as the stone walls of a castle at their front crumples day after day from the stones filled with powder that ignite what is wood and break what is rock. The letter is sealed with wax, with the motif of a snake. It is given directly to Simon, whose name is scribbled in the letter, and when he reads it, he tastes ichor and smoke.
So the great phantom has come to seal my fate. I am not in the business of letting what is mine be taken. Even if you have brought your all, it won’t be taken from me.
I heard you have a beautiful new wife. I heard you paid for her in blood.
I shall do the same. I will hang your sword above our marriage bed.
Ghost is not someone that bends to the threats from foe he cannot look in the eye. Words are so empty. It is nothing like when he stands just a few meters apart from them, eyes fixed against one another, as they decide whether today they want to live or they want to die. The letter means nothing, but he’s surprised by the heat that bubbles under his ribs at the mention of his bride. He meant it when he said you were not meant for war, and that meant in this regard, too–nobody was allowed to talk about you, not like this, not ever.
When his king orders him home, Ghost crumples the note and tosses it into embers. He watches it burn, and then he orders his men to set to flame the ground around the stone walls.
So men like him can be goaded, it seems. His resolve is not as strong as he thought.
The weeks make you anxious. All you do is sit and collect dues and tell the maids which dress you want to wear and which you do not. It is peaceful and boring, and you wish Simon was here to make your days more exciting, but he is not.
His letters are the only things that keep you occupied, truly. He writes to you about war and loneliness, and you write to him about the mundane of domesticity and the ache he leaves behind. Sometimes, his letters come folded with pressed flowers he finds along the way, and you start to collect them, putting them away in small boxes or using them as bookmarks as you go through Simon’s library.
He has many books. His most loved books are those of war, of history, and you smooth your fingers over the pages he has dogeared and find comfort in reading the same words that he once did. You learn, as well. While in your studies as a girl, they made you learn arithmetic and the flowery bits of history and art, here in Simon’s house, you learn of strategy and weaponry and military tactic. Sometimes you disagree, and you write about these disagreements to Simon, and he writes back, pleased with your observations. He told you once that if you were a man, he would want you in that tent with him, beside him, deciding on which formations to take and when to strike. You responded saying that you could be that for him anyway. What did your sex have anything to do with whether you were right or wrong?
Simon agreed.
But I would never invite you here, dear wife. You have to understand that.
When your queen asks for your audience for dinner, you oblige easily; finally, you have something to do rather than add up numbers or sign a document on Simon’s behalf or read another fucking book.
You don’t want to wear all the costume your maids insist on, but you appease them after they repeatedly explain to you what your title means. With a drawn face, you let them tie your corset and layer your skirts, and you watch in the mirror as they braid your hair and drape large, obnoxious jewels over you. You grimace at the tiara they fit into your hair, and your elderly handmaid pinches your cheeks and tells you to put on a fair countenance, Your Grace, lest you make the Duke look ungrateful.
You bite your tongue from snapping at her. She should know that Simon would say nothing about your countenance; all he would do is fix whatever was bothering you until you smiled again.
You arrive early enough to have tea. Your queen is so excited to see you; she gushes when you meet her in the throne room, pulling you up from your curtsy so she can hug you tight, squealing. When you try to address her with a curt “Your Majesty,” she shakes her head, pressing her hands to your cheeks and giggling, “No need for formalities now. Call me Victoria.”
You hide your displeasure with a small smile. Now that you are no longer her lady-in-waiting, she allows you her name. Is it because she sees you more as equals, or because now you’re allowed to be somewhat of friends?
You must be some kind of friend. She sizes you up like you are one. She wears England’s colors this afternoon. A fire red dress adorned with gold accents, a dragon pin holding her shawl. She wears magnificent red and gold jewelry, but she’s looking at your dress, and you can see the slight twitch of her eye. You are wearing French lace, and she doesn’t like it. Or maybe she doesn’t like the color, the accents of navy blue and silver that you wear.
The skull motif that is woven into your tiara and printed on your coat and sewn into your dress. Does it insult her? That all your life, you wore nothing but browns and beiges and grays, were invisible to her, and now you represent your house, visit her as your guest, and bear an honorable name?
You were no one when you served her. Just a girl, no close family, no friends, just a distant uncle who gave you to the crown that hoped you could be of service. That was to be your duty for all your life–to serve the king’s wife until she wanted you no more or until she was gone. To cater to her every need and every wish, no matter the time of day or night.
Now you sit across her, more noble. Refined. Wearing a dress she despises, perhaps because she likes it more than her own.
Over tea, she gossips about the other ladies she has visit. You’ve heard this before, but you’ve never been included in the conversation. She talks to you, and she wants to hear your opinion, and you find yourself uneasy as you try to think of what to say. She is your queen, and you want her to like you. When you worked for her, you earned her favor by always warming up her jewels before she put them on, by making sure she had her tea ready in the morning at her bedside, by always holding the fan she so loved for when she inevitably had a hot flash. Now, as her friend, you weren’t exactly sure what to do. You suck in a soft breath and look at her, and then you purse your lips.
You think it best to agree with her. To be on her side. You might not be her direct servant any longer, but you still must fall under her favor. A queen’s favor can be just as powerful, especially if she occasionally has the ear of her husband.
“Well, that’s not very kind of her,” you say finally, and she laughs.
“No! She’s such a prude. I think her husband doesn’t sleep in her bed enough, if you know what I mean,” she winks at you. You giggle at that. “Speaking of husbands–” She pops another cake in her mouth. “How is yours?”
You reach up and tug at your necklace a bit, smiling nervously.
“Oh, uh…” You clear your throat, “He’s doing very well. I hear his latest campaign is quite the success. His majesty is very smart, heading for the east that way, I’m sure they will be victorious soon enough.”
Victoria smiles at the thought of her husband. His intelligence. She always used to talk to you about how many hours he worked, how she hated when he was away, how she wished he was home more so he could give her a son because she was so, so lonely.
“Wise words from the duchess, aye, my love?”
You jump a bit at the low voice from behind, and when you turn, you gasp, immediately standing and falling into a delicate curtsy. John Price waves his hand, coming further into the room, shaking his head.
“It’s alright,” he tells you. “Please, sit. You’re here as my guest.”
You stand and lift your head, trying to relax. You take a seat, smiling nervously, and Victoria smiles giddily at her husband. When he bends to kiss her cheek, she fawns, reaching for his hand and squeezing it before taking another piece of tart and eating it. John hums before motioning for one of the staff to fill your cup again with tea. He eyes you curiously, taking in your appearance. You sit up at that, performatively brushing off over the skull pattern on your corset. John runs his tongue over his teeth, smoothing a big palm down his wife’s long coils of hair.
“Since you’re here, I’d like a word, if that’s alright,” John says to you. His tone carries a little more authority now, and Victoria sighs, whining a little.
“John, please, she’s my friend. Can’t it wait–”
“That wasn’t a question, Victoria,” John bites. Her face falls a little. She swallows and tucks her hands into her lap. You’re reminded as you look at the slight wobble of her lip that there is no one truly above John Price, not even her. You keep your face neutral, but if you were invisible, you’d pity her.
What a shame her husband sees her as less than. How embarrassing. Your Simon would never. Your Simon waits until you finish speaking before speaking himself. Your husband kneels to take off your shoes, your husband tears your skirts to get a taste of you, your husband used his teeth to sever a man’s throat just to have your hand.
What did John Price do to get his wife? Who did John Price kill to have her hand? How many bruises did he earn around his knees on their wedding night from eating her out? As many as Simon, whose knees were black and blue by morning?
No, you suppose not. How unfortunate. How pathetic.
Victoria picks up her skirt and stands, pasting a big smile on her face. It doesn’t reach her eyes, and you can see the way her hands shake a little as she scurries off. She scowls as soon as she turns away from John, clearly annoyed.
“I’ll go check on dinner,” she says, but it is soft and unenthusiastic.
When she goes, the room falls quiet. At the nod of John’s head, the staff leave, and you keep still in your seat as John sits across from you, picking up one of the cakes in front of him and breaking off a piece to busy himself. He keeps his eyes on his task of cutting up the cake in small pieces, focused on his hands and how they work. You watch him carefully, steeling yourself.
You anticipate a conversation between man and woman, not a king and his lesser.
“Simon’s been away for some time. I bet that’s difficult for you.”
You straighten your posture, realizing what this conversation will be. By his tone, John seems to think you a bored, stupid housewife, perhaps. Uneducated. A woman, no thoughts in her head. You let your face relax, and you fold your hands in your lap. Maybe now is the time John should learn who you are and who you are not.
What you have become and what you no longer are.
“I do just fine, Your Majesty,” you say finally. You pick up a spoon and drop a cube of sugar into your tea, and you stir, picking it up to take a long sip. John is curious by your content. You have a quick tongue. “I could say the same to you, couldn’t I?”
John laughs. He narrows his eyes a bit at your clever response, taking a large bite of the cake and running a cloth over his beard. His eyes sparkle a little.
“So you know.”
“Know what, Your Majesty?”
“You know I gave Simon orders. And you know he didn’t listen to me.”
You purse your lips, but he sees the shine in your eyes. The lack of surprise. His face twitches a bit, and you shake your head. You blink slow, and it irks him to see you so calm. He is your king, and Simon answers to him, and you are his wife, so you must answer, too.
“I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”
“I could have your husband’s head cut off for treason for that, you’re aware, aren’t you?”
You tilt your head to the side. What an odd thing for John to say. What an odd thing for John to contemplate, since it would never come to pass. “Don’t be daft, my king. You wouldn’t want to do that.”
John slams his fist on the table, making the plates and cups rattle with his frustration, but you do not even flinch. You blink, stone-faced, and it makes his nostrils flare. He recognizes that glare, he knows it well. He has seen it before, stared it down many times in rooms just like this. Only now, he is not fighting for land, he fights for control of the one man that he has always been able to rely on. Simon has followed him into battles outnumbered by a thousand men, and only now he ignores an order? Only now he chooses something different?
“Now, let’s be civil, Your Majesty,” you say softly. You smile at him, leaning your head in your hand. “Is there something that you need from me? I have a feeling you might have encouraged this dinner just so you could see me in passing, so why don’t you just ask me what you wanted to ask me?”
John lets out a deep breath, leaning his elbows on the table, lowering his voice. He leans towards you, and you admire how blue his eyes are. John is quite a handsome king, but he does not captivate you. It has been a long time since John has tasted blood, and he lacks the edge that you crave dearly.
“I need him back here, is what I need,” John murmurs.
“My king, I couldn’t get him back here any more than you could, even if I wanted to.”
“Now who’s being daft?”
You scoff, leaning back in your chair. John is not a stupid man. He created a beast of a man, and he is trying not to poke it too hard. You shift, brushing down your skirts, and you let out a low breath.
“Why did he refuse?” You ask finally.
“What?”
“Why does he ignore your order to come back?” You ask again. “I can’t think of a lot of reasons why he would stay. So why did he ignore you?”
John clicks his tongue, smoothing a few of his fingers over his beard. He averts his eyes, looking out the tall windows, frowning a little at the grim weather. The weather is always grim here, but it irks him at the moment, makes him scowl a little harder.
“I was…informed that there was some sort of letter,” John explains. “Some threat.”
“I don’t follow. He gets lots of threats. And terrible letters.”
“Was about you this time, Your Grace.”
You close your eyes at that, shaking your head. Simon would never be so foolish as to be baited by baseless threats. He barely bats an eye when someone even in front of him draws his sword. He is so comforted by his ability to win, by his dreams and his visions that have not yet happened.
“That’s absurd,” you breathe. “Simon wouldn’t…”
John chuckles, but there is no humor there. “Wouldn’t he?”
“I still don’t understand what you expect me to do,” you roll your eyes, looking away. “Simon is…he’s not…he doesn’t listen. It’s why he’s good at this, isn’t it? He doesn’t really take orders, he’s…I…”
John has never complained before about the way Simon chooses to lead. Oftentimes, it is an order ignored that has made it so that he delivered another crown at John’s feet. Simon asks for forgiveness, not permission, and John has barely batted at eye at it. He sees Simon as some kind of distant son, but this refusal bothers him so?
John leans forward. “You need to understand something here, Simon is a rabid dog,” he spits. “And sometimes I let him off his lead, but this isn’t like anything I’ve had to deal with. I need you to call him back here.” He scoots closer. “England needs you to call him back here. To me.”
You narrow your eyes a little. England needs you to call him back? What kind of sick sense of patriotism is he trying to instill in you? John is stupider than he looks, to think a woman like you would show loyalty to country. You are loyal to your husband, and nothing else, because what has king and country ever really done for a woman like you except for dispose of you?
You wear Simon’s colors, not John’s, and you will wear them to your deathbed.
“If I do this for you, my king, then you owe me,” you whisper. He laughs again, no humor, and he picks up a goblet and fills it to the brim with wine. He drinks half before slamming it down onto the table, spilling it over his hand.
“Kings do not owe their subjects.”
“Quite right, Your Majesty,” you agree, picking up your napkin and dropping it onto the table. You stand, giving him a polite curtsy. “But I am not doing this as your subject.”
“Everything you do is as my subject.”
“You put your entire right to the throne on the back of one man,” you say softly. You are not accusing him, you’re reminding him of a truth. “Simon is why…he’s why your counsel still listens to you. He’s why your people are free from famine, why…why your taxes get paid on time, why your kingdom is still standing, no thanks to your father who wasted this place’s fortune on women and liquor.” You shake your head. “You have an eye for conquest, Your Majesty, but you lack the execution of any plan you conjure.”
You are not wrong, and John knows this, and it’s why he hasn’t spoken up yet or interrupted you. The man before, his own father, was a drunkard who spent all their money. He drank himself into the grave, and the only reason John stands before you now is because of Simon. A man who he fought beside, who he commanded, who once John’s duty became reality took up the mantle and finished what his father never could.
John would be in the next history book you read because of Simon, and it’s Simon’s name that will never be written. They do not bestow legacy to men who serve other men.
“Where…Where did you learn to speak to men this way?” John scoffs. “I am your king.”
You must have hit a soft spot. John is defensive now, and men only deflect and insult when they are cornered with the truth. They don’t like being held in front of a mirror.
“You are king because my husband made it so,” you correct him gently. “And Simon is a loyal dog, and that is good for your sake, because if he had any desire for your seat, it would be his.” You come closer, your heels sounding, and John glares down at you; but you glare right back because you are protected by your name and what you can do with it. John knows this, and it angers him, but he seems to have difficulty facing the truths of his own making. “But he is not your dog anymore. He’s mine.”
Your pen on paper is aggressive. You can tell because the splotches of ink are deep, bleeding black sinking into white as you put angry word to parchment. Not even a fortnight later, you are playing cards with Victoria, and you see Simon’s silhouette standing in the doorway, hood shadowing his masked face as he observes. When you look over your shoulder where John sits, and you meet his eyes, he looks away from you with a grim understanding.
Simon answers your call. Always.
At dinner, John is in better spirits. He drinks with a big smile, eats more than one plate, and he picks Victoria up by the waist to make her dance with him when he asks for the music to be played louder. Simon sits, fidgety, gloved hands moving in and out of fists as he watches you cut into your food and eat it with a blank face. He huffs beside you, his armor stiffening as he sits up straight, and you let your fork clatter onto your plate as you turn to glare at him.
“You were thinking with your cock, Simon,” you spit. “That is how men like you get killed.”
“You ‘ave no idea how men like me get killed because there are no men like me,” Simon growls. You roll your eyes, standing, and he grips your wrist angrily, tugging you close until you fall into his lap. You sigh, shaking your head, putting your hands on his broad shoulders and making him look at you.
“Maybe,” you whisper. “But I’m not wrong. It is how you’ll lose. You know better than that, Simon. To fight someone because they taunted you in a letter, it’s playing the fool.” You cup his cheeks, keeping his eyes on yours. “You don’t need me to tell you that, and yet here we are.”
He breathes slow, closing his eyes for just a moment. He thinks he came for this, just a little. For clarity. Reason. It comes from you in waves, and it’s comforting to hear. It is something he knew, and yet it only makes sense now that you have said it.
“I know,” Simon mutters. “I know. Y’r right. I’m sorry, luv.”
You ask him to apologize when he undresses you. You ask him to apologize again when he sinks into a hot bath with you. You ask him a third time when he is in your bed, a heavy weight between your thighs as he licks and sucks at the soft skin of your tummy. He begs, lowly, let me ‘ave it, and you will, but he has to say he’s sorry again.
“‘m sorry,” he breathes, sucking on your inner thigh, and you close your thighs around his head, forcing his mouth against your cunt.
“Again, Simon,” you whisper. “I wanna hear it again.”
“‘m sorry,” he slides a rough tongue between your folds, breathing shakily when he tastes the oil that he smoothed over your skin only moments ago. You taste so good, you smell so lovely, coming off of you like fumes blinding his senses so that nothing else but you makes any sense at all. When you open your eyes, you think about where you are, and you nearly come thinking about what you have wrapped around your finger.
Not even your king tells your husband what to do. Not even your king commands his men, they won’t listen, he’s not who they turn to when things go belly-up, it’s your husband, and your husband answers to you.
You weren’t sure about it until today. Seeing him when you asked him to come, it flooded you with something that hurt. You could tell from even so far away that Simon was salivating under that mask. You knew the only thing separating his mouth from your cunt were the other people around him (and they were not privy to seeing you naked).
It is such a thing to observe. John needed a lead on Simon when he was his dog. You need no such mechanism. Simon never strays, not with you. He sits proper when you ask, and he speaks when spoken to. He tears at unwanted flesh, and he comes when you call.
John cannot give him all that he desires. Perhaps he thought what Simon truly wanted was fame and fortune. Legacy. But like most things men do, John does not observe. He takes in only what is right in front of him, and he makes assumptions. Simon is not like other men. Fame and fortune do not matter. He does not care about legacy. What matters to Simon is what he can hold in his hands. The ground under his feet. The steel in his hand. The woman underneath him, spreading her legs, inviting him in.
You love Simon. You love Simon more than anything in the entire world, but it would be a lie to say that you are not at some advantage here. Simon is all-consuming. He is the pinnacle of duty and honor and everything that a man is supposed to be, but Simon is also weak. There is something that he wanted more than anything in the world, and now that he has it, he will do anything to keep it, and that makes him vulnerable. Subject to all kinds of new things. Revenge. Retaliation. Pain.
Manipulation.
Maybe you should feel bad about it. Maybe you should feel guilty, but it’s hard to feel anything like it when there’s a big bear of a man between your thighs slobbering on your pussy like dessert. It’s hard to feel anything but bliss when he’s tracing the letters of his name into your cunt and making you see stars and fucking you into the silk sheets like it’s the last time he’ll ever have you.
It is men who govern your world, and if this is how you must move in it, then so be it. You will not feel bad. You will not be sorry for doing what anyone else would do. John thought he could keep his hand there, muzzle his mutt, but you like him this way, and you’re certain John doesn’t fuck the way you do.
He’s mine.
It isn’t John that commands an army, it’s you; or maybe your cunt, but that belongs to you, too, so it is you, isn’t it? You’re the one that lets him inside, that whispers in his ear, that tells him things you know he wants to hear to make things move in your favor, so it’s you, right?
Not John. Not Victoria. Not their counsel. You. They have stepped on you your entire life. They have made you small and inferior and sad for all of your existence, and they gave you something feral knowing it could eat you alive, and now you are the hand that feeds, and they are forgetting that if they bite too hard, you have something that will surely bite harder.
A collar would suit him, you think. He would look so pretty. He already is, the terrible beast, prettiest thing you’ve ever seen (the necklace your drape over him does just fine, a pendant with his motif that you hope reminds him of you). You don’t care if people would say his face is quite ugly. It is, very much so, but you never see him this way. Whenever that mask falls, your stomach flips. He takes your breath away. His intensity, his raw form of love, the look on his face–there is nothing else in the entire world that will love you the way he loves you.
“You came back for me?” You ask. You have a leg tangled between his, and his fingers are between your thighs, a shadow of a smirk on his face as he feels the mixture of your cum and his. He grunts a little, and you tilt your head to look up at him, your chin on his chest.
“‘f course,” Simon mutters, and you kiss his chest gently, keeping your eyes on his.
“But not for John.”
He turns his head, looking down at you more intently, and he scoffs. You know it’s true, but you want to hear it, anyways. You want to hear Simon admit, unknowingly, that you are the tether.
“John is afraid, and I don’t listen to ‘im when he’s afraid. Makes bad choices.”
It’s almost adorable that this is what Simon tells himself. That he comes back for his own sake, and not for yours, even though they are one and the same, intertwined and inseparable.
“Simon,” you say softly, and he sighs, his eyes closing briefly when you kiss him gently. “You have to listen to your king when he asks you to come back. Making a…rash decision about war strategy is one thing, but…” You cup his cheek gently. “Make things easier for me, husband. If he asks you to come back, you come back.”
This time, at least. Just this time.
Simon snarls a bit, but you swallow it when you kiss him. You maneuver yourself over him, straddling his hips, and he grunts as you sink down on him. He swells hard again very quickly, releasing a deep breath as you give a slow roll of your hips.
“Make things easy for me, my love,” you whisper, and he leans his head back, putting two big hands on your ass and moving you with ease. “Appease your king, yes? For me?”
“Can’t say no when y’r pussy squeezes me like tha’, sweet’eart,” Simon groans, and you giggle, planting your hands on his chest and starting to move a little faster. You lean your head back, your mouth falling open, and you gasp when you sink down completely, your ass touching his thick thighs as you tighten around him. “Fuckin’ Christ–”
“I hate when you go,” you whine, digging your nails into his chest. He hisses, planting his feet on the bed, and he fucks up into you with a renewed fervor. “Hate when you’re not here, Simon, I-I miss you, miss this–”
“Nghh…fuck, I know,” Simon pants. “Can feel it. Feel you.” You squeal when he grips you by the waist and turns you over. He makes it seem so easy, tossing your weight underneath him, and your arms circle around his neck as you draw him closer, hanging onto him. “Y’r so fuckin’ pretty…”
“Simon–”
He kisses to devour. His jaw hinges wide to kiss you sloppy, breathing in the moans that you can’t contain. Simon always fucks so well, stretching your thighs as wide as they will accommodate so he can make room for the goliath of himself that he is. He suffocates, in a good way, and his cock never fails to stretch you for all that you are worth. Simon holds your jaw in place as he grinds into you, relishing in the wet smack of his hips against yours. The fat of you satisfies him. It makes him growl with delight when he grabs onto wide hips, your fat arse, the body that you hold that tells him you are fed and warm and content. It draws his grin wider, and it makes him drool thinking about having you again and again and again, until you beg him for reprieve and his heir sits in your womb.
Simon fucks for sport. He wants to see how stupid he can make you. He wants to know how long you’ll cry for, how fat he can make your tears. He wants to know how loud you will cry, how many times he can make you cum before you’re incoherent, he wants to know the extent to which he can use you that you will still be awake enough to say his name just one more time. Simon is not satisfied until he pushes your limits.
It is what a Riley does. They endure, and they eat, and they consume, and they take pleasure in the all-encompassing indulgement of things they have never been allowed to have. You are a woman, so he knows this will come easy for you. So often, he knows, women are not allowed to indulge at all, so he wants you to. He wants you to cry and moan and eat, and he wants you to do it bearing his name so that no one will ever tell you no.
Simon says no to kings, and they placate, or they die. His wife will be offered the same respect, and he’ll stand behind her with a sword to make it law. When you bear his children, he will expect the same of them–to give their mother utter devotion, lest they answer to his hand. There is no one above you, not God, not country, and certainly not blood. They will know what their father did to have you, and they will spill the same amount of blood to keep it that way. They will do it for you, and then they will do it for their own lovers, and if they don’t have the same sentiments, that love is not true, and Simon will not give his blessing.
Everything else is trivial. He knows this, understands it, because history repeats itself. It is cyclical, and you are right. Kings come and go. Sons die to other sons, fathers make bad decisions, and crowns are passed to bastards and back again, until lineage is merely spectacle and power changes hands often enough to lose generational merit. There is one thing that remains, and it is what you do while you are on earth, while you are standing on the ground you were born on. Even faiths change; when men find it suitable, they change the rules, and then you worship a different God, so Simon sees no point in staying loyal to any of it.
Instead, he is true to what he knows. To what he can see and what he can feel. With John, he remembers being a young man, fighting alongside him. He follows John, to an extent, because he knows what it is like to share blood with him on a muddy hill and take an arrow for him.
With you, time stands still. He saw you in a room, and he had to have you, and he brought nations to ruin to make certain no one would bat an eye when he asked for your hand. He saw you in a dream, too–he saw you laying in his bed of furs, wearing nothing but a tiara of his making, wet between the thighs because that is how it’s meant to be. He recognized you when he saw you that first time, and he doesn’t know how, but saying no to you, really saying no, will change that vision, and he couldn’t bear that.
Your voice echoes. You’re moaning, overstimulated, but he doesn’t stop. The hair around his cock rubs your clit too many times, and when you come around him, you’re a shaking, withering thing, back bowed and nipples pebbled. Your toes curl as you cry from the starry-eyed, hot pleasure, but he keeps moving, chasing something in the distance that he can taste, so close.
Yes, Simon ignored his king. Yes, Simon did not ignore you. Yes, Simon admits, he came when you called, and he doesn’t feel bad about it, he doesn’t care how it seems. He would do it again if he had the chance. John could give him the same answer as you in every timeline, but he will only move if the command comes from you, and yes, Simon knows it makes him a liability, but crowns come with costs, and this is the one John must pay.
Simon will fight any of John’s enemies, but he won’t fight fate. He won’t fight what has already been seen, and he won’t fight what he already knows will happen.
With Simon’s cock in your mouth, you can make him deliver on promises. Sucking on the girth of him, you can make him an honest man. Taking inside of your mouth what you can swallow, you can make Simon do your bidding, and it is a hard lesson that John learns.
“Do this for me,” you slobber against the underside of his cock, and Simon relents.
“Make me happy,” you say, swirling your fingers against your puffy pussy, and Simon kneels with an open mouth.
“Just this once,” you whisper with his cum on your tongue, and Simon seals his choice with his hands on your tits and the taste of himself in his mouth.
When you make eyes with John across the low lights of the throne room, he can’t help the way he admires you. You stand beside Simon, looking the essence of nobility and reverence in another intricate silver and blue dress. The train of your skirt glitters with delicate jewels hand sewn into the fabric, and the headpiece you wear adorns a skull insignia. Your corset has been tied just right, thanks to Simon’s hand, and your own fingers are clasped between his. Your corset and jewels are of exquisite detail–one of the newest designs from Paris, structured and elegant and accentuating every curve of soft skin.
You glow in the room. His wife must be wearing a dress just as expensive, probably more, and yet his eyes (and everyone else’s) cannot help but follow you. Your own eyes won’t leave Simon; you flutter your lashes whenever he looks down at you, big smile on your face, and even when there are people curtsying and bowing to you and giving Simon their gratitude between bites of cake and glugs of wine, your attention never really strays. 
John feels inadequate in his own fortress; suddenly, red and gold sicken him, and England tastes sour in his mouth.
In a few generations, John’s house will likely fall. He will make heirs that will fail him, he knows this. In a few centuries, his family will not sit in the same place, but a Riley will remain right where they are supposed to be. Banners of blue and silver will always fly. If Simon does not make sure of that, then you will.
It’s what happens when you force women like you to their knees. When they grow up invisible, always in the shadows, forgotten and sold to the next man who will pay a higher price, it’s what you learned to do. It’s all you’ve ever known, to make the best out of something terrible.
Simon is the same, in that sense. You understand him in a way his king will never be able to. Simon has nothing, and neither do you, and Simon was stepped on and berated and tortured to the point of no return. It is why blood does not scare him and why death doesn’t come knocking. Time will be the only thing capable of killing him, and everyone that stands up to him learns that when they eat his blade.
In the quiet of the evening, Simon undresses you. He sits behind you on the bed, fingers pinching the bows at your back and unraveling them. He traces your corset, thumb circling over the skull pattern of the belt around the small of your waist, and he tastes something warm in his mouth at the sight of it. You look so beautiful–more beautiful than he’s ever seen you maybe, decorated in his colors and wearing his motif and sitting so pretty.
“You wanna know something…funny?” You ask quietly. Simon finds the ties of your skirts and starts to undo them. He grunts in reply; he might sound standoffish, but you know he’s listening. “John…John made it…he makes it seem like you don’t really listen to him. He implied that…in the face of adversity, you might only listen to me.” You put your hands on the front of your corset to keep it from falling. “Isn’t that funny?”
“Wot’s so funny?”
You swallow, looking down. Your hands fidget, and you take a closer look at the ring you wear, the delicate gold band he gave you not so long ago.
“I…”
“Mmm…might be right, innit?” Simon snickers after a moment. You feel him stand, and you look over your shoulder as he peels his mask off and grins down at you. He tilts his head to the side, and you smile back at him a little. “Do anythin’ for ya. Disobeying a king…” Simon cackles, tearing your corset off, tossing it onto the floor as he walks you backwards. “Ignoring one…” He shrugs, “Oll in a day, love.”
“He can hang you for it,” you whisper. “Cut off your head. Cut off mine.”
Simon lays you back on the bed, spreading you out, climbing over you. You blink up at him, and he leans down, pressing his forehead to yours.
“I would ‘ave seen it. I would know.”
He would have seen it in a dream. It would have come to him in a reflection in a pool of blood on the battlefield. It would have come to him, the voices in his head, he would have heard them amongst screaming, or perhaps in the void that he finds his mind in when he’s between your plush thighs.
You can’t help the smile that graces your face when Simon kisses the curve where your jaw meets your neck. It is fun, you suppose. Fun to control the tides that set the courses of history. It is fun and almost unbelievable that a king bends to the will of one man’s wife just because it solidifies his name.
You wrap your hand around the twine that dangles from Simon’s neck. It twirls around your fingers, easy, solid. Simon’s eyes are dark, and they are yours, and when you smile, so does he, because this is where you are meant to be, forever and always.
“What if I want more?” You ask. Simon hums, low from within his chest, and you run your tongue over your teeth. “Did you see that in your dreams, Simon? Hmm? Do you know what I’m asking for? What it is that I really want?”
Simon smiles. A dark one, with teeth, and you know he hears it. What more means for a duke and his duchess. What more means when you have all the money you could ever want, all the land you could ever need.
What more means when you have climbed your way to the top and still desire more. More, more, more. There are not many steps left to climb. There are not many places left to take, not much more of the world that can really be yours, but Simon looks ravenous, and Simon looks hungry, and if you fuck him now, you’ll have him right where you want him.
When you tug on what hangs around his neck, Simon bends. Simon follows.
5K notes · View notes
cinnamorollcrybaby · 5 months ago
Note
The Reader gets jealous/upset because Sukuna gets Concubines, with a happy ending though. pleaseeeee
Wish I didn’t care
Tags: true form!Sukuna x fem!Reader, king!Sukuna, royal au (?), angst, hurt/comfort, happy ending i promise
An: Ooo, this was such a good idea. Thank you for requesting it from me!! I hope it’s everything you wanted!!
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Sukuna never felt the need to give you a title for being in his life. To him, titles were superficial… There wasn’t a title in the world that could explain or encompass the complexities of his relationship with you.
However, you, coming from the mortal realm, wanted a title. It’s not that you wanted the power that was associated with being the betrothed of the King of Curses. You just wanted to feel.. irreplaceable to him.
So, to make you happy, you were his wife.
Kings rarely ever are allowed the luxury of marrying for love. Most kings marry daughters of other powerful kings to create allies between nations. However, Sukuna didn’t need allies. He didn’t need to marry for power when he had more power than he knew what to even do with.
Everything was simply child’s play for him. He even stopped trying to conquer the mortal realm because it was just too damn easy for him. The “sorcerers” could barely even put up a fight. It was embarrassing.
Life was truly becoming boring for him.
That was, until a female curse was delivered straight to his chamber. He was confused and honestly pissed that Uraume would simply guide this harlot into his chambers without his permission. Only you were granted such luxuries.
He was leisurely splayed in his bed with no cloth to cover himself. He truly appreciated the concept of being completely in his own skin at all times, and he often encouraged you to do the same. Though, he also learned to appreciate your more modest approach. You didn’t have to show any skin to get Sukuna riled up.
“State your purpose.” His voice was low and menacing as he spoke to the woman. He slipped his robes on over his shoulders, tying it in the front so he was no longer exposing himself.
“My father sends his regards. Says that a newly wedded king deserves a ‘fresh’ concubine.” The girl spoke with no humility towards him.
Sukuna’s face twisted in disgust that her dad would even suggest such a thing. He was even more put off that she described herself as ‘fresh’ as if she were a type of vegetable in the garden.
“Your father can kindly go fuck himself. I’m not interested.” He responds coldly, and his large palm grabs onto her shoulder with the intention of throwing her out of his chambers. He knew that if you saw her here, you’d probably be devastated.
“My lord-“
“I am not your anything. You address me as Lord or King, but make no mistake. I am not your lord.” He rudely cuts her off, not letting her think she has any sort of claim to him.
“Okay, Lord Sukuna, when’s the last time she’s fulfilled her wifely duties? I can see she’s not in here tending to you now, right? She’d probably feel grateful that you’re being satisfied around the clock.” The concubine’s voice was like a purr, and she looked up at him with eyes that’d rival a siren’s.
And for a split second, Sukuna almost considers her offer.
“You’ll never believe it, Kuna!” Your happy voice fills the air, and the door swings open to reveal you holding a small flower in your hand. “I got a jasmine to bl-“ Your eyes fall upon to scene in front of you.
Sukuna’s towering over an unfamiliar woman. His hand is touching her neck and shoulder area, while she has her hand leisurely pressed against his bicep.
“Who’s.. this?” You quietly ask, and immediately, Sukuna can feel a strange feeling pour into him. It feels like… guilt? He regrets even momentarily entertaining the idea about this harlot occupying his bed.
“Nobody-“
“Oh my lady, it’s nice to meet you. I apologize. Lord Sukuna and I were just getting aquatinted with each other since we’ll be seeing each other a lot from now on.” The serpent of a female cuts him off, and he immediately realizes just what this is. Whichever king decided to send her is hoping to ruin his marriage. She’s quite literally a snake in his garden, trying to ward his wife away from him.
“I don’t… understand.” The way your voice sounds so small. The small pout upon your lips. The way the flower you were once carrying with such confidence is now sagging in your hand. Fuck. Sukuna felt like a complete imbecile.
“Oh, come on now. You know he has needs that are beyond your abilities. I’ll lay with him when you’re too-“
“Enough.” Sukuna’s voice snaps. His teeth grit together as he practically drags the woman out of his chambers. “Go fuck off for a while. I’ll deal with you later.” The door immediately slams in her face.
After a moment of trying to comprehend what just happened and how it all happened so quickly, Sukuna slowly turns to you. It feels like a gut punch once he sees the tears brimming in your eyes.
“That wasn’t…”
“You took up a concubine?” You ask in a sniffle. Your hands are barely even holding the jasmine that’s you were once so excited to show him. Flowers rarely ever bloom in Sukuna’s desolate kingdom, but with hard work and determination, you had gotten a jasmine to bloom in his kingdom.
“No, she was sent to me. I didn’t seek her out.” He tries to dispel the claims while he slowly approaches you. His chest aches as he watches you take a step back away from him. “Do not cower from me, woman.”
“Was I not good enough? Was I not doing enough for you..? I thought… I thought it was good, b-but I can try harder.” Your voice is so shaky, and you won’t even look him in the eye. What has he done?
“Silence. You will not speak of yourself like that to me.” Sukuna orders, and he takes another step forward. You take another step back with another sniffle. Your tears are streaming down your cheeks.
“Please…” The word sounds foreign on his tongue. He’s never ever pleaded for anything in his life. He could simply take what he wants, but he doesn’t want to hurt his delicate flower. He wants her to seek out comfort in him. “Please don’t cower. It was not like that. She showed up at my door, spoke of lies and filth, and I was trying to throw her out when you walked in.”
“So you didn’t even con..consider taking her on as a concubine?” You ask while you rub the tears away with the back of your hands. Hopefully, this was all just a poorly timed miscommunication.
Sukuna takes a moment before responding. He has two options. He could tell you a white lie that would instantly comfort you, but it would be a lie. Or he could tell you the truth and face the consequences of his actions.
“It was one moment of weakness.” He replies carefully.
He instantly wishes he just lied from the way your face immediately twisted in disappointment and pure hurt. The jasmine falls from your hands, and your footsteps trail away from his chambers, leaving him dumbfounded.
Sukuna is immediately on your trail, unable to let you be. He needs to fix this. His dear wife is upset, and it’s all his fault.
A pair of hands slither up his arm as he walks. He already knows who’s touching him based off the nasty feeling from their contact. “My lord, let her be. She needs to-“
“Dismantle.” The concubine’s body drops to the floor in two, split directly at her waist. He had warned her already about referring to him as her lord. She didn’t deserve to speak of you so carelessly, and she didn’t deserve to live after causing this rift in his marriage.
Sukuna continues on his hunt for you without another hitch, leaving the harlot’s body right where she once stood for one of the servants to clean up.
He searches for you in all your usual spots: the gardens, the kitchen, the library, the rooftop. You’re no where to be found. You don’t want to be found. He starts to wonder around his perimeter. The longer he goes without finding you; the more his heart starts to race.
Did you leave him? Did he lose you for good?
The thought of not having his delicate flower by his side makes his body feel ill. You must’ve placed some sort of binding curse on him, but he didn’t necessarily mind.
He’s close to waging war when he finally sees your small human body tucked underneath a weeping willow on a bed of grass. His body moves on it’s own: running to you. When’s the last time he’s ran like this?
Crouching over you, he can see no visible injuries on your body, but he knows he’s wounded your heart with his foolish actions. How could he ever have a wandering eye when you were the real prize?
His four arms carefully scoop you up and cradle your body as he takes a seat underneath the willow. Your poor cheeks are flushed and tear stained. Your eyes and lips are so puffy. You must’ve tired yourself out from crying.
“I’m sorry, flower.” He whispers softly, even if your eyes are still resting. He pulls your body closer to his chest, and he contemplates when he started becoming so soft for you.
A part of him hates it. That small unconscious voice of his telling him that he shouldn’t concern himself with the feelings of a mere mortal, but the bigger part of him knows that he can’t just ignore you. He cares far too much for you.
“Kuna..?” You murmur as your hands rub your eyes. You’re immediately met with remembering just why you had fallen asleep. “I do not wish to see you right now.”
Sukuna chuckles quietly from your defiant little comment. It reminds him of when you first arrived to his estate. “Then close your eyes.” He simply states as one of his hands start to comb through your hair. “Woman, tell me what to do to fix this.”
You shift your gaze away from him with a small huff. If he wasn’t so much bigger than you, you’d try to wiggle away from him. However, you know it is of no use. “I don’t know, Kuna.” Your words are sharp and still so full of emotion. “Imagine how you’d feel if I told you I contemplated sleeping with someone else… in a moment of weakness.”
The sheer thought of it has Sukuna’s anger burning up like an inferno. You’re his delicate flower. No one would even know how to take care of you like he can. His arms subtly tighten around your frame. “I’d kill every man you gaze at.”
“Well, men can rest easy because I only have eyes for you.” You mutter while rolling your eyes. “I love you so much that the thought of being with someone else repulses me, and it… just really hurts that you don’t feel the same.”
“Flower, I took you for granted. It was a brief moment of contemplation, but I instantly decided against it. I did not desire her in the slightest.” Sukuna tries to explain, and his hand gently brushes against your soft cheek.
“You still don’t deny that you don’t feel the same for me.” You respond quietly, still not giving him the satisfaction of you looking at him.
“You are everything to me. I will not lose sight of what’s important again.”
“Kuna.” You finally look up at him, and you frown slightly. Sukuna secretly adores the little nicknames you have adorned him with, but he’d never admit it.
“What is it, woman?” He asks, titling his head to the side a bit to get a better look at your face. You’re so pretty in his lap like this.
“Do you love me?” You quietly ask, even if you can already hear his voice telling you ‘do not ask questions you don’t want answers to’… because even if he’s the incarnate of evil, Sukuna will not lie. Liars are weak cowards who can’t get jobs done by being upfront. Sukuna isn’t afraid of what the truth is.
Your husband contemplates your question for a moment. He thinks about how disgusting that wannabe concubine was. He thinks about how you preoccupy his mind majority of the time. He thinks about the weird mix of feelings he has felt today in your absence.
“What I feel for you… is probably the closest to love that I’ll ever get.” Sukuna responds, carefully choosing his words. “You, my flower, are the only thing that keeps me grounded to the mortal plains.”
You give him the best smile you can muster despite the disappointment that you feel since he won’t tell you that he loves you. You suppose you have no one to blame other than yourself. Sukuna told you when he married you not to get your hopes up for love, but you still can’t help but crave that sort of affection from him.
“I don’t like seeing you upset, flower.” He speaks tenderly as his thumb brushes against your bottom lip. “If I could, I’d snap my fingers and assure you that I love you whole heartedly. It just not in my genetic code.”
“I know… I’m grateful for your effort at least.” You murmur as you wrap your arms around his neck.
His arms wrap around you, cradling you to his chest. He inhales deeply, savoring your sweet scent that he enjoys so much. “Am I forgiven, woman?”
“Mmm, no.” You smile cheekily in his embrace, and Sukuna chuckles heartily.
“Oh? Is someone going to use this blunder to her advantage?” When you nod in his shoulder, Sukuna lays back against the soft pillowy grass. “That’s my girl. Go on. Make me work for your forgiveness.”
On a completely unrelated note, Sukuna had that harlot’s body mailed back to her father as a ‘thank you’ for sending a whore to his kingdom.
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lylian333 · 3 months ago
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~Yandere emperor x reader~
warning: read at your own risk, traumatizing, dark historical shits, noncon, force, many misunderstandings,sexual harrest , angst ,age gap, everything here is quite insane, historical au, he's fucking crazy, killing, insults, English is not my first langue(if there's any warning I didn't put, tell me)
words:2180
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(this is not my art I found it on Pinterest, and in the comment section it's said that it was made by AI so💀)
~~
Princess (y/n) Laurier has been best friends with Princess Alyssa Everett since you both were just 6 years old. You both have many things in common, such as interests, opinions, and much more.
You both would usually hang out around each other's kingdom; you don't have any issues with her except with her father, Emperor Edward Everett. He was the hottest, most handsome man you have ever met, and you still do now.
You have had a huge crush on him that felt like butterflies inside your stomach since the day you met him, but he always has that emotionless face and rarely smiles unless at his wife, your best friend's mother. You know this from Princess Alyssa; she would complain about how cold and serious he is.
You still ignore those and try getting to know him, but he just looks annoyed or just straight-up ignores you, but you ignore it and still continue liking him. Not only that, you're not the only one; it's obvious that everyone that has met him, females and even males, all drool for him.
You still have some sense in you, and you also have to respect the Everett queen and Princess Alyssa since she is your best friend. You can't just let some love ruin the relationship you both had. You can't. She is like a sister to you. She helps you when you're confused; she protects and defends you when you were getting laughed at; she is there when you needed someone the most. It's not worth losing a relationship like this, and so your liking toward his father slowly dies down.
But things change when you grow up and start having features and curves and in the end, you become a gorgeous woman, many people are jealous of you even Princess Alyssa confesses to you about it and some desperately want you. You reject all of them since none of them are worthy of you, and you're disinterested in them.
Your intense gaze and soft complexion, with your structured face and striking presence, are on par with an iconic beauty, paired with the warmth and softness in your expression, which are very delicate. You would struggle to not look at yourself when there is a mirror.
You still have some feelings toward Emperor Edward, but you manage to hide it and be able to not think about him when talking to him.
The worst thing that could have happened was that the Queen of Everett died from childbirth while trying to give birth to the heir to the throne, but it went to a disaster. It was devastating news to hear from everyone.
The emperor was absolutely devastated and even despised the child. From that moment on he would never talk to anyone unless it was part of a duty, but other than that he would ignore the servant's advisers and even his own kids, which left Princess Alyssa depressed since she had to bear her mother's death, her father's coldness, and the baby boy that her mother lost her life to.
That week she came crying to you when you came to visit her and attended the funeral of the Everett Queen death. You decide to stay at Everett Palace for a few months before going back to Laurier Kingdom.
You promised Princess Alyssa that you'd take care of her and her baby brother, and so you did. After all, back at your kingdom and your family, you have 6 siblings, plus you, and you are the third eldest, which makes you the middle You have experience with babies after the experience of you sibling that you swear are more naughtyer when you take care of them.
In those months of staying, Emperor noticed that you had to take care of the baby boy and Princess Alyass when he found you singing a lullaby for them to fall asleep.
At that moment something in him awoke, something dark, horrible, and disgusting. He knew this was wrong, but who was there to stop him? Not even himself could do that.
From that moment on, he would try getting close to you and getting to know you better; by that, he would call you into his office or into his chamber. When talking, he would get close to you, too close, to the point that he's invading your personal space by burying his face in your hair, breathing in that sweet, gentle scent, or sucking and biting your earlobe.
You knew this was wrong. You both knew this was wrong, but you guys still continued. Your brain keeps telling you to stop and that this is your best friend's father, but your gut tells you to continue. For your best friend Princess Alyssa's sake.
At one of those meetings, you confess to him that you don't want to continue these "meetings" to respect your best friend Alyssa and her baby brother Prince James.
But when he hears that you swear you could feel the air getting tense and his face looks tense as well, and with clenched fists, he looks like he could kill someone that might have been you or others.
He then pushes you onto his office desk and forcefully rips your clothes off. All you can remember that day was just horror, pure fucking horror. It haunts your dreams, memories, and everything that you see that can somehow be related to the day you and he were together.
The cherry on top is Emperor Endward sends an arranged marriage to your kingdom between you both; you pray that your parents would reject this offer, but no. Instead, they accept it and send you a letter telling you the reasons that this could help our kingdom very much and this could give you a better future and more, but all you care about is that you're trapped with him. They also added in that they would be unable to see because of the distance of the two kingdoms and that it is time to set you free.
Oh, how you wish it were true to let you spread your wings and have your own freedom.
You hated everything, mostly yourself. You hated yourself for not being more alert and not telling anyone, not even your own family or close ones; you—you can't even describe the feeling that you're feeling at that point. You quite literally were disgusted by yourself.
You cry all day long to the point where Princess Alyssa hears it and finds you, and you vomit out all the things that happened while still crying. You wish the earth could just eat you whole, make you disappear from the earth, from this world, from this life.
You keep pressuring yourself that this is your fault for days till your hair has a few strands of white hair that you have noticed.
The wedding was within the week, and you both got married and wed. That very day and night of the "honeymoon," he slams you against the bed carelessly and forcibly spears open your legs with his hand while another pins both your head on top of your head.
You whisper near your ear,True to be told, I have actually noticed that since you were just a little girl, you always had a crush on me, so technically you wanted this to happen, so don't cry like last time, dear."
Your eyes go wide when you hear that he actually noticed. He knows that you have no words—absolutely no words.
That night was as horrible and traumatizing as the night you both had together. Princess Alyssa personally tries to help you escape; even after the marriage, she still supports you, even knowing the fact you are technically her stepmother.
But she accepted you, and you were quite stunned at how she handled the situation. Even though it was like hell, she still helped, whether by holding you while you were crying or whatever she was still there. It felt like she was starting to take care of you instead of you taking care of her like how you first promised.
In one of the many attempts of you trying to escape and her helping you with it, you both were caught, and Emperor Edward decided to punish you by isolating you and sentencing Princess Alyssa to be beheaded, his own daughter.
And you were forbidden to give her any visits after the situation. You didn't get the chance to even give her the last hug or talk or anything, not even a goodbye. You even threatened to kill yourself if he didn't allow you to see her, but he just laughs at you and tells the guards to throw you inside a dungeon where there's nothing, not even a window, so you have to rely on the fire outside.
Just like that, she's gone forever. You cry for days and refuse to eat, sleep, or even drink. The king himself has to personally force-feed you so that you don't die. You even scream and beat him as hard as you can in rage whenever you see him, but he just stands there, not unbothered. You might as well think that he doesn't even care or feel anything anymore, no remorse, no nothing, just disgusting lovesick eyes looking at you.
"I just can't get enough of you, love~"
Your life goes on until you have had enough, like enough one more year of this. You seriously don't think you want to be reincarnated into another life. You desperately want to feel things instead of being trapped in the shared chamber all day long, only allowed to go out to the garden for 1 hour to get fresh air with a few ladies in waiting and your own trusted servants near you to keep being aware of you and make sure you're not doing anything harmful to yourself or escaping.
You came up with the stupidest and most shameful idea. You decide to frame yourself for cheating on Emperor Edward and confess to him that you cheated. Making up fake clues for others to notice and gossip about, but the emperor refuses to believe it, so you told him personally.
"I cheated on you, Edward."
"You must be joking, dear. How would you even be able to do that, hm?"
but you just keep repeating the sentence, "I cheated on you."
This makes him overthink and triggers him, and he ends up struggling with you to death in the process. You still keep repeating the sentence, which forces him to grip your neck even harder till you are no longer breathing—not even a single movement, just soulless eyes staring straight.
When he realized that it was too late and there was no turning back, he let go of your neck, and you collapsed onto the ground, dead. He kneeled down next to you; finally, at this moment, he felt guilty for everything. He reflected on the things he had done to you, the amount of damage. Why didn't he think about this earlier? Maybe that could help him.
No, it's your fault for cheating on him. How dare you filthy women cheat on an emperor that has done everything for her sake? To this day he still blames you, but part of him does regret not caring what you felt and thought. He only treated you like a toy, a glass doll that would easily be broken. But he just couldn't help but love you with all his might, even if it meant hurting you.
He tried to keep your body from decomposing and rotting and would soak you in water to slow down the decomposing. He even went mad and brought you to the throne room for events, dressed you properly, stuffed you with cotton to keep you looking more alive, and said to others, "My wife is doing well; look at her, she's such a sleepy head; look at her sleeping, hehe…"
Sadly, eventually, he had no other choice but to finally bury you because your body was decomposing and smelling really bad. At the funeral, he gives a speech on how she was in his life and how he can't believe she died before him from 'sickness' and oh how sad he was and how he saw her glowing up into an elegant woman and more.
Prince James also gave a speech about how you try helping out, that he always sees her as a mother figure, and how (y/n) has always tried her best. He was innocent in all of these; as well, he even balled his eyes out when he found out that you died.
At the very last moment of seeing your face, he cupped your cheek one last time.
"Oh, how much I will miss you oh how I wish that I could go with you as well, but it's fine you don't need to worry love In my will, when I die, I'm going to be buried right next to you." He says that while chuckling while feeling remorse.
~~
omg, there are so many things I want to comment on but erm yeah this is how it is??? it could have been worse
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neeeooon · 5 days ago
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Hiii, I loved your "when they find out they have a kid" work, so I was wondering if you can do a part 2 with other characters? Itoshi brothers and Reo + any characters you'd like. Thank you <3
YES thank you sm!! i have another req for isagi so i’m combining those (ty both for requesting) 💙💙
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when they find out they have a kid, pt 2
ex-husband!bllk x fem!reader. angst, cursing, mentions of sex (no smut), rin and ness’s kids have names
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itoshi sae
-> you cried the first time you saw sae on your television, because you’d just finalized your divorce, and you were four months pregnant
-> he stated specifically that he had no time for you. that marrying you was a mistake, and that he was better off on his own. you’d yelled at him then, blaming him for wasting years of your life when he knew he’d leave you eventually. he didn’t argue back, just grabbed his things and left you alone with the positive pregnancy test in your back pocket
-> three years later, you’re working on reports at the kitchen table when your son yells, “daddy!” frazzled, you jump into the other room to see what he’s watching when your blood freezes in your veins. sae. on television. doing an interview for his team. how was your son watching soccer? you’d left him with cartoons!
-> “that’s not your dad,” you tried, but your son was adamant. “we look the same, mama! he’s so cool! why doesn’t he live with us?”
-> realizing how unfair it was for you to keep a secret like this any longer, you contacted sae’s team to get his number when you identified yourself as his wife. his call came too quick, and you could hear how agitated he was to be pulled away from work
-> “what do you want, y/n?” “wow. three years since you practically abandoned me, and i don’t even get a hello?” “what do you wa—“ he repeated, cutting himself off when he heard a little voice in the background of your call. “who was that? y/n?”
-> you swallowed hard and sank into the couch, where your son was playing with a toy robot. “mama! is that daddy? hi daddy!” he tried to pull the phone from your hand, but you tightened your grip and cleared your throat into the speaker. “we have some things to discuss, next time you’re in town.” “i’ll book a flight tonight.”
itoshi rin
-> itoshi rin wasn’t made for marriage, but you thought you could change him. you practically forced his hand, and while you know you were wrong looking back, you thought marrying you was the only way for him to prove that he loved you
-> you were together a little over a year before he broke, telling you he wasn’t happy and that he didn’t want to be your husband anymore. after hearing him out, you realized there was no point in denying his request. you were divorced a week later, and found out you were pregnant a month after that
-> by that point, you thought keeping his child from him was for the best. he was clearly overwhelmed and didn’t want anything to do with you; adding a child to the mix would devastate him and his career. so you never told him
-> it took several years, but rin was one of the top strikers in the world. all the while you were raising his daughter in secret, though those closest to you could tell by her teal eyes that she wasn’t born through a one night stand, and you claimed
-> on your daughter’s sixth birthday, one of your so-called friends took a photo of you and emi and posted it, tagging rin. you tore her a new one when you found out and cut her out of your life, but the damage was done
-> we need to talk. was all his text said, and you knew there was no point in lying any further
-> “i don’t want anything from you,” you clarified as soon as you opened the door. rin had a dazed look in his eyes, eyes that matched your daughter’s perfectly. “not your money, not your time, nothing. she deleted the post and i’ve cleared it as a joke, so no harm will come to your name—“
-> “can i meet her?” and you halted at the sound of his crackling voice. you shuffled your weight. “y.. you want to meet emi?” he pulled a small plush owl from his bag that made you choke on a laugh. “i didn’t want to show up on her birthday empty handed…”
-> your daughter was a bit shy, unsure of how to react around the strange man that looked like her, and you could tell rin was just as awkward. it took a little while, but once the ice broke, the two were sharing little stories and cracking jokes that made you wonder if maybe emi could have a relationship with her father after all
mikage reo
-> you married reo on impulse, blinded by love and the belief that you’d live happily ever after together. his parents hated you since you didn’t come from wealth, but reo didn’t care. and then you got pregnant
-> you’d been excited to tell him until his parents found out. you wanted to believe that you’d never pick money over love, but reo was gone most days due to his soccer career, and you were young and stupid
-> 10 million dollars, tax-free. the only catch? you had to cut contact with their son and never tell him about his child; the next heir to mikage corp
-> you debated telling him, but again… you were young and stupid. his parents told him they’d stop supporting him financially if he stayed with you, and you worried about the future if his career didn’t take off. in tears, you took the money and blocked him on everything
-> years later, the news of reo’s marriage to a woman his parents approved of hit headlines, and you cried until your little son tried to heal you with butterfly stickers and kisses. you debated telling reo then, but what was the point?
-> you were with your son at a doctor’s appointment when a young woman arrived with three young children at her ankles. your son was older than them by at least three years, but the four wanted to play together while you and their mom drank tea in the waiting area
-> when the receptionist called “mikage?” your heart dropped. the young woman herded her kids together, who you now realized look strikingly similar to your son, and gave you her card before leaving. “so our kids can have a play date sometime! it was nice meeting you, y/n!”
-> reo’s number was on her card, next to her work cell. you knew you were breaking your nda, but your mind was running too fast as you typed in his number and pressed the phone to your ear. “this is reo.” “i… you—we have a son.” “y/n?” and you told him everything
-> he asked you not to tell his wife, and you were in agreement. “i want to meet my son.” “… okay.” and upon reo’s request, you meet with a lawyer present. your son immediately loved reo’s purple hair, and you could tell that your ex-husband’s heart broke at the sound of your son’s laughter
-> once you were alone, reo handed you a sheet of paper that made you nauseous. “i want partial custody.”
isagi yoichi
-> you and isagi were together for years, dating with no issue, but the moment you got married�� everything changed. you fought constantly over everything: finances, trust, communication, everything
-> it got to the point where you were living apart more than together, and when the divorce papers arrived in the mail, you sent the back signed. you didn’t know you were pregnant, and with how unknowingly far along you were, you figured telling him wouldn’t change anything in your relationship
-> so, you raised your daughter as a single mother. you never did see isagi since that day in court, where you finalized your divorce. despite how much you argued over finances, isagi let you keep the house and everything in it as a parting gift. the same house your daughter took her first steps in
-> “oh, um.. sorry, kid! i thought this was isagi yoichi’s place—y/n?” you pushed your five year old behind you, hoping bachira didn’t get too good a look at her. your hopes died when he met your eyes, a bit amused. “hm. i didn’t know isagi had a daughter.” “who’s isagi?” “.. i guess he doesn’t, either. y/n?”
-> bachira was in town after years and decided to visit his old friend on a whim, not realizing that isagi no longer lived with you. you knew there was no point in telling him to keep this from your ex, but your daughter absolutely loved “uncle” bachira
-> he told you he’d be over again today, but your smile fell when you opened the door and came face to face with isagi. he didn’t say anything as he shoved his phone in your face, revealing a selfie of your beaming daughter holding a peace sign next to bachira
-> “y/n, what the fuck? how could you… is she mine?” he didn’t know why he was asking; your daughter was the spitting image of her dad. she even had his little cowlick, which she named “bernice” for reasons beyond you. “she’s yours.” “how could you not tell me? i know things didn’t end perfectly, but there was a time where you were my best friend, y/n. the love of my life!”
-> bachira appeared after that and took your daughter to play outside and away from her arguing parents. “and then you tell bachira before me. the fuck?” “i didn’t tell bachira, he found out on his own,” you shouted back. “maybe if you cared enough to check in at least once in the past five years, you’d have figured it out, too!”
-> “i want to meet her.” “no. you’re too riled up right now. go home, get some rest, come over in the morning. i won’t spring you on her without a warning.” “spring me on her? i’m her father!” “you’re a stranger!” “and whose fault is that, y/n?”
alexis ness
-> ness was so scared of ruining his marriage to you that he ran away from the responsibility and took a backseat ride in your relationship. one thing was certain from day one, though. neither of you wanted kids
-> your job demanded a lot from you, and that paired with your co-dependent husband overwhelmed you. you felt that you’d die in your marriage, and though he begged you to stay, you were able to convince ness to divorce you
-> you were going to tell him the moment you found out you were pregnant, but when you found him, he had thrown himself into his career to manage his grief and was thriving. more than that, he looked happy. though you didn’t want to take that away from him, it would be a lie to say that you didn’t have selfish reasons for keeping your child secret, too
-> “come on, mila,” you called for your four-year-old as you fastened her car seat. you should have checked to see where bastard münchen was playing before leaving the house, especially since the aquarium was close to the arena
-> when your daughter didn’t respond, you glanced back and gasped. mila was tilting her head at the man across the street, who was doing the same at her. she waved, he waved back. you would have freaked out if you didn’t recognize the magenta dye in the guy’s brown hair
-> grabbing your daughter, you hoisted her up into your arms and locked eyes with ness. he looked so incredibly sad, but flashed you a slow, almost kind smile. then, before you could stop and think, you were at the crosswalk
-> “lex,” you greeted, voice sounding foreign in your ears. “it’s been a while.” “hi, lex,” mila greeted in a soft and sweet voice, and you watched as ness’s eyes began to sparkle. “hi, um…” “mila.” “hi, mila. i like your nose.” mila giggled. “me too. it looks like yours!”
-> “could i buy you coffee?” you asked, tossing the olive branch out. ness didn’t hesitate long before replying with a cracking, “yes.”
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pt 1 // pt 3 // reo pt cont..
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jesuistrestriste · 1 year ago
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♡ Cooking & Cleaning; Art Donaldson x Reader ♡
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nsfw! (18+) cw: service sub!art donaldson, dom!reader, afab/fem reader, use of ma'am as an honorific, brief food play, oral sex (reader receiving), begging, handjob, brief edging, praise, degradation, multiple orgasms (character receiving), dry orgasm
wc: 6.3 k (whoops)
note: this was pulled from the most depraved parts of my brain. i refuse to be held accountable for the absolute filth this contains ! :)
⋆ ˚。⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚。⋆. ⋆ ˚。⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚。⋆. ⋆ ˚。⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚。⋆.
The very second that your key is in the apartment door and you're finally home, you find your legs nearly collapsing underneath you as you step inside and kick off your black kitten heels.
"God," you groan, shutting the door behind you before you move to peel your chic new blazer off of your shoulders. You toss it onto the coatrack nearby and bring a handful of your fingers up to your forehead to rub at it tensely, sighing deeply.
It had been a long day at the USTA (United States Tennis Association) office, and all you wanted to do was come home and see your husband.
-
After Art had lost several important and consecutive tennis matches, as well as his confidence on the court (despite his actual tennis skills still being phenomenal -- he just psyched himself out too much), he had decided to give up his life as a professional athlete.
At first, this devastated you. Not only did you love your partner and believe in him throughout his career, as well as believing in his very real ability to eventually win the US Open, but this decision of his also meant that your position as his coach would become obsolete..
You actually became quite anxious about you and Art's future at the time.. you had needed a purpose, and so did he. You both were just those kinds of people; you and him both wanted to feel that you were contributing to something bigger than just yourselves, and that you were being useful to someone or something.
Luckily, his many previous years of successful tennis playing had scored you and him a shit ton of wealth. Like, genuinely a lot. You were beyond grateful, but you still wanted a life of your own. You didn't dare to think about the idea of becoming a stay-at-home wife while he went out and did whatever he wanted. Yuck. It just wasn't for you.
Your fears and inner turmoil about this change in your lives were quickly eased once Art had sat you down about two weeks after he had left his tennis career behind. He had taken your hands in his, smiled softly like he always did, and told you that he wanted to stay at home and take care of everything in it while you went out and continued your career in the field of professional athletics.
Of course, you immediately and excitedly agreed with the idea of this new plan, and then that was that!
You two developed new lives and new roles as people over a short period of time, but it didn't take away from the love you two shared. That always stayed consistent and at the center of everything.
Eventually, after a month or so of coming home from your new job to Art doing things like vacuuming the wooden floors of your guys' expensive New York apartment, or making elaborate protein-packed smoothies for the gym sessions that you two still did together, you came to realize that the whole "house husband" persona was actually kinda hot.
He had realized it too. Quicker than you had, actually. In fact, he can distinctly remember the overwhelming feeling of heat that had pooled deep in his gut the first time he had ever served you a home-cooked meal after you came home from a long day at your new job. He had gently rubbed your sore feet that night while you ate, and then suddenly couldn't find a way to deny how this new practice of.. servicing you.. made him feel.
I mean, God, he loved doing that stuff for you.. cooking.. tidying.. pampering.. washing.. he would do it all. You knew that he worshipped the ground that you walked on—reminding yourself constantly of the time he had admitted to you during sex that he believed he would be "nowhere without you"—and you devoured the increased sense of power that came with it every. single. time. It eventually became very easy and comfortable for you to let him take care of you. You grew hungry for it.
And then this persona of his, over time, dissolved into something much more intimate..
-
After tossing your blazer on the rack and rubbing at your temples, you drag your pantyhose-covered feet across the floor and into the kitchen.
Your nose is instantly filled with the aroma of fluffy, vanilla sweetness and a bit of nutmeg. you sigh happily as you turn the corner and see Art standing over a mess of what appears to be flour and sugar in a large bowl on the kitchen counter. He looks over his shoulder briefly with a smile as he mixes the dry ingredients together with a whisk.
“Hey, hon,” he grins, before turning back to look down at his current baking project.
you shuffle up behind him and hug him, your cheek pressing against his warm upper back as your arms reach to wrap gently around his abdomen. You sigh deeply.
“Hey, babe.. ‘m so tired. It was such a long day.”
He laughs softly, which shakes you a bit as you hold him.
“What’d your colleagues do now?”
You shake your head against him, groaning dramatically.
“I don’t want to talk about it.. what are you baking? It smells good in here.”
“Nothing crazy, it’s just some holiday cookies. I found the recipe online this morning after you left.”
“How many are you planning to make? There’s already some in the oven,” you ask, peeking around his frame from behind to see him set the bowl aside and wipe his hands on the apron he’s wearing. (It was white with small pink hearts by the pockets. You got it for him when he started cooking for you everyday, and he used to feel weird about it. He said it made him feel “slightly emasculated”, but he quickly grew to absolutely adore it. It was just another way for you to claim him as your personal chef. One night before you got home, he jerked off while wearing it, but he would never tell you that.)
“I don’t really know,” he shrugs and chuckles sheepishly, “there are twelve baking right now, but I thought that maybe I could make some for our neighbors.”
You chuckle softly, your hands disconnecting from their place on his stomach to reach down and give his ass a small squeeze. He jumps a little at the feeling, embarrassed laughter bubbling up in his chest.
“Where’d all this holiday cheer come from?” you smirk, pulling back from your position against his back to lean your hip against the counter. You just wanted to look at his pretty face. Your eyes quickly fixate on the fact that he’s got a bit of flour on his flushed cheek.. It’s only a small puff and smear of the white substance near his jaw, but for some reason it starts a flame in your lower stomach. There was just something about the way he got a little messy when he cooked or baked for you.
His cheeks plump up in shape ever-so-slightly as he grins at you.
“I don’t know.. I had time before you got home- I mean, well, before i thought you’d get home, and so i thought I’d just-”
You take a step forward, nodding at his words while your body is now only inches from his. You look up into his glassy blue eyes.
“You thought you’d just.. what?” you purr, your hand coming up to caress his lower back.
He swallows thickly, briefly looking down at the mess on the counter before he looks back to you. His body temperature is steadily rising as he feels your fingertips caress him over his loose t-shirt.
“I just thought I’d make some more,” he whispers.
You lean in, reaching your other hand up to gingerly hold the side of his neck while you press a kiss to it.
“You’re such a sweetheart, aren’t you?”
He nods, slowly, his eyelids fluttering slightly at the feeling of your mouth on him.
“I..I mean, yeah, I guess.”
You lean in a bit more, sucking softly at his neck. His head lolls a bit forward, and you nip at him when the sound of his shaky breathing reaches your ears.
You pull back, a small smirk covering your face as you look up at him.
His focus darts from your eyes to your lips as he reaches both of his hands out for your waist, but he’s rudely interrupted when the timer for the oven goes off— cookies are done.
You both nearly jump out of your skin at the sound; the incessant beeping pulling you both out of the thick fog of tension between your bodies and minds.
“Shit,” he mumbles, flushing pink from his cheeks to the tips of his ears as he turns off the timer at the top of the oven and moves to hastily grab an oven mitt from the lower drawer.
He pulls open the oven door, and you step back to watch him pull the tray out and set it on top of the stove area.
He sighs, pulling off the mitt and setting it aside as he leans over the cookies. His eyes are inspecting each one, and he has a very focused expression plastered on his face. He was as much of a perfectionist in the kitchen as he used to be on the court, that was for sure.
Your body moves in to stand beside him, also peering down at the tray of gorgeous golden-brown cookies. You place a hand on his upper back, rubbing it encouragingly.
“These look incredible,” you say, smiling at him.
He nods, still inspecting them, “They look better than I thought they would.. I actually messed up earlier and accidentally added three-fourths of a cup of sugar instead of two-thirds..”
“They look perfect, don’t stress.”
He looks to you, his gaze meeting yours and then suddenly everything was back to how it was before the timer went off. His hands reach for your waist, squeezing at your hips as he looks lovingly down at you.
“Be proud of yourself, Art.. you did a good job,” you laugh softly, your hands reaching up to cup his face. He pulls you closer.
“I am.”
“Are you?”
“Mhm.”
“Good.”
You suddenly get a very filthy idea.
“Can.. can you tell me what the recipe called for?”
His brows furrow slightly as he seems taken aback by your request, his cock already starting to stir to life in his sweatpants just from holding your body. He didn’t want to talk about the damn cookies anymore.
“What?”
You roll your eyes, one of your hands dropping from his face to reach around the fabric of the front of his apron and grope him over his sweats. Your other hand moves down too, but just to gently hold the side of his torso. His whole body jolts forward and his lips part instantly.
“You’ll like where this is headed, trust me. Just talk to me.. tell me what you did to make the cookies look so perfect..”
He breathes unsteadily, his fingers digging into your waist as he feels your hand start to work his cock up to a full-blown, hot, twitchy erection.
“I.. uhm.. I just..” he breathes out, his eyes growing lidded as he absentmindedly bucks up against your touch, still trying to maintain eye contact as pleasure starts to flood his senses, “one cup of b-butter.. ngh-!.. two cups.. two cups of flour… and then- ugh!- two.. two-thir-r-ds.. of..”
His voice trails off, shaky and low and broken as he hangs his head a bit, leaking incessantly into his boxers. It was that easy for you to work him up.
You frown, “Uh oh.. come on, baby, don’t go nonverbal on me that quick.. we’ve just barely gotten started…”
A small whimper leaves his chest as he tries to finish his words, “Two-thirds, I m-mean- three-f-fourths of a c-cup of.. s-su.. sugar… one teasp’of vanilla.. and.. o-one.. teaspoon of nutm-eg.”
You smile, stroking his cock over the fabric of his pants, “Good boy.. God, you’re so pretty when you’re slurring for me..”
He moans obscenely, melting at the praise while he feels his length grow suddenly intensely hot. A certain kind of numbness starts to creep over his crotch before his hands are flying from your hips to your wrist.
“Wait! W-Wait!” he gasps, his eyes squeezing shut as he blows a concentrated shaky breath from his lips, his fingertips digging into your arm.
Your eyebrow lifts and you smile as you take in the way his body shakes and shudders as he holds it in for you. He knows how to behave.. what would make you happy.. what would make you disappointed.. After all, he’s been trained by you in more than just tennis.
“Close?” you whisper.
His body starts to slowly relax again as he regains some of his composure. He blinks his eyes back open slowly, looking into yours.
“Very,” he groans.
You pull your hands from his body, and he whines softly.
“Take off the apron. Put it on the floor.”
You’re sure you’ve never seen him move so fast— his hands reaching behind his back and undoing the tied string. Then, he pulls the apron off over his head, tossing it off to the side. He watches you study him with parted lips, and he bites onto his own.
“Now take your sweats off for me.”
He does as he’s told; his shaky fingers reaching down to slip his pants down to his lower thighs, and then down to his knees and ankles, and then he steps out of them. He kicks them gently next to where the apron was thrown, now making a mess of grey and white fabric where both items pooled on the kitchen floor.
You step close to his body, cupping his face before running a hand through his messy strawberry-blonde locks. But it doesn’t take long for your eyes to travel solely down to the bulge prominently pressing against the inside of his navy boxer briefs. You run a fingertip up and over the outline of his dick, relishing in the way it makes him shake. He was now just in his tee shirt, boxers, and white socks, while you stayed fully clothed. But not for too much longer.
"My pretty husband.." you coo to him, making his lips part to let out a few uneven breaths. You glance around his frame and notice a bowl off to the side that had remnants of the soft cookie dough from the first batch of the cookies. You smirk.
You lean forward and swipe your thumb along the inside of the bowl, gathering some of the sugary, buttery mixture on your digit. His gaze remains lidded and locked onto your face, not finding any importance in your hand's movements at the kitchen counter. You bring your thumb back in, showing him what you did.
He spares your thumb a quick glance, but then his eyes are back on yours, and then your lips, and then the way that your breasts are peeking out from the low-cut collar of your work top. You bring your thumb up to his mouth.
"Open," you whisper.
He does as he's told, parting his lips further and leaning in to encourage your finger to slip past them.
You push your cookie dough-covered thumb into his mouth, feeling him immediately begin to suckle on it; his tongue swirled over it, and his eyes fluttered shut right after they began to roll back. His brows furrow, and a couple of faint whines bubble up out of him as the taste of his homemade sweetness melts seamlessly on his palate.
While your thumb is in his mouth, you push it down softly on his tongue.
"Knees, baby," you say breathlessly.
Art knew this command like the back of his hand.
Effortlessly and steadily, he dropped down to his knees one after the other, keeping your digit in his mouth the entire time. He didn't dare let it go. He moved to sit on his calves.
"Good job.. good boy..."
He whimpered, the vibrations of his pathetic sounds causing your hand to buzz slightly.
"I want your mouth on my cunt.. can you do that for me, darling?" you purr, running your hand through his hair for a moment. He nods around you.
"Y'sh, m'm.." he mumbled, trying his best to speak while still relishing your touch with enough attention.
You pull your thumb from the heat of his wet mouth, and smirk as you watch his lips chase after it.
"What was that?"
You already had a good idea about what he had murmured, but it was just.. best to be sure.
"Yes, ma'am," he gasps out softly, his eyes glazed over.
He reaches up and pulls at your skirt, shimmying it down and over your ass and thighs, letting it fall to your ankles. You kick it aside, and lean your back against the countertop. Art positions himself on his knees so that he's on the floor in front of you, looking up at you. His hands shakily reach up to the sides of your pantyhose, his tongue licking out over his bottom lip. He digs his fingers into the taut fabric and looks up at you once more, beginning to pull them down.
Immediately you grab his wrists, halting his movements. His eyes look up into yours, worried that he had made a wrong move, but you shake your head with a soft smile.
"You can rip them."
He doesn't even mean to, but he moans when you give him permission to be a little desperate right now.
In an instant, his strong hands are pulling needily at your tights, causing them to rip from your crotch to your lower thighs. He hooks one of his index fingers into the inside of your panties, his thighs tensing up at the feeling of your wetness, and then he's pushing them to the side. His tongue rests out over his bottom lip as he leans in, holding the back of your leg with his free hand as his eyes flutter shut and he engulfs your heat with his mouth.
"Oh, fuck-!" you yelp, reaching down to tangle your hands in his soft curls, "fuck, fuck, that feels good, Art, don't stop.."
He moans, his eyes squeezed shut as he lathes his tongue up and down and over your wet hole. He lewdly sucks and swallows your slick that's quickly spilling over his tongue, trying to focus harder on your pleasure (and less on the feeling of his cock throbbing rapidly in his boxers.. he can feel himself leaking).
You remove your hands from his hair and move to unsteadily grip the countertop, your back pressing hard against it. Art hums around you in his mouth, moving his tongue up to lick sloppily at your clit. He opens his eyes, his brows furrowed, and looks up at you.
"God, you're so good at this.. you're doing so well.. i'm getting.. close.." you breathe out, studying the upper half of his face while the lower half remains buried in your pussy.
He doubles his efforts, smushing his face deeper against you, his lips pursing to suckle against your sensitive nub as his grip on your leg tightens. Art has half a mind at that moment to just scoot forward a bit and slot your ankle between his thighs, but he won't. You came first, in his mind. Literally, and figuratively.
You sling the leg that he's holding over his shoulder, giving him more access, and then you begin to feel an overwhelming, hot numbness creep over your lower half..
"ANGH!" you moan loudly, squeezing your eyes shut as your body begins to shake. Your fingers grip the kitchen counter so hard that you're afraid you'll break a nail.
"I'm going to cum, Art..!"
"Mm! Mm-mm!"
"I'm.. oh my god.... I'm... I'm-! Cumming-!" you whine, feeling your orgasm crash over you.
"MM-!" he laps at your pulsing cunt, squeezing his eyes shut before forcing them open so that he can watch the way your beautiful face moves to contort in ecstasy.
You groan and whine as your orgasm's aftershocks are uncomfortably prolonged by Art's relentless tongue, and your hands release the marble countertop to reach down and grab two soft fistfuls of his hair. You try to tug his head back from your cunt, but he just closes his eyes and presses his nose and mouth further against your core. The repetitive movements of his tongue over your folds cause lewd, wet noises to fill the kitchen.
"Art... A-Art..! Enough!" you slur out as the pleasure from before starts to melt into a prickly sting of oversensitivity.
His eyes flutter open and you shoot him a warning glance as he peers up at you.
"I said enough, yeah?" you snap, "stand up."
He immediately pulls his mouth away from your sticky body and stands up on shaky legs. His eyes look downward, guiltily avoiding your gaze, as he wipes at the clear slick covering his chin with the back of his hand.
You try to catch your breath for a moment, studying his chest as it heaves up and down -- him trying to catch his breath all the same. You reach out and take his lower jaw softly in one hand, forcing him to look at you properly.
"You got a little fucking greedy there for a minute.. didn't you?"
He bites his bottom lip for a second, nervously chewing on the inside of it as he debates what answer he could give that would result in the least amount of punishment from you.
"Did you hear what I said?" you whisper coldly, taking a step closer to him as your hand grazes against the erection standing proudly in his underwear.
His body automatically jolts forward, and he lets out a shaky breath as his brow twitches. "Yeah.. I did.." he huffs out.
You smirk, wrapping your hand around him over the dark blue fabric, "And what do you think, hm? Were you being greedy?"
He looks deep into your eyes, his lips parting as he feels you start to stroke him. He tries to stop it, but his hips start to shallowly buck against your grasp, and now he can't get any words out. He wants to, but he just.. he really can't.
You roll your eyes.
"You know what I want you to say, honey. Use that big brain of yours."
He moans softly, his hands coming up to hold the sides of your upper arms as his eyes grow lidded.
"I'm.. I was being greedy.. I'm greedy," he moans lowly, thrusting into your hand a bit quicker and with a tad bit more abandon.
"Yeah, yeah you are. You're a greedy little whore for this, aren't you?"
He nods slowly but repeatedly as his brows pinch together and his breathing picks up.
"Yesss," he says brokenly, his voice straining a little as his moans start to become whimpers and whines, "I'm.. s' greedy for you.. jus' for you.. mm..!"
You nod and smirk up at him as his face becomes pinker and pinker, "That's it, pretty boy.. good job. You like when I stroke your pretty cock?"
He lets out an obscenely loud moan as his abdomen curls in over itself a bit, his hands gripping the sleeves of your work top and pulling helplessly at the fabric as he feels a spurt of precome burst into the inside of his boxers.
You chuckle a little as you watch him visibly get closer to his climax, but then he suddenly releases the hold on one of your sleeves and urgently grabs the hand that's moving over his clothed length.
You look down to where his hand holds yours, and he lets out a filthy whimper as he pulls your touch off of him and then urgently pushes your hand past his waistband and down into the front of his boxers. You gasp at his seemingly impulsive actions, feeling your fingers finally come into contact with his slicked-up cockhead. Your fingertips just barely brush over his hot, leaking slit.. sliding over a thick glob of pre.. and then he's being sent over the edge. To the average person, the touch would be essentially imperceptible, but not to him.. not to Art. He was just far too sensitive.
Your husband lets out a startled cry as he doubles over your frame in front of him and frantically moans, his whole body trembling and tensing as his balls draw up, "I'm cumming!"
You don't even have time to really process what's happening until you feel your hand being covered in warm fluid, the substance dripping down your fingertips as Art basically comes untouched. You look up at him, dumbfounded, before you feel your abdomen grow warm and tingly. That was kinda.. hot?
"Jesus, baby," you whisper breathlessly as his hips jolt a few more times before stilling as he gulps air down into his lungs, "didn't realize you were that worked up.. that was a little quick, no?"
He moans softly, still feeling your fingers graze him inside of his boxers.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to.." he says, his breathing hitching in his throat as he tries to get the words out in spite of the pleasure still thrumming through his veins. He was still rock hard.
You smile, quickly using your clean, opposite hand to pull his boxers down to his lower thighs. His length slaps up lightly against his stomach before bobbing out in front of him, a tiny pearl-like bead of cum still leaking from his tip. He sighs shakily as he looks down at himself, and then up at you. You wrap your cum-covered hand around the base of his shaft, causing Art to jerk forward from sensitivity. He pulls a sharp breath in, his face scrunching up a little as he tries to control his body.
"I'll let you cum again," you start, watching his eyes light up, "but! you need to give me a warning this next time, okay? I want a clear warning, love."
He nods at your words, a more serious expression plastering over his face, "I will, I promise.. I.. I can give you a proper warning, ma'am.." he whispers.
And with that, you slide your hand from his base to his tip in one smooth motion, your thumb gliding over the head.
"GAH-!" he shudders forward, hissing in pain for a moment before he starts to moan again.
"You okay? Can you handle this?" you ask, your tone soft but seductive as you try to tease him but also legitimately check in. You two were always good at looking out for the other's wellbeing during your sessions together; the exchange of love and tender-care came easily to you both-- it was never something either of you had to question.
He nods, "Yeah, yes-ss, I can t-take it.." he slurs a little, watching your hand move up and down over his throbbing length.
"Look up into my eyes, darling," you purr, your hand starting to pick up speed, "does it feel good?"
He meets your eyes, his blue ones swimming with lust and desperation as he felt the beginnings of his second orgasm start to creep in, "Yes, fuck-! Yes! It feels so fucking good--!" he whines.
"Remember what we just talked about?"
He nods fervently, sucking his plump bottom lip in between his teeth as his focus darts from one of your eyes to the other. You speed up your hand, squeezing his shaft a little more to give him some pressure that you assume he needs.
He keens instantly, a loud moan rumbling from his chest as his thighs start to shake and his eyes squeeze shut.
"Art," you murmur in a seductive but warning tone.
He shakes all over, nodding his head, before his back stiffens up and he becomes incredibly tense. You keep your hand moving at the same fast pace, hoping his memory today is as good as his stamina.
"I'm going to cum," he whispers quickly, bringing his hands up to hold onto your shoulders as he pulls you closer.
You smile in approval, leaning in close to his ear and breathing warmly against his skin as you speak softly, "thank you for telling me, angel. do you want to cum for me?"
He nods, whining out a hasty "mhm". He lets out a breathy moan as he feels your hot words against his upper neck.
You press a chaste kiss there, and then you slide your hand up to gently grip his shaft while your thumb moves to rapidly swipe over his frenulum.
"Come."
And he does just that.
Art's back arches as soon as your one commanding word reaches his ears, cumming uncontrollably with an abrupt cry of pleasure. At first, his body is incredibly rigid as he lets go, his brows pinched up together as he feels the first, pulsing waves of his orgasm hit him, but then the full sensation of his release hits him and his whole body shudders deeply. He lets out little breathy moans and gasps as he relishes in the bursts of pleasure rolling over his cock. You slow your thumb down a bit as you watch him spurt rope after rope over your hand and onto the kitchen floor as he comes undone for you a second time.
"Fucking hell," you moan, now going back to stroking him fully instead of just rubbing a digit against his tip.
He grits his teeth in an instant, being pulled from his afterglow by the feeling of your hand forcing him back into a feeling of overstimulation. "Ah-! Ah!.. T-Too much, too much," he whimpers, his hands instinctively reaching down from your shoulders to push at your hand that's currently working him towards a third, uncomfortable orgasm that he's not even sure he wants anymore.
You use the hand that's not stroking him to move his hands away from your occupied one, giving him a small shake of your head.
"Hands behind your back, please. We're not done yet, okay?" you coo.
He quickly follows orders, moving both of his hands behind his back and away from his aching length, although not without letting out a sniffly whine of protest first.
"Please, ma'am.. I'm.. I can't do it I can't do it-- I'm-- AH!"
You cut off his soft moans of agony with a brief squeeze to the base of his dick, looking intently up into his eyes through your lashes.
"If you really want to stop, baby," you tilt your head teasingly, "you can always use the safeword, yeah?"
He bites his lip before he lets out a warped cry, his head lolling backwards in the same instant. You stop moving your hand.
"Art, darling," you whisper to him comfortingly.
He brings his head back upright to look down into your eyes, his face blank with pleasure; he almost looked drunk. His eyes were glazed over, his cheeks were pink, his hair was a mess, and his lips were parted to let out harsh little breaths of air as he tried to regain some semblance of being grounded in his own, ruined body.
You reach your free hand up to cup his jaw, brushing your thumb over the side of his face.
"Does it really hurt that bad? You know that you can be honest," you whisper, now a little concerned that maybe you pushed him too far.
He thinks for a moment before shaking his head slowly and swallowing a bit of drool that he realized has been collecting in his mouth for the past minute or so, "N-Just a little.." he breathes out.
You nod, giving him one soft stroke of his come-covered cock. He gasps and his torso jolts at the sensation, faint tears springing to his eyes.
"Sorry, sorry," you hum, "should we stop here then? I think maybe that would be best for you.. you've already done so well for me.."
The latter half of your sentence, that subtle bit of praise, gives him all the motivation he needs to want to unravel again.
He looks down at his still-hard cock, and then back up at you, and shakes his head. His tongue pokes out over his bottom lip and wets it as he tries to collect his thoughts.
"No.. no, I can do- I can go again, ma'am.. I pro-promise.." he slurs out, thrusting up into your hand.
You raise a skeptical brow at him and his movements, keeping your hand still.
"Are you sure? You know that I won't be upset with you if you want to stop, Art."
He shakes his head again, his lip trembling, "Please."
You smile softly and start to move your hand up and down over his cock again. Despite his previous indications that it was painful, the feeling has now seemed to morph back into unfiltered pleasure as he lets out a high-pitched moan of your name. He babbles endlessly, a mixture of pleas for more, letting out repetitive mumblings of "feels good", and "yes", and an assortment of stuttered expletives.
It doesn't take long for Art to get close again.
"I think 'm gonna come again," he mumbles, letting his eyes fall shut as his head slumps forward against your shoulder. You stroke him quicker, focusing on his hypersensitive tip as you feel a drip of precome come out.
"Oh? You want to come again?" you tease coyly.
You could be cruel sometimes. He had known that this part was coming eventually.
He shakes his head against the crook of your neck with a whine, "don't do this, please.."
You stop your hand at the base of his cock, halting his orgasm just as his load started to rise up his length. Art bites back an obscenely loud moan of protest that is dying to be let out..
"No, no no noo," he squirms against you, repetitively shaking his head as his face remains buried in your neck.
"You know what you need to do, darling."
"Please," he moans, "let me come.."
"You want to come?"
"Yes."
"You do?"
"YES..!"
"How should I make you come?"
"Can y- keep stroking my- I want my cock to be- I-" he mumbles incoherently.
You place your free hand on the back of his head, pushing your fingers pleasurably into his hair as he trembles against you.
"You want me to keep jerking you off? Hm?"
"Y-Yes-ss!" he moans out brokenly, using every bit of restraint within himself to resist the urge to move his hands from behind his back and relieve his aching parts.
He would never do that, though.. no matter how much he wanted to. He would always follow your wants and needs first. Those were most important to him.
"Ask me for what you need again. Nicely; just the way I like it."
"Please, can I come?"
"Again."
He whines, his hips involuntarily bucking up against your stilled hand wrapped around him.
"Please," he sobs, "can I please come for you?"
"Yes, honey, you can come."
You start to stroke his cock once again, and within just a few pumps Art is releasing again. Even though you can't see them because his face is still in your shoulder, his eyes roll all the way to the back of his head as he lets out a couple pitiful squirts of white, sticky liquid over your hand. "Ooh, that's it.. good boy.. are you my pretty little slut?"
When Art hears this, he isn't exactly sure what happens, but it's like the orgasm that's already halfway finished just completely starts over.
"Ohh my fucking- oh my god-dd-! Ugh! HNGH-!"
It's like every single nerve ending in his body is lighting up at once, and he can't do a damn thing about it.. he can't stop it...
His legs nearly go limp underneath him, and he has to lean further into you to prevent himself from collapsing.
Art then releases the most pornographic moans you've ever heard and tenses up in your hold all over again. You're not really sure what's happening until he--
"I'm cumming again! I'm cumm-m-ing-! Again! Ohmyfucking--! GOD!"
He whines and sobs against your body, his arms still held behind his back as you feel his cock jump and pulse in your hand again. This time, nothing comes out. It's odd because it's clear that he's cumming for a fourth time, but there's nothing to show for it.
You slow your hand but continue to stroke his length which is now covered in the creamy-white filth of his previous loads. His cock softens a little, but you're unsure when his orgasm ends because, again, nothing is coming out.
Art's frame suddenly begins to jerk around every time your hand brushes over his tip, and he lets out a hiss of discomfort through his gritted teeth and a sniffle afterwards. As soon as you hear that, you know he's done and you quickly remove your hand. Any extra stimulation and he'd genuinely start to cry. You could save that for another time.. if he wanted you to.
You move your other hand from his hair to his clothed upper back and rub small, comforting circles over it.
"I've got you," you whisper, "you did such a good job, baby. You just came dry for me."
He nods, sniffling wetly and exhaustedly.
You continue to rub his back for a minute or so in silence as he comes back down to earth; the pleasurable waves of his release's aftershocks allowing him to bask in the ebb and flow of it all as he tries to calm his ragged breathing.
"I feel weak," he groans softly.
You nod, "I'm right here, you're okay.. take some deep breaths for me, honey."
He nuzzles deeper against your neck and sighs contentedly, the fuzziness in his head starting to dissipate with your caring words and gentle touch.
"You're my good boy," you whisper, pressing your cheek against the side of his head.
"Mhmm," he hums, "always for you."
⋆ ˚。⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚。⋆. ⋆ ˚。⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚。⋆. ⋆ ˚。⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚。⋆.
notes; WOAH. ok. so this has been like months in the making by now i think..? but i finally finished it :D thank u so much to everyone who has been patiently/loyally waiting for this one after i teased it for over a month on this blog 😭 + thank u to anyone who gave me some kind words of encouragement when i had to put this aside for a while. i luv u guys !! <3
reblogs are always allowed + appreciated!
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kujiba · 6 months ago
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【Mew Mew Bitch】
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୨୧ — ꒰ Cat!reader | they/them prounouns | Sagau | cultish behavior
A/n: silly little idea after writing gore
Mondstadt / Liyue / Inazuma / Sumeru / Fontaine / Natlan / Snezhnaya
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— Okay but Cat reader who gets thrown into Sagau
I like to imagine Cat!Reader gets worshipped like cats back in ancient Egypt lmao, In mondstat you're basically just chilling around roofs and stuff which makes the character's panick internally telling you to come down since its dangerous
But you couldn't give af so you just jump down and land on your two feet casually making the subjects look dumbfounded. You're still restricted though from the roofs since you could get hurt (as if)
Venti is DEVASTED he is unable to come close to you because of his allergies, bro is just watching you from afar like some wife investigating on her cheating husband
He does frequently assist you through wind currents and help pick stuff up from heights you can't reach, hearing you be thankful for him is worth sneezing so much!
You and diona are literally bff's with each other! Diano absolutely looks up to you like an older sibling and you look back at her as your own.
Whenever theres some drunk weirdo coming towards her with bad intentions you always just use your claws to scratch the persons eyes or any part of their body.
You're pretty confused by Diona's plans to destroy the wine industry that diluc runs but tag along anyway since there are pretty few people who are like you
Speaking of diluc, you actually visit him sometimes... Well not him but his garden, it's your #1 spot to hang around aside from the rooftops of people's houses.
Diluc eventually made a hobby to just watch you from the balcony or window of his home while drinking some beverages. He's pretty amused to watch you jump and catch butterflies or insects flying around his property, he occasionally stops you from eating them too. Much to your dissapointment
Klee is also one of your playmates, both of you adore going fish blasting or catching some interesting stuff from the forests to keep as little treasures or trinkets.
The only bad part is when you guys get caught by Jean and get put into temporary solitary confinement, but you guys past the time with drawing stuff you had capture or saw and make more plans to go adventure! Maybe even invite diona next time.
Two more people is Aether and paimon! You were pretty much just really hungry and accidentally began to nibble on paimons arm making her almost pass out thinking she was going to get eaten by you
You did eventually made up to them by cooking the two a meal which paimon happily accepted. Aether likes it whenever you're around, not just because you're basically the creator but also since you were great company to them!
While assisting them in a adventure you were able to track down multiple targets in a span of minutes just by your animal senses which impressed Aether because he won't have to go through so much trouble in bounties anymore
Overall, Cat reader best au because meow meow
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cressidagrey · 5 months ago
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It's a Love Story - Chapter 1
Summary:
Azriel's shadows find their master a wife.
Azriel would just really like his heart not to get broken again.
And Sky...well, she's just really surprised that that far too handsome male is interested in her at all.
Warning:
Rhys Bashing (as usual), I classified this as Azriel x OC, even when it't technically Azriel x Sellyn Drake (but we kinda know nothing about Sellyn Drake other than that she writes books so Sky is kinda an OC), Cassian is kinda a good guy for once, Azriel has a horrible time, as usual... Stuttering, toxic families (For once I do not mean the IC), Self-Esteem Issues, Secret Identity, Body Image Issues
If any of this triggers you or makes you uncomfortable, please take care of your own mental health and don't read it.
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Koschei the Deathless Sorcerer was killed by the Spymaster of the Night Court. 
It was less dramatic than it sounded. At least Azriel thought so. 
And if Lucien hadn’t been a fucking idiot and put himself into a position to be kidnapped by the very same deathless sorcerer…then they wouldn’t even have been in that kind of situation. 
But he had been and so it ended with Azriel so magically exhausted that he collapsed the very same moment Truthteller stroke true once more. 
At least Koschei was slayn. 
And the only reason Azriel had gone to rescue the red-headed male in the first place was the fact that  Lucien was Elaine’s mate. Lucien was the male Elain loved. Azriel couldn’t let him die. 
Couldn’t let Elain feel the devastation of a mating bond broken by death…so his decision making had been quick. Either he would manage to get Lucien free…or he would die trying.  There wasn’t many things that he wouldn’t do for the female he loved. Even when he knew it shouldn’t be. 
Azriel had never been very good at knowing when enough was enough after all, wasn’t he?
No price was high enough to pay when it was about Elain’s happiness, as far as Azriel was concerned.  
He hadn't expected to wake up, and yet… there he was. Alive and whole.
*I hope it was worth it, Master,* the shadows sniped at him.
He blinked, taking in the dim light of the room, taking in the familiar surroundings. His room in the House of Wind.
“You are a fucking idiot, you know?” Cassian hissed at him from his place at his bedside and Azriel blinked at him.
"Lucien?" he brought out hoarsely.
"Not as much as a fucking scratch on him. Thanks to you," Cassian responded. "You on the other hand...Madja thought you were going to fucking die from pure magical exhaustion!"
Even Azriel he had...it would have been worth it. Lucien had made it out alive - and that was all that mattered in the end. Elain would be happy. That was all he cared about.
He didn't say that aloud though. 
He took a deep breath, opening his eyes again. "How long was I out?" he asked.
"Three days," Cassian growled. "Three. Days."
Azriel sat up slowly, wincing at the ache in his muscles. It felt like his entire body was one giant bruise, every inch of him pained and sore.
"Lay back down," Cassian snapped.
Azriel shot him a glare, but sank back onto the bed nonetheless. "I'm fine," he grumbled. "Just tired."
"Yeah, well, we'll let Madja be the judge of that," Cassian snapped. "And when you are feeling better, I am going to kill you for going off on your own!"
Azriel just gave him a weary look. "Better me than you," he said dryly. He closed his eyes, feeling a deep exhaustion settle over him. Cassian had Nesta to think about. Azriel didn't. Azriel just had himself.
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?!" Cassian demanded.
Azriel didn't have the energy to answer
He dosed off, feeling the shadows twine around him. They were muttering, words he could c quite understand, bitching under their breath but for once it was comforting.
He woke up, feeling groggy and disoriented. His eyes felt like sandpaper, and his limbs were heavy. He groggily blinked at the room, feeling like he was in a haze.
It took him a moment to realize he wasn't alone. Cassian was still there, as was Madja.
Azriel groaned, pushing himself up into a sitting position. His head was throbbing, and his vision was a little blurred. He rubbed his face, trying to clear the fog from his mind. "Hey," he said, his voice rough and gravelly.
Cassian and Madja both looked at him, their expressions relieved. "How are you feeling?" Madja asked him, moving closer to the bed and waving a hand in front of his face.
"Like I was hit by a wagon," Azriel admitted. His muscles felt tight and sore, his body heavy with fatigue. His wings felt like they were made of lead, and every movement took a huge effort.
"That's unsurprising considering you nearly magicked yourself to death," Madja said gruffly. "Your body had a tremendous amount of stress and strain put on it. You're lucky to be alive."
He gritted his teeth. "Yeah, well, I didn't have a lot of other options," he pointed out.
Madja just let out a huff and began prodding and poking at his body, running her hands over his wings and checking his pulse. Cassian watched anxiously from the side, his arms crossed over his chest.
Azriel bore her ministrations in silence, trying not to wince as she poked and prodded at him. He knew she was just trying to help, but it didn't make the ordeal any more pleasant.
After what felt like forever, she finally stepped back, nodding to herself. "You're lucky, shadowsinger," she said gruffly. "You're lucky you're so damn resilient," she said, and he couldn't tell if it was a compliment or just an observation.
He looked at her blearily. "I guess I can add that to my list of things to be proud of," he muttered sarcastically.
Cassian barked out a laugh, but Madja just rolled her eyes. The door opened at that moment. "How's he doing?" Rhys demanded.
Azriel wanted to let out a sigh at the sight of Rhys. He loved his brother, but he didn't have the energy for a lecture right now.
Madja turned to Rhys. "He's weak and he's stupid," she snapped. "But he's alive."
Rhys let out a sigh, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little. "Thank you, Madja," he said. "Would you...give us a moment?"
Madja nodded, patting Azriel's leg as she got up to leave. "Rest," she ordered. "And no strenuous activity for at least a week."
As soon as the door closed behind her, Rhys turned to Azriel. "What were you thinking?" he demanded, his eyes blazing.
"I was thinking that I was saving Lucien's life," Azriel replied evenly, meeting his brother's gaze. "I couldn't let him die, Rhys."
"Wouldn't that have made it easier for you?* Rhys demanded sharply mentally. *You are the one that fancies himself in love with Elain.*
Maybe it shouldn't hurt him as much as it did. He didn't fancy himself in love with her. He was in love with her. Had been in love with her and Rhys had been the one to order him away from her, which had given Lucien the opportunity to swoop in and Elain had...Elain had given in. Given in to that Siren Song of the Mating Bond and was very much in love with her mate now. 
It hurt to hear Rhys say it like that, like it was just some passing infatuation that he'd gotten over.
*Lucien is her mate,* he responded simply. He didn't say what he really thought. He didn't say that he would rather have Elain be happy and never talk with him again than to have her wilt like one of her flowers because her mate had died and the mating bond would be broken… He didn't say that he loved Elain enough, that her happiness was more important to him than anything else. He didn't say any of that.
*At least you are recognising that now,* Rhys said with a snort.  Azriel didn't flinch. Didn't react.
He hid away in that little corner of his brain he went to when everything became too much. Where he could just shut up all his feelings, all these pesky emotions, and just be...nothing. Nothing. That's the only thing he still had left.
He just shrugged, schooling his face into a careless expression. "I did what I had to do, Rhys," he repeated stubbornly. "Lucien is a good male. He didn't deserve to die."
"Elain wants to thank you," Rhys said suddenly.
Azriel's stomach twisted as Rhys mentioned Elain. He felt a pang of longing in his chest, a desperate ache to see her, to touch her, to hear her voice. But he knew he couldn't. He couldn't subject himself to the torture of seeing her with her mate, seeing her happy in Lucien's arms.
So his answer was definite: "There is no need for that," he said simply.
Rhys gave him a sharp look. "Don't be an idiot," he said gruffly. "She's been worried sick about you."
But Azriel just shook his head, even as his heart thudded in his chest.
*You can keep it together for 5 minutes,* Rhys snapped into his mind.
"Rhys," Cassian said carefully. "If he doesn't want to, just let it..."
"He's being ridiculous," Rhys snapped, interrupting Cassian. "Elain is family.”
Azriel grit his teeth but didn't respond. He didn't have the energy for an argument right now. He just wanted to sleep.
*See her for 5 minute snad then you can sulk like a spoiled child until you feel better about yourself,* Rhys bargained drily.
Azriel hesitated. He knew he should see her, knew that it would make things easier for everyone if he did. But the thought of seeing her, seeing her happy with Lucien when he was so miserable, was like a knife to the gut.
"Does it even matter what I want?" he asked, his voice flat.
Rhys let out a frustrated sigh, looking at him with exasperation. "Az, stop being so damned stubborn. Elain has been worried sick about you - the least you can do is let her see that you are alive."
Azriel didn't say anything. Didn't respond. He just stared at Rhys, feeling like every fiber of his being was being pulled apart. He wanted to see her. Wanted to see her more than anything. But he knew that once he saw her, he wouldn't be able to hold himself together. He would break. He would shatter into a thousand pieces.
"Just...come on, Az," Rhys said finally. "Let her see you. She needs to know you're alright."
Azriel knew he couldn't say no. Knew he couldn't hurt her like that. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. "Fine," he said softly. "But just for five minutes."
Five minutes. He could do five minutes. He had to. For her…
She was still as achingly beautiful as she always had been. These devasting brown eyes, the caramel curls...
Azriel's breath hitched at the sight of her, and he felt a wave of conflicting emotions wash over him. Love, longing, sadness, and that bittersweet pang of being so close to something he could never have.
Behave, Rhys warned him sharply.
He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. Trying to push back that wave of feelings that threatened to drown him. It was just five minutes, he reminded himself. Five minutes. He could do this.
The shadows swirled around him, welling up with intensity, shrouding much of his body in inky blackness and Elain flinched back from them.
She had never quite warmed up to them. Azriel was just thankful for that display, for keeping her away from him as she entered the room, Lucien on her heels.
"How...How are you feeling?" she asked him, her voice soft.
He could tell that she was worried, that she was concerned for him. It warmed something inside him, and he hated himself for it. 
"I'm fine," Azriel answered hoarsely.  "Just tired.
"I...thank you," Elain said softly, binting her lip. "If you hadn't...if you hadn't killed Koschei and freed Lucien...I...Thank you, Azriel."
Hearing her say his name again was like a punch to the gut. It was both a comfort and a torture, to be so close to her and yet so far away. He swallowed hard, biting back the words that threatened to spill out.
"You don't owe me any thanks," he said quietly. "I just did what had to be done."
"I do owe you my life," Lucien disagreed. "Thank you. Without your interference...I wouln't have survived, " he said flatly.
Azriel just shrugged, feeling a wave of bitterness wash over him. He had saved Lucien, had risked his life to save the male who was mated to the female he loved. It was a strange sort of irony.
"It's fine," he said roughly. "I'm just glad I got there in time."
He couldn't look at her. Couldn't look at Lucien. It hurt too much. So he stared at the floor, willing the shadows to consume him entirely.
"We are all just happy you are feeling alright," Elain said softly. "I...I was worried about you. Everyone was."
Azriel forced himself to look up at her, his heart clenching at the sincerity in her eyes. She really had been worried about him. "I'm alright," he promised her, his voice rough. "Really. I just need some rest."
Elain hesitated, taking a step forward. He could hear her heartbeat, could feel the warmth radiating off her skin. It was torture to be so close to her and yet so far away. It was torture to know that she was so close and yet so unattainable. He wanted to reach out, to touch her, to hold her, but he knew he couldn't. He held onto that last shred of reason he had.
She tugged a piece of hair behind one delicately arched ear...and that was the moment he saw the gold and pearl ring that decorated her ring finger.
"Congratulations." He wasn't sure how he even brought out these words...how he managed to make them sound...appropriately happy for her.
It took a herculean effort to say those words, to offer a smile that barely reached his eyes. Every fibre of his being was screaming in protest, yelling that he should have been the one giving her that ring, that he should have been the one by her side. But he pushed back those feelings, burying them deep down inside of himself. He couldn't let her see how he truly felt. He couldn't let her know how much it was tearing him apart to stand there and look at her. Look at her with her mate, with the male she loved, the one she had chosen. 
"Congratulation," he repeated, his voice a little rougher than before.
"It wouldn't have been possible without you," Elain said, with a smile.
Azriel just nodded, feeling a lump in his throat. He couldn't find the words to respond, couldn't find the words to express the tangle of emotions swirling inside of him. He just sat there, feeling more alone and isolated than he had in a long time.
Elain took another step in his direction, seemingly ready to reach out, but Cassian intercepted her. placing a gentle hand on Elain's shoulder. "He needs his rest," he said softly. "Let's leave him be for now."
Azriel felt a pang of gratitude towards Cassian. Elain hesitated, looking torn.
"I wish you every happiness," Azriel brought out his voice hoarsely. Not even a lie.  It was the frank truth in these words and Elain gave him a smile, before Lucien's hand came to rest at her lower back, guiding her out of the room.
Thank the cauldron. They were gone. 
He slumped back into the pillow.  He was falling apart. He was exhausted, emotionally and physically. He just wanted to be left alone, to lick his wounds in peace.
"Az..." Cassian said carefully, but he cut him off.
“I am tired,” Azriel said, his voice hoarse. “I need to sleep.”
The shadows swirled around him tighter. 
Rhys and Cassian exchanged a look, before Cassian nodded, "Alright," he said. "Get some rest."
He laid down properly, closing his eyes, calling the shadows to him wordlessly. They swamred around him immediately. Damn Near suffocating him.  It was the only thing that kept him from starting to sob.
The shadows embraced him, wrapping him in their inky blackness, shielding him from the outside world. They were his only comfort, just like they had been for centuries. 
*We are there, Master.* They promised him softly. *It will be fine, Master.*
He didn’t believe a fucking word they said. 
*We are not willing to lose you, Master. We aren’t interested in finding a new master,* they told him seriously. He choked out a laugh that turned into a sob. 
*Sleep, Master. We'll keep watch,* they promised him.
And they did. 
Bone deep exhaustion meant that at least his sleep was dreamless. At least that was given to him. It was a small mercy. 
When he woke up again, Nesta was there, sitting in an armchair reading.
Azriel blinked, feeling disoriented and groggy. He sat up slowly, wincing as his wounds protested the movement. Nesta looked up from her book, her expression neutral.
"How are you feeling?" she asked him quietly.
"Fine," he answered, his voice hoarse. He was fine. He would be fine. 
"Thank you," Nesta said suddenly.
Azriel looked up at her, surprised. He wasn't even sure what she was thanking him for.
"For what?" he asked, his voice rough with sleep.
“You nearly got yourself killed to save my sister’s mate. I think Thank you is the least I owe you," Nesta said drily.
She mustered him with grey eyes and he knew that she knew. Knew that she knew or at the very least could guess about his feelings for Elain and probably be right. She wouldn't say anything, but she knew.
He didn’t want to talk about this anymore. It was over with. Done. 
Lucien and Elain could be happy and Azriel…Azriel would hide away somewhere. 
"You don't owe me anything," he waved Nesta off weakly, but she didn’t seem to want to take the hint, sticking out her chin. 
"Yes, I do," Nesta disagreed. "You are the reason why my little sister is happy right now," she told him fiercely. He swallowed down the unkind words at the tip of her tongue...didn't say anything. Didn't.... He didn’t want to think about this. He didn’t…
"Is there anything I can do?" Nesta asked him, her voice soft. "Anything at all, Az?" H knew that he could ask for anything and Nesta would do her level best to give it to him. She was stubborn like that. He had half a mind to ask her to use her silver flames to put him on fire and put him out of his misery. 
He didn’t. 
Even that wouldn’t fix it. 
There was nothing. There was absolutely nothing to make it any better. There was nothing that could...that could fix the ache in his chest.
"Porridge," he said, his voice hoarse.
"Porridge?" Nesta repeated incrediously.
"Porridge with honey. I am hungry," he repeated, meeting her gaze. Food. Food. More Sleep. More Work. He could fill his waking hours with useless things and everybody would be happy. 
Nesta just looked at him for a moment, then inclined her head.
"Porridge with honey. Alright," she agreed. Just a moment later a massive bowl of Porridge with honey drizzled on top, appeared on his bedside table, so hot it was steaming. Seemed like the house was in a mood to spoil him. He even got a whiff of cinnamon from it.
"Thank you," he thanked Nesta's creature aloud as the shadows fetched the bowl and held it up for him to eat a spoonful. "What are you reading?" he asked Nesta, changing the topic. 
She was polite enough not to say anything about it. 
Nesta held up her book. “The newest Sellyn Drake novel,” she replied.
"Is it any good?" he inquired, stirring his porridge gently.
“It’s brilliant," Nesta gushed, her eyes devoured the pages as soon as she looked down to continue reading.
"You seem to really like it," he pointed out, taking another bite of his porridge. "It is brilliant," Nesta agreed readily. “The plot is so intricate and twists and turns and the characters are so deep and complex and their emotions are so real and the romance is so...” she trailed off, blushing slightly.
He opened his mouth to respond...but then he heard her.
Mor. Of course.
He couldn’t deal with Mor. Not right now. But there she was, Rhys hot on her heels.
Nesta heard her too, rolling her eyes, curling back up on her chair, making it very clear that while she was going nowhere, she was letting him deal with it on her own. 
And he didn’t want to deal with Mor. 
But there she was. 
Mor came strolling into the room, her usual confident smile firmly in place. Rhys just looked at Azriel, his expression unreadable.
He didn't say it.  But Azriel knew. Behave. That’s all Rhys was telling him these days.  Either it was about Elain and Lucien...or about Mor and Emerie. Like Azriel would ever do anything to put that in jeopardy. Like Azriel was a jealous child that wouldn't allow Mor to be happy on her own terms. Like...
Azriel ignored the sharp pang of hurt that shot through him at Rhys's look.
Still it was better than looking at Mor…he couldn’t bear to look at Mor. 
 Didn't want to look at Mor, in her usual bright red, skin baring dress, that clung to all her curves...didn't want to look at the female he had spent centuries in love with even when he had known that she was never going to return his affections...it hadn't helped him. He had still been in love with her.
And he had still hoped...hoped against all hope that maybe...maybe there would be a time where she would return his affection...that maybe there would be a time where...
But there wouldn't. He knew. He knew. And he had still been in love with her.
Would have given damn near anything for her attention, for that broad smile on her face to be directed in his direction...would have given anything for her to bound over to his bedside and envelope him in her arms...to feel her soft skin against his as she hugged him fiercely, cinnamon and citrus enveloping him.
Now...now it felt like somebody was pouring salt into a gaping wound. Now it felt as painful as the fire and oil on his hands had. She was flaying him alive and she wasn’t even aware that she was hurting him. 
"How are you feeling, Az?" Mor's voice was gentle, concerned. He knew it was genuine, knew that Mor really cared about him. But he couldn't bring himself to look at her. Not when his heart was bleeding out just from the sound of her voice.
"Fine," he answered, his voice flat. "Nothing that sleep won't fix," he promised her, even as her hands fluttered around him as she sat down on his bedside...
She was so close. He could reach out and touch her, could feel the soft fabric of her dress against his fingertips. He clenched his fists, willing himself to keep his hands to himself.
But he couldn't help it. He looked up at her, meeting her eyes. He could see the concern there, the worry. He felt a pang of guilt for putting that look on her face. He didn't want to cause her any distress. 
"I'm just glad you are feeling better," Mor sighed, gently patting his arm. "You had us all worried for a moment there," she admitted softly.
Even just the touch of her hand felt like she was branding him. He wanted to flinch away and forced himself no to.
It was like a bittersweet poison, the way she touched him. It was so familiar, so comforting. But it was also so painful, a reminder of what he could never have.
He looked away, staring down at his hands. They were shaking, just a little. He clasped them together, the monstrous scars that covered them, standing out starkly.
The shadows trembled around him, pulling nearer, growing darker and Mor watched them with a raised eyebrow. "Worried, are they?" she teased him slightly.
*You are fine, Master,* the shadows promised him. *No more fire,* they promised him fiercely. But it didn’t help. He didn’t trust himself to speak without his voice cracking.
Mor seemed to sense his discomfort and stood up, her hand slipping from his arm. "Just rest and get better soon, alright?" she said softly, taking a step back.
"Thank you," he thanked her, his voice hoarse.
He risked a glance up at her, just a quick look. Her face was soft, her eyes filled with warmth. He felt his heart squeeze in his chest and he had to look away again. He wasn't sure how much more of this he could take.
"We should let him rest, Mor," Rhys said, giving Azriel another look.
"Right, right," Mor agreed, already turning towards the door. "Rest up, Az," she said again, giving him one last smile as she disappeared out the door.
Azriel felt a sense of relief wash over him as she left the room. 
Gone. Thank the cauldron. He couldn't take much more of her presence, not right now. 
He didn't even want to know why Rhys had accompanied her. Probably because he was worried that Azriel wasn't going to behave.
What was he supposed to do instead? Tell Mor about how much she had hurt him over the centuries? How she had given him jut enough scraps of her affection to make him yearn for more but never telling him that she didn’t love him like that? 
He wasn’t going to do that. 
He didn't want to look at Rhys right now, didn't want to face the scrutiny of his high lord's gaze. He just wanted to be left alone.
He knew that Rhys was watching him, that the male wanted to say something. But Azriel didn't want to hear it. He didn't want to hear the lecture, the warning. He just wanted to be left alone.
The room fell silent, except for the sound of his own breathing. He closed his eyes and sank deeper into the mattress. Maybe if he just pretended to sleep, Rhys would leave him alone.
"He's tired. You should let him sleep," Nesta said flatly.
Leave it to Nesta to tell Rhys to stuff it, he reflected weakly. He heard Rhys sigh, but he kept his eyes closed. And after a moment, he heard the sound of footsteps leaving the room.
He let out a breath he didn't know he was holding, feeling a wave of relief wash over him. 
Alone. Safe. Mostly at least. 
Life went on. It always did.
The exhaustion went away after a few days... he caught up on Paperwork in the meantime. He sent the shadows off to find him one information or other and they didn't even bitch to him that badly, which told him that even they felt bad for him.
Behave. That’s all Rhys was telling him these days.
So he did. He behaved.
He did his job. He did everything Rhys could possibly want from his spymaster. 
He didn’t argue. He didn’t fight. He did his job and he trained and he did everyhting that was expected off him. 
And then he hadn’t tortured himself enough… and he went to visit Rosehall.
Where his mother lived.
Under the Mountains had it’s own kind consequences. This was one of them: His mother didn’t even want to talk to him anymore. 
50 years without him...and his mother had made herself a new family. A family that he wasn’t welcome in. A family that she wanted him nowhere near. He couldn’t fault her for it. Not at all.
She had been half a child when she had had him and it hadn’t been by choice.
So who could blame her for making a new family with people that weren’t as fucked up in the head as he was? Not Azriel.
Azriel didn’t blame her at all. Azriel left her in peace. He didn't reach out. He made sure that she was fine, that she had enough money to never worry about it and otherwise dissappeared from her life. 
His shadows kept an eye on her…He shored up the wards around Rosehall and caught a glimpse of her. And then he left it at that. She looked happy. That’s all he cared about.
Happy and safe and…she didn’t need him. She didn’t want him around her either, and he could understand that too.
And still, it hurt. It hurt so fucking much. 
But 
*You know the rules,* he told the shadows quietly. *You don’t need to report to me about her anymore. Keep an eye on her and only tell me if she is in danger or hurt.*
*Yes, Master,* they agreed readily. 
So he went back to the House of Wind. Back to Velaris…Back to work. 
He went back to his routine, back to his duties, back to his mask of indifference. He hid the pain behind his usual stoic facade, only letting his shadows know how much it hurt. He threw himself into his work, using it as a way to distract himself from his own loneliness.
And when he wasn't working, he would spend hours and hours in the training ring in the House of Wind, working himself to exhaustion. Anything to try and drown out the ache in his heart.
For gods sake, he even attended Elain and Lucien’s mating ceremony. And gifted them an appropriate gift. He behaved just like Rhys wanted him too.
He even summoned up a smile for them on their special day, hiding his own pain behind a mask of false happiness. He congratulated them both, feeling a pang in his chest at the sight of Elain's beaming face. But he didn’t let it show. He behaved. Like Rhys wanted him too.
He stayed for the whole thing. Stayed for the dancing, stayed for the feast. Stayed until he could physically take it no more. And then he had retreated to that training ring again, beating his pain and loneliness out on whatever dummy he could find.
He was so tired. Tired of hiding, tired of pretending. Tired of pretending like nothing was wrong. He wanted nothing more than to just scream and rage and shout and cry. But he didn’t. He held it all in. Bottled it up like he was so good at doing.
He was in the bathtub, sluicing off the sweat he was drenched in…shaking off his wings just because he could move them however he wanted to
*You should go out, Master,* the shadows suggested seriously. *Go out and find a female.*
He just snorted. *Not interested,* he sniped back harshly. *I am not getting my heart broken again.*
Everybody could just fuck off and leave him alone. Even when he was aching…aching for somebody in his life that loved him. For whom he could be everything. Somebody he could dote on. Somebody that wanted his attention, that wanted his love…that would like his ruined hands on their body and wasn’t paid to simply acccept it. 
*You could let us pick her!* the shadows suggested brightly.
His eyes snapped back open and he glared at the shadows swirling around the room. *Absolutely not,* he said firmly. *I mean it, you stay out of it.*
*We can’t do a worse job than you do,* they sniped at him. *Neither The Seer nor The Morrigan would have suited you at all.*
*Excuse me?!* 
*You heard us, Master,* the shadows said, sounding far too smug for their own good. *And you know it.*
Azriel just glared at them, feeling his temper start to rise. *I know I wasn’t good enough for them,* he snapped. *You don’t need to tell me that.*
*You think you weren’t good enough for them?!* The shadows asked him incredulously.
*They deserve better. So much better than me,* he said quietly. "I'm not good enough for either of them. Never was.*
What was he, after all? An Illyrian bastard? A monster? Either? Both? 
He had never said it out loud before, not even to himself. But in that moment, lying in the water, his heart so raw and exposed, he couldn't help but speak the truth that he had always known but never admitted to himself. "I'm not good enough for either of them," he repeated softly, the weight of his words settling heavily on his chest.
He knew it was true. Mor was a golden ray of light, the embodiment of beauty and grace. Elain was sweet and gentle and kind, a pure soul in a sea of darkness. 
And what was he? Damaged. Broken. Scarred. Inside and out.
He had done unspeakable things, things that would haunt his nightmares for centuries to come. He was nothing compared to them. He was darkness, they were light. And they deserved better than him, far better than him.
Even if he had loved Mor with every fiber of his being, even if he had yearned for her with every beat of his heart, even if he had dreamed of her every night, it didn't matter. It had never mattered. Because he wasn't good enough for her. And he never would be.
He wasn’t good enough for Elain. The mother hadn’t thought it to be prudent to make them mates. Both of his brother had been gifted with a mating bond, but not him. That should tell him everything he needed to know abotu the state of his own soul. 
So why…why should he even try anymore. 
Why shouldn’t he just stew in his own misery, alone and heartbroken and a monster and expect everybody to just leave him alone? There was no point of putting himself out there again. There was nothing out there for him. Nothing but more pain.​​
So he closed his eyes again, sinking lower into the water, letting the warmth soothe his aching muscles. He let out a long sigh, his mind already racing with thoughts of his next missions, his next assignments. Because that was all that really mattered now. His job. His duties. His responsibilities. That was all he had left.
Behave. That’s all he was good for. 
*Alright, that’s fucking enough,* the shadows snapped. *You are not letting The High Lord talk to you like that any longer, Master.*
Azriel was so surprised by their fucking vehemence that he could just stare at them. 
*The Morrigan used you for centuries to make herself feel better about herself,* the shadows snapped. *She used the feelings you had for her and that she was very much aware of to strangle you and keep you in line.*
Azriel swallowed. He knew they were right. He knew that Mor had used his feelings for her for a long time. She had led him on, given him false hope, only to yank it away time and time again. It had been a painful cycle, one that had left him feeling used and broken and worthless.
*She could have stopped at any time but she never did,* the shadows hissed. *But instead she hurt you on purpose. Instead of turning you down, she slept with other males to show you that you would never have her!*
Azriel felt bile rise in the back of his throat. Mor had flaunted her other lovers in front of him, making it clear that he would never be enough for her. She had used his devotion to her as a weapon against him, wielding it whenever it suited her needs. And he had let her. He had been foolish, desperate enough to cling onto any scrap of affection she might throw his way.
*And The Seer?! Granted she has never done that, but her feelings for you weren’t particular deep when she replaced you on her affections with The Fox as soon as you weren’t available anymore! If she had cared, truly cared, she would have thought about what happened during Winter Solstice,* the shadows snapped.
*And The High Lord? Don’t even let us get started on him,* the shadows snapped. *You haven’t even done anything since that Winter Solstice, and he keeps behaving like some kind of despotic Overlord, worried that his orders won’t be followed. If you wanted to punch him in the face, you probably had every right to it,* they mumbled.
Azriel couldn’t help but snort. 
*You deserve better, Master,* The shadows told him fiercely. *You deserve somebody that loves you.* 
. He wanted to believe the shadows. He wanted to believe that he was good enough, that he deserved more. But the scars on his body and the memories in his mind told him otherwise. He had done terrible things, things that he could never undo. How could someone like that be good enough for anyone?
*Alright,* he finally agreed weakly. *Find me a house,* he told the shadows, as he closed his eyes.
*A house? What kind of house?* the shadows gave back, sounding surprised.
*A house,* he repeated. *A home. Somewhere in Velaris. Find me a home.* Something that could just be his.
A home. The idea sent a flutter through his stomach. He had never…never truly had a home. Had something that could just be his and nobody else’s. Just…a place that was his, where he could be whoever he wanted, where he was accepted and loved...it was appealing. Maybe even more than just appealing.
He closed his eyes, picturing it in his mind. A cozy little house, just large enough for himself. Warm and cozy and filled with light.
*That’s what a male needs to take a wife after all, right?* He asked, a flicker of uncertainty crossed his face. Was that what he should want? What he was supposed to want? He had never really thought about getting married before. But now, at the mention of it, he couldn't help but feel a pang of longing. A wife...a family...love and companionship. It all sounded so…so nice.
*You want to get married, Master?* the shadows asked curioulsy. *To whom?*
*You pick,* he told the shadows. They swarmed out in pure excitment. Azriel couldn’t even remmeebr the last time they had been so excited. 
He couldn't help but chuckle at their reaction. Maybe they would do a better job than him. At least they could probably sieve out females that were in a romantic relationship or preferred females themselves. 
*Find me somebody that I could make happy. Somebody that….Somebody that could want me.* Some long-suffering female for whom Azriel could maybe try to be enough. Somebody that would love him.
*What should she look like?* they asked seriously.
*I don’t care. Find me somebody that loves me and she’ll be the most beautiful female to me anyway.*
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mahalachives · 16 days ago
Text
The Neglected Mate Tragedy
pairing: azriel x reader (brat, dramatic mate)
summary: In which you resort to other ways in trying to get azriel's attention
genre: humor, fluff
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Azriel knew you were up to something the moment his shadows alerted him to a disturbance outside the meeting room. He didn't even need to look—your energy alone could be felt from across Velaris, brewing something ridiculous.
Then, the doors slammed open.
A collective pause fell over the Inner Circle as you strode in, draped in a flowing black veil, your gown so dark it looked like you’d walked straight out of a Gothic mourning portrait. Your arms were crossed, your chin tilted in exquisite dramatics, and Azriel—poor, patient Azriel—only sighed as you swept into the room like a tragic widow.
Rhys was already biting back laughter, but it was Cassian—traitorous, useless Cassian—who immediately stood from his seat and clutched his chest.
“My lady,” Cassian gasped. “Why do you wear such sorrow?”
Azriel closed his eyes briefly, willing himself not to throw his dagger at his so-called brother.
You exhaled dramatically, clutching your own heart as you swayed.
"My husband," you lamented, voice thick with suffering, "the mighty Spymaster of this court, has abandoned me—left me to wither and perish in loneliness, forgotten, unloved—forsaken for nothing but endless, cold, unfeeling paperwork.”
Azriel, deadpan: “…I saw you ten minutes ago.”
You turned to him with theatrical devastation, as if his words had physically wounded you.
"Ten minutes," you sniffled, your veil fluttering, "is a lifetime in neglected mate years, Azriel."
Rhys choked on his wine.
Feyre, whispering to Mor. "Do you think she rehearsed this?"
Mor, whispering back. "One hundred percent."
Amren just stared, unimpressed.
Azriel pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling a slow, measured breath.
"What do you want?" he asked, already knowing this was your favorite game—annoying him until he snapped, only to bask in his attention.
"What I want?" you repeated, aghast, stepping closer as if the very question pained you. "What I want is for my husband to remember that he has a wife. A wife who suffers, alone and unattended—"
"You were literally in my lap this morning," Azriel reminded you.
"And look at me now!" you cried, gesturing to yourself in despair. "I had to take drastic measures!"
Cassian looked like he was about to fall off his chair laughing. Rhys was now openly grinning, and Feyre covered her smile behind her hand.
Azriel knew exactly how this was going to end. He had two options: humor you, or suffer further.
He sighed. Stood up.
And in a single, swift motion, shadow-stepped directly in front of you.
Before you could utter another over-the-top monologue, Azriel scooped you up, veil and all, into his arms.
"Oh!" you gasped, clutching his shoulders in faux shock. "Has the mighty Spymaster finally come to his senses?"
Azriel looked at his brothers and deadpanned, "You're all insufferable." Then, without another word, he vanished you both out of the room.
The last thing he heard before shadows carried you away was Cassian’s gleeful, “LONG LIVE THE NEGLECTED MATE!”
Epilogue: Five Minutes Later
When you landed in your bedroom, Azriel dropped you onto the bed unceremoniously.
You laughed delightedly, pushing back your veil.
"Did you miss me?" you teased, batting your lashes.
Azriel leaned over you, pinning your hands above your head, his voice low and lethal.
"No," he murmured, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss against your neck, "but you’re about to wish I had.”
Your smirk immediately vanished.
And for the first time that day, you had no comeback.
End.
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consultingfujoshi · 2 months ago
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some thoughts wrt the two established "romances" in severance so far (burt/irving and helly/mark) inspired by @figmentof who pointed out how irving had to find out mark and helly kissed from the corporate video in s2 e1 and how he must have felt seeing his co-workers' love affair like portrayed like that, and how it ties into the queer narrative at play here which uses workplace dynamics and policies as very clear analogues for real-life prejudice against queer couples. I mean, just look at this:
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it's not just documented, but celebrated. used as propaganda for how the conditions on the severance floor have improved. proof that the severed workers are happy. and how even though he is unaware of the sociopolitical meaning of all this, lumon is very not-subtly telling him that what he had with burt is inherently lower and less valuable than this.
irving doesn't even know homophobia exists and yet he is still affected by it, it still seeps into every corner of the way his and burt's romance progresses. burt is positioned as an unacceptable love interest from the jump. irv is actively discouraged at every turn from pursuing it. their friendship is viewed with disgust and apprehension from their coworkers. burt working in a different department that's hated by MDR. dylan himself not being homophobic in the sense he opposes their relationship because they're both men but his attempts to keep them apart still has a parallel sort of prejudice behind it and still ultimately has the same effect as if it WERE driven by homophobia. irving is made to feel perverse for wanting contact with burt. he's told this is for his own good.
and then, just as they manage to overcome that immediate resistance from their peers and escape to a place where they can explore this blossoming romance on their own terms, burt retires. for all it matters to irv, he's dead. and then irving is given the option to live the rest of his life with grief that will never heal, or kill himself too, because there is no reality where they get to be together. that's just the way things are. of course they wouldn't get to be together. he was unreasonable and childish for ever hoping that could happen. this is just the way it goes for innies. he's told to get ahold of himself and not make a scene.
but the thing is, the standards are not the same for all. a heterosexual romance gets upheld as the shining example of success and fulfilment for the severed employees, whilst a homosexual romance is ridiculed and invalidated, and written off as something that was simply never meant to be. and even more importantly to irving, a heterosexual romance is APPROVED OF by lumon, and by extension, by kier. irv held back from allowing himself to even call his and burt's relationship a romance, because his god had told him it was wrong, he followed the handbook, thinking this was what kier wanted, and then finding out after suffering the worst heartbreak imaginable because of it, that this WASN'T EVEN TRUE. it's simply just that someone like HIM doesn't get to have something like this. his love is not the kind of love god wants. he does not approve of irv's love. cynical and manipulative though that approval may be (even within the context of the corporate video, the helly/mark romance is only being celebrated to further the narrative that lumon care for their workers, but the point still remains that it was THEIR romance specifically used to suit this end), when your entire life has been in pursuit of that approval, it must be devastating to learn it was never on the cards for you.
he and burt even used the fact kier met and fell in love with his wife in the same circumstances as them to justify this to each other - and they were RIGHT, god does approve of falling in love with your coworkers - this simply just doesn't apply to them specifically. and if irving needed any more proof that he no longer has a place at lumon, that he's better off not existing at all than existing with this pain that cannot be remedied, pain that won't even be acknowledged for what it is, a symptom of a sickness which plagues the entire severance system, pain that he is simply expected to choke down and get over - this is that proof.
and that's the POINT. they're TELLING us that this is unjust, and there's a double standard. they're using the ways the innies experience romance and the difference in lumon's reaction (lumon being the collective of all the management we've seen, lumon as a singular entity) to burt/irving vs helly/mark to comment on how queer people are not afforded the same level of respect or validation IN REAL LIFE, for their attachments, their love, their pain, their suffering. it is NOT just incidental that irving's romance is with a man. it would not WORK if his love interest was a woman. the POINT is that they are both men and how that puts them at a disadvantage, even if they aren't aware of the prejudices of the outside world, even if they don't TECHNICALLY apply on the severance floor, there are very clear analogues which still end up oppressing them in equivalent ways that they would be suffering if this were a normal workplace in the outside world.
it genuinely sickens me to my stomach that even in a world so divorced from reality and the sensibilities of regular society, a queer couple is still made to suffer and feel inferior in a way that perfectly mirrors their real-life counterparts. how they will never, EVER be allowed to exist in a world where their love could thrive freely and uninhibited - they never get to taste the joy our world has to offer people like them, but they are still somehow subjected to all the pain it has to offer them regardless. it's such horrifically devastating writing. it makes my skin crawl. I can't stop thinking about it
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dorabellingham · 4 months ago
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La Liga
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warning: none
characters: jude x fem!reader
summary: when you're celebrating the la liga trophy, but he's really drunk and keeps asking you to marry him
may contain spelling and translation errors!
It was a party night at the stadium, and Real Madrid had just won the La Liga championship. The team, the fans, everyone was cheering, but no one seemed happier and more relaxed than Jude. He was completely overcome with euphoria, hugging everyone who passed by —players, journalists, staff, it didn't matter who it was, he just wanted to share his happiness.
With a bottle of whisky in one hand and the La Liga trophy in the other, Jude danced and sang as if the world was watching (and it was). His smile was so wide it seemed permanent, and his laugh was contagious. When the background music changed to a lively funk, he wasted no time in starting to dance, with exaggerated steps and movements with the clumsy and fun touch of someone who was clearly a few glasses too many. In the midst of all this joy, he suddenly spotted you, who were there backstage, waiting for the right moment to congratulate him. Jude's eyes shone even brighter when he saw you, and he practically dropped the trophy, walking towards you with a passionate smile.
—BABE!
He shouted from the other side of the field, running towards you and, in the middle of the path, almost tripping over his own legs.
Arriving at your side, he pulled you into a tight hug, the strong smell of whisky in the air. Without letting go of you, he began to speak, the words coming out in a slurred and exaggerated way.
—Y/n, you are... you are the most incredible woman in the world! —He declared, his hands cupping your face adoringly. —Marry me? Please! I love you, I'm crazy about you!
You laughed, trying to keep your composure in front of your clearly drunk husband and the cameras that recorded every second of that moment.
—Jude, we're already married!
You reminded him, trying unsuccessfully to hide your amused smile.
But that didn't seem to make a difference to him. Jude continued with the scene, his eyes shining and his tone of voice rising even higher.
—No, no, babe! I want to marry you again! I need to hear you say ‘yes’!
He pulled one of your hands and, on his knees, began to make a dramatic marriage proposal right there, in the middle of the field, while the reporters around filmed and laughed.
—Y/n, my love! Marry me again, will you? Please?
He begged, reaching out to you, as if it were the first time.
You tried to contain your laughter, shaking your head in denial.
—Honey, no. Come on, get up. We’re already married!
You looked around, noticing that the reporters were absolutely amused by the situation, and gently patted his hand, trying to get him to stand up.
It was then that, to everyone’s shock and surprise, Bellingham, with the expression of a devastated man, began to cry. Yes, cry! He put one hand to his face, covering his eyes, and grabbed the microphone from a reporter standing next to him, his voice cracking.
—I WAS REJECTED! —He announced dramatically, as if he were on stage. —She doesn’t want to marry me! Everyone saw it… she doesn’t love me anymore! —He looked at the microphone and repeated it, so there would be no doubt. —Are you seeing this? My wife doesn’t want to marry me again!
The reporters tried to hide their laughter, some barely able to keep the cameras focused. You, in turn, had your hands on your face, laughing and in disbelief at the show your drunk husband was putting on. You bent down to him, trying to whisper:
—Jude, honey, everyone’s watching! Get up, go…
He ignored you completely, turning to the camera with a martyr’s expression.
—She doesn’t love me, guys. Here I am, winning La Liga, and my wife… rejects me.
He sighed theatrically as the camera focused on his face.
The crowd in the stands, who were already laughing and applauding the scene, began to scream, encouraging Jude. And he, of course, loved the encouragement, raising his fist in the air, as if he were ready to fight for that love right there.
You, still laughing, pulled him by the arm, finally managing to lift him up.
—Come on, you dramatic! Let's go home.
But he seemed unable to let the moment pass. Hugging you tightly, he lifted you in the air, spinning you around as he continued to speak towards the microphone he was still holding.
—I love this woman! She is everything to me. My wife... and the most beautiful of all!
The crowd applauded, and Jude, finally satisfied with the show he had put on, gave you a loud kiss on the cheek and finally handed the microphone back to the reporter, laughing at his own situation.
As they left the field, with his arms around her and his eyes shining, Jude whispered:
—But you’ll marry me again one day, right?
You rolled your eyes, laughing.
—We’re already married, love. Come on, let’s go home before you even ask the trophy to marry you.
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