#himself and from the disappointment of being abandoned again | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

fayes-fics · 10 months ago

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To Know You…

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Benedict knows you better than anyone. But does he know himself well enough to know what he truly wants?

Warnings: none really… fluffy fluff. Childhood friends, class differences, marriage mart shenanigans, dancing, marriage proposals, Benedict being adorable while also a complete dumbass, unrequited to requited love, love confessions.

Word Count: 10.4k (yeah, it's a long one, folks)

Authors Note: this is a request fill for @curlsincriminology (ask HERE) about Benedict showing you all the wonderful things he sees in you, but will he figure out his own feelings before it's too late? Thanks to the complete trooper @colettebronte for beta reading this monster one-shot. Enjoy <3

I: To Know You….

“I would rather not, Miss y/l/n,” the young man clips, walking away from you at a brusque pace.

You sigh and look down at your feet. Mrs Parsons will be so very disappointed, is all you can think.

—

Benedict may not have heard the words spoken, but even from his vantage point at the other end of the ballroom, he could see the disdainful way the young man uttered his parting words to you. It makes anger flare hot in his chest, his fist forming reflexively at his side.

He watches as you look down, shoulders hunching, folding in on yourself physically, as if the rejection for a dance has manifested in a body blow. He feels a pang in his gut—of sympathy, indignance on your behalf and mainly at the injustice of it all. To him, you are a wonderful, intelligent, caring person worthy of a good match. Still, the circumstances of your upbringing seem to stymie your attempts to join so-called ‘polite’ society at every turn…

—

You look up with a defeated mien until your eyes land on one person who has always been able to ameliorate any of your more morose moods—Benedict Bridgerton. Instantly, you feel lighter. You give him a polite nod across the crowded room, and, to your delight, he returns it, a hint of a sympathetic smile tugging at his lips. It is just so very characteristic of him to offer silent support, to understand, from witnessing a moment of interaction, precisely what you are feeling. A large part of you feels so wistful that there is no other man quite as nice as him. Suddenly, your overwhelming need is to leave this stuffy ballroom and catch some air.

You grew up under the tutelage of the kindly doctor’s widow, Mrs Parsons, whose house is not far from the vast Bridgerton estate in Kent. The naturally born daughter of nobody quite knows whom, you were taken in as her ward when you were abandoned upon her doorstep at a mere two years old. Her reputation for kindness towards young waifs and strays is likely why you were left there. It is an event you were too young to recall, so all you have known your whole life is her generosity and kindness, raising you as if her own.

And now that you are of age, she takes you to events around Kent in the hopes of securing you a respectable husband, the most prestigious being tonight’s Hearts and Flowers Ball at Aubrey Hall. The Bridgertons have always been gracious enough to invite local families, those without the means to partake in the London season, to events at their country estate—a kindness that allows for your attendance tonight. It’s just such a pity that the one bachelor Mrs Parsons was so very keen for you to meet, one Mr Reeves, just rebuffed you so thoroughly.

You glance down at the remaining empty slots on the dance card tied to your wrist and sigh again. Now that you are out on the terrace in the fresh evening air, the light breeze is at least a partial balm, allowing you to recover from the sting of rejection away from the hubbub of the ballroom.

“I will never understand how the men of this county can consider themselves anything approaching mannered.”

You would know that refined voice anywhere. It haunts your dreams. Just the sound of it making your ribs tighten. You turn to see Benedict sauntering towards you, two drinks in hand, that sympathetic smile still in place.

“You are far better off without such rudeness,” he adds dryly as he pulls up beside you, arching an eyebrow for your entertainment.

“You are far too kind, Mr Bridgerton,” you answer, taking the glass he offers with a meek smile, trying not to let your ardent admiration for him be too evident.

“Mr Bridgerton?!?” he scoffs, “What happened to BenBen?” he teases gently, recalling your childhood name for him when you were a mere four and he was nine.

“We are at a formal event; I should address you as such, should I not?” you reply playfully, a warmth spreading inside as it always does when you get the chance to have a witty, convivial exchange with him.

By gosh, if there is one man to whom you would pledge yourself without hesitation, it is him. But, of course, he is the second son of an illustrious family. To think you would have any chance to win his heart would be as likely as a future king to marry a commoner. Still, you can dream…

“At least call me Benedict, Skylark,” he winks over his wine glass as he takes a sip, butterflies erupting in your tummy at the affectionate nickname he has used since you were small; you have to avert your eyes to avoid blushing deeply.

Just as he goes to speak again, his brother, the Viscount, materialises at his side. Looking to all intents and purposes as if he is trying to escape the ball as much as you are.

“Mother is best avoided tonight, brother,” Anthony warns sagely, taking a large gulp of his champagne. “She is under the erroneous impression I am suddenly in want of a wife.”

You can't stop the giggle that bubbles up from within at his wry observation of his predicament.

“Hello, y/n,” he greets warmly, just noticing you are also there, his face morphing into a youthful, playful grin. If Benedict is the husband you have always dreamed of, Anthony is the elder brother you have always yearned for. In fact, that is always how he has treated you, akin to Eloise and Daphne, who you grew up playing with, being of similar age.

“Hello, Anthony,” you chime back. “How was the hunt earlier? Did the infamous Bridgerton brothers kill another prized stag?” you inquire, keen to engage both of them for as long as they will entertain you. Just being around them always lifts your spirits to no end.

—

Benedict observes you as you listen intently to Anthony’s recounting of the hunt earlier that day, impressed by your resilience. He has no doubts any other woman would feign an attack of the vapours had a man rejected her so harshly. But here you are, politely listening to his brother’s boasting, even though he can tell you are hurting inside.

Perhaps it helps that your snub went primarily unnoticed. You are unknown to the Ton; any witnesses likely dismissing it as the business of ‘country folk’ unworthy of note. Which, frankly, he could scoff at, seeing as he holds you in higher regard than all of the other attendees combined.

“How about you?” Anthony ends his story with a question to you, interrupting Benedict’s train of thought. “How has your experience been at our fine event this evening?”

“Oh, the house is splendidly decorated and the music wonderful,” you obfuscate behind flattery. Anthony appears to buy it, but Benedict sees behind your facade, the flame behind your usually bright gaze dimming a little, making something ache in his gut to see it.

Damn that idiot for ruining your evening! This just won’t do…

—

You can feel Benedict’s eyes upon you as you respond abstractly to Anthony.

“Y/n here is too polite to say it, but she was treated harshly by that young Reeves chap from Tenterden,” Benedict edifies as you bow your head, embarrassed. “Let’s be sure to rescind his invitation to future events, brother,” he appends with a surly tone.

“Duly noted,” Anthony nods sincerely, a brush of confusion flitting over his face regarding his brother's vehemence.

“No, there is no need…” you begin to protest weakly but halt mid-sentence under the intensity of Benedict’s gaze.

“I bore witness. Believe me, He shall not darken our door again,” he states firmly.

It appears the matter is very much decided, and you don’t want to put up much of a fight, seeing as it ultimately benefits you. You do, however, want to bathe in the warm glow inside whenever Benedict defends you. It's wonderful to have someone looking out for you, especially one so handsome and kind.

—

Two days later, you are taking afternoon tea with Mrs Parsons at the local tea shop when Benedict breezes in, looking so majestic dressed in Bridgerton blues that you grind to a halt. Luckily, he has not seen you as he makes a beeline for the counter.

“‘Tis rude to stare, my dear,” Mrs Parsons lectures sotto voce, nodding to your teacup, frozen in mid-air.

You shake your head a touch and place said item back in your saucer as she turns briefly to look at what or who caught your attention. Then she reaches out, her lace-gloved hand gently patting yours.

“It would be prudent to set your sights a little more realistic…” she advises with a sympathetic air. “Not that I fault your choice,” she adds, so quietly at first you're not sure you heard her correctly, but there is a tiny playful smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. Your mouth falls open fractionally, and you stare as she shrugs. “I may be old, my dear, but I am not blind.”

Well, I never, Mrs Parsons!

As you take a bite of food, Benedict twists around from speaking to the proprietor, and he sees you. There’s a jolt down your spine as he breaks into a huge smile that claims his whole face. And you almost choke on scone crumbs as he makes a beeline over to you rather than the exit.

“Good afternoon, Miss y/l/n, Mrs Parsons!” he greets effusively. “Would it be terribly impolite to ask to join you briefly?”

Mrs Parsons' face is a picture of surprise. “Not at all; the pleasure is ours, Mr Bridgerton,” she responds affably, gesturing to the spare chair at your small round table.

As Benedict sits, Mrs Parsons shoots you an incredulous look. It's your turn to shrug fractionally.

“Mrs Parsons, I feel it necessary to tell you Mr Reeves was excessively rude to Miss y/l/n here at the ball, and I wanted to assure you that he will not be welcome at Aubrey Hall again,” he divulges sincerely.

Mrs Parsons looks taken aback and turns to you. “Why did you not tell me, my dear?”

“I-I did not think it necessary…” you twist your mouth into a bashful pout, biting your lip.

“Mr Bridgerton, thank you for bringing this to my attention, and I thank you for your generous offer, but that sort of action does not seem warranted,” she replies accommodatingly.

“That is what I said…” “That is what she said…”

You and Benedict speak in unison at the exact same moment, and your eyes ping to each other, both laughing then bowing your heads immediately. You know your cheeks are flushed.

—

Benedict loves the look in your eye sometimes. That spirited sparkle with glowing cheeks. In his opinion, that is the only look you should ever wear; no one, especially one as unworthy as Mr Reeves, should be allowed to rob you of it. He feels a strong compulsion to do everything in his power to keep you looking like that—carefree, happy, stunning. It’s what motivates his subsequent words.

“If it is not considered too impudent for me to do so, I have a suggestion for Miss y/l/n’s introduction into society,” Benedict offers sincerely. “I believe you should be able to find her an excellent, worthy match by casting a wider net.”

“What are you proposing, Mr Bridgerton?” Mrs Parsons inquiries, almost warily.

“That Miss y/l/n come to London and partake in the remainder of the season as a guest of my family. My mother seems to think it an excellent idea, and I know my younger sister Eloise is already a good friend. I do not see why they could not attend events together,” he shrugs genially.

Mrs Parsons's face is a picture again. “You have already spoken to the Dowager Viscountess of this matter?” she checks, unable to modulate the astonishment in her tone.

“Of course,” he confirms with a nod. “I made such a suggestion this morning when your names came up. She heartily concurs. Miss y/l/n here is too bright and good of a person to have her marital choice limited by geography or circumstance.”

His eyes fall on you, and his heart gallops at the searing look you are giving him.

—

You don’t even try to temper your doe-eyed expression as you look upon Benedict, him extolling your virtues to the audience of the tea room.

Even distracted by all the wondrous things he has to say, you can detect the noise level on the surrounding tables has reduced; everyone in town always keen to eavesdrop on a Bridgerton conversation. Especially one that contains such noteworthy gossip as a local young lady being invited to the London season at the family’s behest.

“My dear, I trust that Lady Bridgerton will look after you well,” Mrs Parsons professes. “I have no objections should you desire to seize this opportunity.” Her tone pointed, very much encouraging you to do so.

“That would be just wonderful, Mr Bridgerton,” you exhale with a grateful smile. “I cannot thank you enough for even thinking to raise such a petition.”

“Think nothing of it, Miss y/l/n,” he smiles, standing up and giving you both a brief, shallow bow. “I shall see you anon, no doubt.”

And with that, he sweeps out of the tearoom, your eye line tracking his concave outline through the curved glass as he rounds the corner out of sight.

“Well, well,” Mrs Parsons puffs out her cheeks. “I am not sure what you did to inspire such actions in a gentleman. But bravo, my dear, bravo,” she holds her teacup aloft in a toast.

You are a jumble of emotions and could not even begin to answer Mrs Parsons about what you could possibly have done. Mostly, you are just elated by the prospect of the chance to attend the whirl of the London season, even if there is also a small pang of regret that Benedict is so keen to see you matched.

II: …Is To Love You

The following Tuesday, as your carriage pulls up outside the grandeur of Bridgerton House, you have nothing but butterflies. And as Lady Bridgerton - Violet as she insists you now call her - and her lady’s maid show you to your charming guest room, you cannot temper your excitement.

“Get yourself freshened up, my dear. There is a soiree this evening at the Queen’s new residence no less, and there is no time like the present to begin your introductions,” the dowager viscountess warmly counsels.

You nod your thank yous, and after they take their leave, you twirl excitedly around the room, taking in the elegant furnishings and airy sunlight flooding in. You pull up in front of a large sash window and are delighted to see bounteous gardens beneath. The rear of the property is very much an oasis of calm in the heart of the city. But one sight in particular draws your eye: a majestic oak with two swings attached to a stately arm. It looks like a place of refuge, and you feel oddly compelled to take a seat there.

Three hours later, walking into the palatial Buckingham House, you are in a different world from the one you know in Kent. Candlelit crystal chandeliers glint like towering clusters of jewels, spraying thousands of shards of light around the room. Every railing is bedecked in hundreds of drooping flower garlands, and the walls groan with enormous portraits of royalty. The mellifluous strains of a chamber orchestra fill the air. Your grip on Eloise’s arm is tight as you try not to look agog at all the opulence surrounding you.

“And I thought Aubrey Hall was grand,” you murmur quietly, and she just guffaws.

—

Benedict arrives late to the soiree from his bachelor lodgings, bustling in as stealthily as possible, knowing he will likely catch his mother’s ire for his tardiness.

But then he sees a sight that makes him temporarily stop dead in his tracks. There, hanging on to his little sister, surveying the room utterly lost in reverie at its grandeur—is you. He has not seen you dressed up as you are now, made over with the full attention of the Bridgerton staff. And he isn't afraid to admit to himself, at least, that it catches his breath. How they have applied cosmetics and styled your hair, emphasising your already evident beauty. And the dress they have chosen… well, he is almost ashamed of the heat pooling low in his gut; he has never seen you in such tailored, refined silks.

Whosoever marries you shall be quite the luckiest man indeed.

He doesn't miss the way you inhale sharply when your eyes finally land on him, his chest swelling slightly with pride as your lips part in surprise before breaking into that winning smile which always seems to brighten every room, tonight being no exception.

As he pulls up to the family, he hears his mother opining to you about the men attending the ball.

“Y/n, I would like to introduce you to Lord Shelton; he is a fine young man with many interests, and he has a lovely estate near Hove,” his mother recounts as you listen intently.

“Oh god, no,” Benedict immediately intervenes, “Shelton has amassed significant debt at the Pudding Lane gaming hell…”

Violet looks up surprised, then raises an eyebrow. “Pray tell dear son, how do you have knowledge of such? Benedict Bridgerton, you had better not be frequenting the hells of the East End,” she threatens quietly, in that stern maternal manner that has any grown man quaking in their polished shoes.

“No, of course not, mother,” he bristles, his eyes cutting briefly to you, not wanting you to think such things of him. “It is an open secret at Whites’, and why he is currently banned from the card room there.”

—

You cannot tear your eyes off Benedict as his mother side-eyes him.

Violet hums sceptically before declaring. “Well, not to worry, there are plenty of other options available for Miss y/l/n…” She steers your attention towards another crowd of young men, all talking and sipping champagne. “Baron Corning, Lord Jennings, Viscount Tewkesbury,” she recounts, nodding subtly to each one. “Any would make a fine addition to your dance card, my dear.”

“We can do much better than any of them,” Benedict chides.

You are slightly taken aback at how very much he sounds like Anthony tonight; apparently very invested in curating who you should dance with. The problem is, with each additional suggestion his mother makes to you, he roundly dismisses them out of hand.

Is no one in attendance up to his standard?

“Benedict, dear, a word?” Violet states pointedly after a third round of his withering opinions. “Get yourself another lemonade,” she smiles at you, patting your hand before looping her arm in her son’s and dragging him away.

—

His mother’s arm is surprisingly strong when she needs it to be.

“Darling, may I remind you, while Miss Y/l/n is indeed a wonderful person, I do not think we can afford to be too picky for her prospects. Her background is rather… unestablished,” Violet points out diplomatically as soon as you are out of earshot.

“We can do better than braggards, bores and philanderers,” Benedict shoots back, raising a pointed eyebrow.

She looks up at him and sighs. “Well, that is true.”

“As I thought, mother,” he winks as she affectionately swats his forearm. “Why not benefit from my knowledge? In fact, perhaps it is prudent I assist in your search for a suitor.”

“Oh, is it now?” Her tone suddenly filled with intrigue, her face entirely too scrutinising for his liking. “And does not my second son wish to join their ranks?” She adds entirely unsubtly.

“I have no time for romance; I have my art. I am most preoccupied.” He waves a dismissive hand, but even he knows his answer is tellingly brusque.

“And yet, you do not seem too busy to assist with the search, dear…” she points out archly.

Benedict has no response to that.

—

The day after the grand ball, you are sat in the dappled shade in the gardens of Bridgerton House, attempting needlework. It's never been your strength, frankly. You would much rather be allowed to partake in more physical pursuits, like archery or fencing, a want to burn off nervous energy as you await the arrival of any suitors. You did end up dancing with a couple of gentlemen, both of whom were…. fine… in your estimation.

After messing up yet another stitch, you throw down the embroidery hoop and emit a deep sigh when a familiar chuckle rings out behind you.

“Not your favourite pastime?” Benedict correctly guesses.

“You can say that again,” you grumble, twisting to smile at him, a little frisson in your belly at his mere presence, alone as you are.

He rounds to take a seat opposite you, across the table.

“So let me guess,” his face charmingly skewed into a thoughtful mien. “You would prefer to be doing something, hmmmm, more athletic?”

You giggle and cast your eyes downwards briefly, abashed he seems to know you so well. “Correct again.”

“I remember you being a crack shot in archery,” he smiles nostalgically before continuing with genuine curiosity. “Why did you not continue it?”

“I was informed ‘tis unbecoming for a lady,” you rue, the mental image of Mrs Parsons deeming such things ‘unladylike’ flitting through your mind.

He scoffs. “Since when did fearsome little Skylark care one jot for societal expectations?” he teases gently, with a wink, as again he invokes the nickname he bestowed upon you a long time hence.

You smile briefly before you become more sanguine. “Since I have been informed I must find a husband…” you sigh.

He frowns a touch. “Any man would be lucky to have a wife who can keep him company on the archery field. I know I, for one, would greatly appreciate a spouse with whom I could share such a pastime.”

A bittersweet twinge in your gut that one day he will indeed be married to some deserving, no doubt elegant, lady.

“I would venture that you are not like most gentlemen in that regard…”

“Perhaps not,” he agrees, looking thoughtful, “but then you are not like most ladies, Skylark.”

“I am not a lady…” your counterpoint softly-spoken, almost ashamed.

“You are more lady than any other member of the Ton,” he asserts, his gaze suddenly intense, as if he is willing you to believe his point. “And you should be free to pursue any pastime you wish.”

You say nothing, just smile wanly, wishing you could believe it was true.

—

How you constantly doubt yourself causes a little stab behind Benedict’s ribs. A sudden burning need to prove that you should do as you please. He slaps his thighs and stands up swiftly.

“In fact, I am going to go set up the archery targets right now,” he nods decisively, making a beeline for the far corner of the garden where he knows the targets are kept, hoping you will follow.

“Coming?” he calls, twisting to look back at you. “I won't tell anyone…” he adds with a conspiratorial wink, seeing from the involuntary bounce of your leg how much you wish to join in.

He cannot help the smile that engulfs his face as you jump to your feet with a mischievous giggle. Nor can he help deliberately aiming badly, letting you roundly defeat him at target practice, basking in the victorious glint in your eye as you tease him gently for losing.

He also pretends not to notice his mother watching from a high window, her expression riveted and so very telling.

—

Later that day, you are reading quietly with Eloise when Violet sweeps into the drawing room with her lady's maid.

“Y/n, Sir Denton is here to see you,” she smiles brightly.

“Oh, I…” you stutter, sitting upright, surprised.

“I can send him away, Miss?” The maid offers, intuiting your disquiet.

“No, no, it is fine… I am just surprised, that is all. ‘Tis almost 4pm. I was not expecting that anyone would be calling, given the late hour.”

Benedict suddenly materialises in the doorway. As ever, there’s that trademark flutter in your chest.

“Any reason Denton is lingering in the hallway?” he inquires airily, grabbing a teacup and pouring himself some.

“He is here for y/n,” Violet breezes as his eyes cut to you, a wave of irritation seeming to cloud his face.

“Well, we should dismiss him,” Benedict sniffs, pausing in his action, his face souring.

“Why?” Violet frowns.

“I had a chance to look into his past since I acquiesced to his dance with y/n last night…”

“Acquiesced?!” Violet scoffs, but Benedict ignores her interjection, save for a curt eyebrow raise.

“I have subsequently discovered he has vastly overstated his assets,” Benedict bristles imperiously.

“Who woke up and made you Anthony?” Eloise pipes up witheringly.

Benedict shoots her a look of irritation. “Anthony has deputised me to run family matters while he is away on business this week, sister,” he reminds pointedly.

“Yes, but you did not have to adopt his personality as well,” Eloise shoots back, disgust evident on her face.

“I take finding y/n here, a suitable match, seriously,” he volleys. “Do you wish to see your good friend married to someone unworthy of her?”

“Well, no…”

“Then kindly permit me to handle matters,” Benedict orders with finality, uncharacteristically forthright in his opinions.

“I do not wish to see her married at all…” Eloise mutters under her breath as he stalks away to dispatch Denton before anyone can argue.

You just sit there mildly dumbfounded, unsure what to make of it all.

—

The following evening, you are attending a music recital with the Bridgertons; Benedict is notably absent, which makes you a touch melancholic in a way you don’t want to dwell on.

However, the evening turns for the better while you are taking refreshments at the interval. A friendly-faced young man strikes up a conversation with you after an introduction from Violet.

“Are you enjoying the music tonight, Miss y/l/n?” he asks genially.

“It is very nice, Lord Glassborough,” you offer politely, trying to stifle your slight boredom. You enjoy music, but a two-hour concert is a little too much for you. You much prefer a short set of songs as they play at balls.

“I find it rather dull myself,” he opines quietly, leaning in. “I much prefer a lively song one may dance to.”

You know your face is a picture of surprise that his opinion is an exact mirror of your own.

“Have I offended you so?” he checks, looking mildly contrite.

“Not at all, my lord. I was actually just thinking the same myself,” you chuckle quietly.

He looks inordinately pleased and breaks into a friendly, toothy grin. He seems like a nice, agreeable sort. A pleasant, if not particularly handsome, face. Over his shoulder, you see Violet looking inordinately pleased you appear to be getting on so well.

—

“I am not sure I can do this...” you sigh as Ms West genially taps the metronome.

“You can, dear; just remember your finger placement,” she encourages as your fingers fall to the cool ivory keys.

And so you begin again. Attempting to master this tricky piece, your eyes tracing the lines of music as you play the pianoforte. Violet is so keen for you to brush up on your skills, given Lord Glassborough’s interest in you yesterday. You could not find an adequate excuse fast enough, and so here you are, in a slightly reluctant music lesson, trying your best to recall how Mrs Parsons taught you to play a few years ago.

“Men do so appreciate a lady who can entertain them with exquisite music,” Ms West nods approvingly as you play.

Mostly, you are relieved when you make it to the end with no mistakes, at least none glaringly obvious.

“I much prefer to sing…” you admit tacitly as Ms West shuffles the sheet music.

She looks at you surprised, then shoos you from the piano stool. “Sing for me then, my dear…” taking a seat and beginning the opening bars to a song that, fortunately, you know well.

You begin to sing along, growing more confident with every note, allowing yourself to get lost in the words, the story of a lady awaiting her true love.

“Exceptional!” she peals delightedly over the sound, and you feel bolstered to continue, her playing the perfect accompaniment.

—

Benedict stops short as soon as he enters the house. The most lilting, beautiful sound echoing gently down the marble hall.

“Who is that Jenkins?” he asks of the butler who takes his coat.

“I believe it is Miss y/l/n, sir.”

He draws inexorably closer, finding himself watching you through the crack in the doorway, listening to you sing a touching tale of love that sounds so hauntingly hypnotic in your mellifluous tones. Your eyes are closed, and you sway to the melody, lost in reverie, in the narrative you weave.

The piano stops abruptly.

“Can we help you, sir?” an elder lady calls crisply.

Benedict realises the door has crept open slightly before him, enough for him to be seen by your music teacher. He watches as you swing around and look horrified that you may have an audience. It makes him take a resolute step forward into the room.

“Do you need us to desist? Is it perhaps too loud?” the lady checks deferentially, likely assuming him to be the head of the household.

“No!” His reply is a touch too forceful. “Please continue,” he modifies. “I was merely drawn by the splendid sound I heard. I am not sure I have ever heard such a wondrous voice,” he adds, keeping his gaze steadfastly upon the lady, not able to look you in the eye as he confesses as such.

—

You are mortified when you realise Benedict heard you singing; you have always managed to keep it private, until now at least. But now your heart is suddenly pounding at his extolling words.

“She does indeed have a most excellent voice,” Ms West concurs with his sentiment, looking at you expectantly as Benedict walks further into the room, his face with the same hopeful expression.

“I am not sure I can…” you stumble, nervous for an audience, most especially him; his is the opinion that would matter to you the most—you would be crestfallen should he not like it.

“Sing more for me, please, Skylark?” His ask is gentle, beseeching as if it were just the two of you alone.

“Skylark?” Ms West sounds enchanted.

“My childhood nickname for Miss y/l/n,” Benedict explains as he takes a seat.

“Skylarks have a wonderful song,” she sighs wistfully.

“Indeed,” Benedict chimes, his eyes still upon you. “I never knew how appropriate it was until this very moment.”

Something warm cracks in your chest at his sweet words, making you courageous. At least enough to nod when Ms West looks to you again from the piano. And so you restart the song for your special audience, heart in your mouth. The words coming easily to you, an extra layer of meaning he will never know as you sing words of unrequited devotion, looking to him in your braver moments. His face is enrapt, leaning forward, his eyes soft and expressive.

As you reach a high note at the end of the song, holding it, Benedict bursts into applause, jumping up from his seat and taking you by surprise, grabbing your gloved hands in his.

“You should always be singing Skylark…” he pronounces. “Truly beautiful. Please promise me, no matter what happens, that you will always, always sing…”

You duck your head briefly, unsure how to deal with his effusive praise. Ms West’s face is a picture as you stand there, your hands still trapped in his, feeling a tingle where the warmth of his skin seeps through the layers to yours.

“I-I-I promise,” you reply meekly, a touch dazed as you raise your eyes again to meet his, the intensity making your lungs restrict.

“Thank you.”

Two words have never sounded so sincere or loaded with significance.

III: … And I Do.

A few days later, it is the Trowbridge Ball, a decadent affair that is usually the most talked about of the season, apparently. You share a carriage ride there with Benedict and Eloise, trying your best not to stare at him—so handsomely dressed in a white cravat and black velvet cropped jacket that clings to his tapered shape. But mostly, you fail. Your skin flushes hot the more you look at him. You could swear that his gaze strays to you, too, subtly sweeping the fine teal silk Madam Delacroix has expertly tailored for you.

“You look beautiful this evening, ladies,” he offers politely to both you and Eloise.

“What do you want?” Eloise cuts across your reply, narrowing her eyes at her older brother, instantly suspicious of his flattery.

“Can I not compliment without an ulterior motive?” he frowns, their usual sibling dynamic emerging.

“Not usually,” Eloise sniffs, with another suspicious glance, before looking out the carriage window.

You take the opportunity to mumble your thanks to him. His responding smile warms your entire being, his hazy eyes lingering in a way that makes your skin prickle. And when he offers a chivalrous hand to assist you down from the carriage, you could swear his hand lingers upon yours a few seconds longer than is necessary.

Around an hour later, as you go to partake in a refreshment, a sneering Lady Cowper utters something cruel under her breath as you pass, her sour-looking daughter smirking beside her. You do not hear all of the words, but you do not need to. One sideways glance tells you all that you need to know. It seems so unnecessarily cruel, never having even exchanged so much as a word with you, but even as you feel a lump in your throat, their attention is already elsewhere.

“Ah! Mr Briddgerton,” her entire demeanour changing to oleaginous charm, “my daughter looks particularly stunning tonight, does she not? I do believe you should secure a place upon her dance card before there are none left!”

You watch Benedict blanch at the very words.

“I do not dance, Lady Cowper, but I bid you ladies a good evening,” he responds, polite but firm.

You try your hardest not to giggle at the disdained look on their faces as he sweeps past them, and you feel light as air as, instead, he draws up to you and winks.

“That woman does not realise she is doing her daughter’s prospects more harm than good with her brashness,” he comments dryly as he grabs a glass of champagne from the stand next to you.

“I am not so sure the daughter would do much better without her; she seems perpetually furious about her own hairstyle,” you opine sardonically, making Benedict snort loudly into his champagne glass. A lightness fizzles in your being as he shoots you a look of unmistakable admiration for that remark.

“I daresay you are a much better dancer than her,” he contends, not breaking eye contact, placing aside his drink before leaning in and continuing in a hushed voice. “Perhaps you would do me the honour of a dance, Skylark, to confirm my suspicion?”

There is a vault in your chest as he employs your private nickname in public and, not only that, is offering you a dance when, just a moment ago, he declared publicly that he would not.

You can only nod, heart hammering, as he breaks out into the most handsome smile, offering you his arm and leading you to the centre of the room as you hear a ripple go through the nearby crowd. Apparently the sight of one Benedict Bridgerton taking to the dancefloor is a rare occasion indeed.

—

As he takes your gloved hand in his and curls an arm around your shoulder, he realises this was perhaps a mistake. An impromptu offer, the hollow thrill of petty revenge for the insult he observed the Cowpers sling at you. But now he realises it has rather backfired upon him.

He cares not a jot for the gossiping, people nodding and pointing to you both as you begin to dance. No, the problem is much more concerning than that.

It is how discombobulated he feels having you in his arms.

How your body seems to fit and move perfectly with his. How, when you dare to look up at him, his mouth goes a little dry. He has never truly noticed how striking your eyes are until seeing them this close. Indeed, the evident beauty of your face, the way you seem to glow from within, more tonight than ever. It makes his chest - and somewhere else on his body - feel entirely too tight.

—

Nothing could have prepared you for this.

The feeling of literally being swept off your feet. With Benedict's handsome face smiling down upon you as you seem to float around the dancefloor.

Surely, this is what dreams are made of?

You know it is a flight of fancy, but it seems as though the floor beneath your feet is a shower of diamonds rather than candlelight refracted through chandeliers. The warmth and strength of Benedict’s embrace caged around you, respectful but so close it makes your lungs feel too small to gasp the air you need to keep moving. But you never want to stop. A whirlwind of sensation as you twirl, carried away by the music, the man, the moment.

“Thank you, Benedict,” you breathe, knowing you are likely looking up at him far too adoringly but unable to mask it, a burning need for him to know how grateful you are for this dance, not even noting your over-familial use of his first name at a society event.

His eyes flash and you could swear they dilate a fraction before you must turn your back to him, following the steps.

“I was right,” he rumbles cryptically from behind you now, his large hands wrapped around yours as you hold them aloft together, following the moves of the dance. “It is indeed an honour to dance with you.”

Your belly flares as you turn in unison and realise that you are now dancing right in front of Cressida, her expression murderous. It makes you bolder than you have ever been, tilting your head sideways a fraction so your cheek almost brushes Benedict’s, fuelled by the envy you feel seething from within her.

You could swear he sighs ‘Skylark’ as his hot breath tickles your ear, your chest pounding, a flavour in the air you can taste, a powerful stirring low in your belly.

—

Benedict knows this is a dangerous path and yet is powerless to do anything but walk it. Breathing your nickname into your hair as he inhales your scent, heightened by the movement of your dancing. A light, sweet floral perfume but underneath the smell of you, familiar from many years of friendship but altered now, more decadent, an undercurrent of tart berries that thrills and stirs deep within him. Even while knowing his ever-vigilant mother is watching, an inscrutable expression upon her face.

He is almost grateful when the music ends before he does something foolish. But then you are staring up into his face, all doe-eyed expectant beauty and his tongue feels unexpectedly tied. He is almost grateful when an interrupting hand wraps around his shoulder.

—

You watch Will Mondrich whisper in Benedict’s ear, and before you know it, he is offering apologies to you with a shallow, polite bow before hurrying away. Coming back to reality with a bump, you drift awkwardly from the dance floor, feeling judgy eyes upon you, suddenly flooded with concern your behaviour was entirely too wanton.

Before your thoughts can spiral too far, however, someone materialises at your side.

“I do so hope your dance card is not full tonight, Miss y/l/n,” a newly-familiar, chipper voice cut in.

“Lord Glassborough,” you breathe; your relief at seeing his cordial face is palpable. “I am available to dance right now,” you smile politely, taking his proffered arm and letting him lead you back out to the spot you and Benedict had just vacated.

As the music begins and you move together, the difference is… noticeable. Gone is the frisson over your limbs, that excitement as if your skin could vibrate off your bones. Instead you feel comforted, almost a brotherly presence as he leads you in the dance. He is technically proficient, but it feels lacking—that tension, that heat burning in the space between you. It makes you yearn for Benedict even though he was just with you. It makes your stomach settle with a leaden weight you realise you will have to settle for less than what you truly desire.

Still distracted by your mental comparison, you absently acquiesce to his suggestion to take some air upon the terrace as the dance ends. You sense Violet, ever the vigilant chaperone, follow as he leads you into the cooler air outside.

“Miss y/l/n…,” Lord Glassborough begins cautiously. You sense a nervousness in his being, pulling your full focus to him. “I think us most compatible, would you not agree?”

“We make most excellent friends, indeed, Lord Glassborough,” you hedge, not wanting to appear overzealous.

“And friendship is the most appropriate foundation to build something more… tender,” he argues with a smile. “I do believe I could offer you a most agreeable life.”

There is a strange twinge in your chest as suddenly, you realise what this is. The moment everyone, except perhaps yourself, has been awaiting all season.

“I would be honoured if you would consent to be my wife, Miss y/l/n,” he humbly offers a sincere kindness shining in his eyes.

And there it is. An offer of marriage from a perfectly nice, respectable gentleman done in an appropriate manner.

To one side, you see Violet clutch a hand over her chest, face delighted, even as you form fists within your delicate gloves, wishing this moment were not happening so soon after a truly breathtaking dance with the man of your dreams. Who is not the same man as the one before you, nervously shuffling from foot to foot, awaiting your reply.

“I am honoured, Lord Glassborough,” you answer cautiously, bowing your head demurely. “This is a big decision to make. Please allow me time to give you my proper, considered answer?”

“Of course,” he bows chivalrously, his accommodating nature making this moment all the more bittersweet. He is indeed a lovely man.

He is just not the one you want with every fibre of your being.

—

That night, you cannot sleep. Knowing you have the most significant decision of your life to make. So, in the small hours, you find yourself drifting to the deserted kitchen of Bridgerton House to do what you do best when you need to think calmly—baking.

An activity you have grown up doing with Mrs Parsons. Many hours spent happily with flour dusting your hands, sun streaming into her grand but homely kitchen. A perhaps slightly maverick pastime for a lady of her social standing, with staff to do such things for her should she wish it, but so very enjoyable nonetheless.

Throwing a large, heavy baking apron over your nightdress and robe, you potter around, the flagstone of the basement floor cold underfoot, a grounding feeling that stops your mind from racing too much.

You have no idea how to respond to Glassborough’s proposal. On one hand, he is a seemingly nice man, certainly of a good family. You are sure he would be a perfectly acceptable husband, unlikely to be mean or untoward. It is just… a nagging voice is telling you to turn him down despite him being an imminently sensible choice, your heart wanting, well, the impossible. A man that excites you, not just a safe, practical option.

You are onto your second batch of lemon and rosemary biscuits when a voice makes you jump out of your skin.

“What on earth…?”

There in the doorway is Benedict, looking confounded to find you here. The very man who makes your heart skip, always. He is dressed the most casually you have ever seen him— also barefoot, in a white frilled shirt and dark trousers, brocade braces slung around his hips. You swear you may have to grab the bench before you to stay upright.

“Y/n! We have cooks you can call upon at any time should you need food!” he fusses, instantly concerned, moving to ring a bell on the wall.

“No! Please do not!” You exclaim, rushing to stop him, grabbing his sleeve in your haste. “I-I enjoy baking. It is relaxing; it helps me to think.”

His brow knits and his eyes flick down to your hold on his sleeve, a warm vein pulsing under your fingertips. You snatch your hand away quickly, a blush staining your cheeks, mumbling an apology as you scurry back to your biscuit-making.

“Alright,” he concedes slowly, still appearing confused. “When I saw the sconces lit from the rear stairwell, I assumed one of the staff was still down here.”

You find it bemusing that he seems at pains to justify why he might also be in the kitchen, especially to you, a guest. This is Bridgerton House, and he is a Bridgerton. He may go wherever he pleases, surely? And yet here he is, doing so.

“I was rather hoping for some hot cocoa,” he explains with that soft, crooked smile that always makes your heart flutter.

“Oh! Well, umm, I could make you some cocoa?” you look down, wiping your hands upon your apron and moving to do so.

—

That you would make such an offer, as if seeing yourself as unpaid help, spurs him into action.

“No, you certainly will not!” He decries, moving swiftly towards the larder before you can. “I am perfectly fine with some cold milk,” he assures, re-emerges with a bottle and pouring himself a glass, leaning back against the sink to take a sip.

Despite the lateness of the hour, he finds your heretofore secret pastime strangely fascinating. A lady who bakes. By choice. So he watches as you return to making your biscuit dough, entertained as you begin to beat the mixture quite furiously with a wooden spatula.

“Have those ingredients caused you some sort of personal offence….?” he jests lightly, nodding to the bowl.

He observes a flit of contrition across your face before you answer.

“I, umm, have a decision that I must make; baking helps me think,” you explain vaguely, then appear to rapidly change the subject. “I am, however, sure of one fact - some biscuits are a must to accompany milk. There is a completed batch over there.”

“Genius,” he opines with a wink, enthusiastically moving to grab one from the cooling rack you signalled to, delighting in the blush that darkens your cheeks. But he decides to push the topic you abruptly avoided. Concerned there could be a topic you are genuinely wrestling with. If his opinion on the matter can ameliorate your burdens, he would be most honoured to assist.

“What sort of decision must you make?” he inquires before temporarily losing the power of speech. There is an explosion of tart lemon and earthy herb on his tongue that melts into a buttery sweetness, utterly divine. “Lord alive, these are delicious!!!” he exclaims around the mouthful.

“Thank you,” you answer softly.

You are always so modest about your talents; it sometimes makes him want to grab your shoulders and shake you gently. To make you see what he does.

“To answer your question, it is a perplexing matter that needs serious consideration,” you explain, stopping short of detail. It appears you are not yet ready to share the news with him. Something about that makes him a touch sad, but he also does not want to pry if you are reluctant to divulge.

—

Benedict swallows the bite he has taken, and you find yourself staring at the movement of his throat as he does. Knowing one thing to be true—if it were his proposal, you would not even hesitate for a split second. That wistful thought makes you suddenly melancholic, and you sigh, pushing aside your mixing bowl, realising this may be an issue baking will not fix.

“I do so hate to see you doubt yourself, Skylark,” he offers quietly after a beat, mien so earnest. “Trust yourself. You will find the right answer for your dilemma; I am certain of it.”

He is so remarkably supportive that, ironically, you almost want to scream at him.

“I should leave you to your thoughts,” his tone is gentle, reluctant.

“Please, there is no need, Benedict,” you try to assure. “To be honest, in all of this world, yours is the company I enjoy the very most…”

That truth is out of your mouth before you can censor it.

You sheepishly glance over to be met by a surprised look on his face. He takes a few steps towards you, probably without realising it, and suddenly, he is very close, faint wisps of his woodsy, citrus cologne tickling your nose.

“And I, yours, Skylark…” he rumbles, his gaze falling to your lips.

Time seems to stop, and you feel pinned under glass, staring up into his handsome face as he breathes slightly ragged, your body rioting as he engulfs your senses, definitely too close to be considered gentlemanly, polite…

…But then, he takes a sharp inhale and steps back as if coming to his senses. He turns heel with a hastily muttered goodbye, and before you know it, he is gone. Leaving you bewildered, your thoughts scattered.

—

The following day, Benedict is idly reading the paper, partaking in a leisurely lunch of tea and cake, when his mother swans in, reeling off a set of instructions for her lady's maid.

“Oh, and lastly, do not forget, we should secure an appointment with the modiste, in case Miss y/l/n should know her answer today…” Violet concludes breezily as she takes a seat.

“Yet another ball we must suffer, mother?” Benedict drawls drily, folding down his paper and taking a hearty bite of zesty lemon drizzle.

She shoots her son an exasperated look before neatly smoothing a serviette into her lap as she is served her usual afternoon Earl Grey by the butler. “Miss y/l/n will be in need of a wedding dress, Benedict, dear.”

He spits an array of crumbs onto his newspaper, coughing in shock. “She will need what?!?” he wheezes, barely recovering.

“Lord Glassborough proposed to Miss y/l/n last night, my dear, at the ball. She has yet to give her answer, but I am certain she will. They are a fine match,” Violet declares, taking a sip of tea.

“Why did she not mention it to me?” he mutters, more to himself than anyone, his forehead creasing heavily in a frown as he swallows the rest of his mouthful.

“Why would she have?”

“We talked last night…” letting slip perhaps too much in his perplexed state, lost in his own tumbling thoughts.

“When last night? We returned from the ball very late,” a suspicious tone in his mother’s voice, belatedly releasing he should know better than to think aloud; she is sharp as a tack.

“I-I found Miss y/l/n baking last night… in the kitchen when I went for cocoa… she told me she had a dilemma she was wrestling with…” he admits, looking down at the paper, the words now a jumble before his eyes. “Mother do you think it is possible she will say yes??” Benedict's head snaps up, his heart suddenly pounding in his ears.

“She would be a fool not to,” Violet points out, raising a perfectly arched eyebrow at him. “Unless there was another, perhaps more wanted, proposal she could consider. Do you possibly know of one? Son?”

Even he can read between those lines.

“I-I am late,” he abruptly changes tack. “I promised to meet Anthony today to discuss the soil at Aubrey,” he bustles rapidly, standing and fleeing the room before he can allow his mother to see how much of a complete lie that is.

—

Benedict spends the afternoon at White’s, downing perhaps one too many whiskeys as he grills his fellow patrons upon the Glassborough family. Looking for any reason he can find to object to the betrothal while steadfastly refusing to examine why he feels so passionately about the subject. He also spends time checking the hefty tomes of Debrett’s the club holds.

He returns to Bridgerton House just as dusk settles in, the sky streaking red and pink as he enters.

“Where have you been, dear?” Violet asks as he rounds into the parlour.

“Researching,” he gruffs economically.

“What? Or rather whom?” Violet inquires, revealing she already has a firm idea of what she asks.

“I can find nothing wrong with him!”

Benedict paces, an energy emanating from his being as if he is rattled by that very fact.

“That is a good thing, is it not, son?” Violet reminds pointedly. “We want y/n married to a good gentleman…”

Benedict shoots her an exasperated look but relents. “I suppose…”

“Is not your reluctance perhaps for another reason, my dear?” Her question is gentle, if not particularly subtle.

He slumps into a wingback chair with a defeated sigh. “Go ahead. Say your piece, mother.”

“I have watched you, darling,” she begins gently, watching him tip his head back and screw his eyes shut. “I do not know exactly when, but your regard of Miss y/l/n has altered, and I am not the only one to observe it.”

Benedict's eyes fly open, and he tips his head down with a frown as his mother continues.

“Even Colin has marked a change in you. If you feel anything, my dear, then Miss y/l/n has the right to know. Before it is too late. The right to make an informed choice if you are bold enough to give her one. Son, I have only ever wanted my children’s happiness. And if your happiness lies somewhere that perhaps even you have not realised until now…. well then I encourage you to follow it. Follow your heart.”

Her impassioned speech suddenly makes the pieces of a jumbled jigsaw before his eyes arrange into a pattern, a way forward that is suddenly clear and sharply in focus.

It makes him leap to his feet, an urgency thronging in his being.

“Where is Miss y/l/n?” he almost barks.

“I do not know,” Violet confesses, “but I do know she has not yet seen or written to Lord Glassborough,” she adds.

“Good…” he rasps, headed determined out of the room to find you.

—

The verdant lush grass is cool between your toes as you curl them over, sighing heavily, the night now dark, a twinkle of silver among the navy sky, soon to be black. The swing under the big oak, a refuge you have sought many times since staying at Bridgerton House, feels a particularly poignant place to be tonight as an internal war rages within you, your decision swaying back and forth as much as the wooden seat you are perched upon, the rope digging into your cheekbone as you slump against it, flummoxed.

You know what your answer to Glassborough should be. Indeed, what it should have been from the moment he asked.

A resounding yes.

In every practical measure, this is the best possible outcome of your London season. A proposal from a thoroughly decent, acceptable gentleman, way above the station you were expecting, given your less than prestigious certainty of lineage.

And yet.

There is a large part of you, your heart, that wants to turn down the proposal, foolhardy as that may be. Wanting to feel akin to what you felt as you danced with Benedict last night. You are not so foolish as to believe he would ever propose, but perhaps there is someone else out there for you that may evoke something similar for you? Even if only half, it would be enough. Enough for you to build a future around and feel contentment in your heart, to not just settle for what your head knows to be a sensible choice.

—

Having searched the house, he rounds into the garden and stops short, heart leaping into his throat as he spies you, swaying gently upon the swing, looking thoroughly lost in thought. It makes his chest ache that you are so melancholic about a decision that should indeed be joyous. The selfish part of him celebrating, hoping that perhaps you are not. His memory recalls with perfect clarity how you have looked as lost as he now feels every time you have been close. The unbearable lightness of hope seizes his legs and draws him inexorably closer.

—

You whip around as you sense company and have to take a deep breath as your eyes fall upon Benedict. His face pinched with a restless intensity.

“I was hoping I would find you,” he exhales.

“You have,” you shrug, still confused by his crackling energy, him seeming in a rush to say something.

“Skylark, you deserve the very best of everything. Sincerely. And part of that includes that you should know the truth in the hearts of those lucky enough to know you…” a slight quake in his voice as he takes a step closer.

“Alright…” you respond cautiously, your brow creasing as you sense the nerves emanating from him.

You gasp as he rapidly drops to one knee before you, a hand clutched to his chest.

“I have been a fool to not see it before now. My own ardent admiration for you, for your talents, for your beauty. I realise now, perhaps too late, that you are truly the most wondrous, precious being in this world. You may not always see it, but it would be my greatest honour to show you, every day, if you will permit me, what I see when I look upon you. What I have always seen if I am honest with myself. A light that shines brighter than any other, a bird that soars higher and sings more sweetly than any other. A soul that it would be a privilege to be bound to. I know it is perhaps the worst possible timing, seeing as you already have a proposal from a perfectly acceptable gentleman. Still, I could not let you get married without letting you know the contents of my heart.”

You are stunned. Speechless.

Your heart pounds in your ribcage as you sit there stupified for what must be an age, Benedict looking upon you expectantly, breath slightly ragged from his long speech. Somehow, convincing yourself this could only be a dream. That the man you have adored since before you can remember has just made the most beautiful poetic confession of love you have ever heard. And it’s to you.

So, you do the only logical thing that comes to mind. Pinch your own leg. Hard.

—

Benedict is momentarily confounded at your actions.

“Owwww!” you yelp. “Not dreaming then…” is your muttered follow-up, rubbing your own knee as his face morphs into the most enormous grin, a lightning bolt of joy tearing through him as he realises what you are doing, that you can scarcely believe this is happening any more than he can.

“It is really me, Skylark,” he chuckles softly, seeing the way your eyes dilate rapidly as he can't help the lopsided grin that claims his face, a warmth behind his ribs that is just for you.

“I realise that now,” you sass back, and there is a stirring in his trousers at the tone you employ.

“I love you.”

It's a reflex; he doesn't even realise he says it. But as soon as it's out of his mouth, it's like an invisible burden has been lifted from his entire being. The truth. Plain. Simple. Honest.

—

You know your face is aflame as you snap back at him, entirely without meaning to, but then he says three little words that tilt your whole world even more.

“I-I-I love you too.”

You are bewildered when you say it aloud.

The truth. Plain. Simple. Honest.

“Marry me? Please. My darling, wonderful friend,” he implores, his bare hands grabbing yours, tingles shooting over you as your skin touches his.

“Yes!! I will!!!” you answer breathlessly, not even a second of hesitation.

He leans in and captures your lips with his. They are warm and soft as they move gently with yours. And when he opens your mouth with his and his tongue rolls delicately over yours, it feels as if all the fireworks you have seen in the sky live now inside you, popping and exploding in a riot of colour. A whole new world of sensual pleasure is promised in that one move.

“Are you certain?” you murmur as you break apart for air, a flash of insecurity that this is happening so fast, even as there is a strong pull inside, a want to keep kissing him over and over.

He smiles, tilting his forehead to yours, a wistful look in his blue eyes.

“To know you, truly know you, is to love you, Skylark,” he sighs, his words a blanket settling over your quaking heart. “And I do. I truly do.”

Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @notanotheruniverse @iboopedyournose @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kmc1989 @desert-fern @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @sya-skies

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l1tw1ck · 5 months ago

Text

Simeon's Devotion

Sub!Bottom!FTM!Priest Simeon x Dom!Top!AMAB!Holy Knight Reader

Word Count: 2,410

Reverend Simeon, plagued by sinful thoughts of a certain holy knight, is suddenly struck with a high fever and abandons his God

AFAB Language Used | 2K Anniversary Request: For a Simeon Fic | [Breaking the Thermostat]

CW: Non-Con, Heavy Religious Themes, Dom/Sub, Virginity Loss, Bleeding, Size Difference, Oral Sex, Cum Swallowing, Cunnilingus, Belly Bulge, Womb Fucking, Squirting, Creampie, Kidnapping

You knock loudly against Simeon’s doors, heavily injured. You hear the sound of shuffling and see the lights turn on inside. Moments later, he opens the door for you.

Simeon calls out your name in shock. “What happened to you?!” He helps you inside.

“Ran into some demons..” You murmur, sitting down on his couch. “Can you heal me?”

“Of course!” Simeon hastily removes your clothes, leaving you in just an undershirt and boxers. You're both already used to this. “How many this time?”

“I wanna say…30?” You watch him kneel down and use his divine powers on your wounds.

“30?! Did something attract them?”

“I’m not sure. I was on patrol and everything seemed normal. The monsters looked strange too. They all looked like distorted versions of God and they were muttering things like ‘sinner’ and ‘dirty’.”

“That's strange..”

“Yeah, I’ve never seen anything like it before.” You reach to rub your temple but Simeon quickly heals your headache. “Could I have something to eat? I know you're probably tired so something like crackers would be fine.”

“You need to eat a real meal. I don't mind cooking for you. You can sleep over too, all your clothes are washed.” Simeon finishes your last wound and stands up. It's very common for you to sleep over at Simeon’s due to exhaustion since demons usually show up on the outskirts of town and you live a bit further away. “Think you can take a shower?”

You stand up and groan, the sound making Simeon twitch. “I think so. Thanks, Simeon.”

“God must be disappointed in you. So much for being a priest.” You say, staring at Simeon. He’s wearing sexy see through lingerie and an extravagant matching sheer silk robe. His legs are spread and he’s leaning against his bed frame. His tears are glistening against his cheeks, they’re shining like glitter. “You're nothing but a dirty sinner.” You move his panties aside.

Simeon looks at you, batting his eyelashes. Another tear falls down his cheek. “You’re my god now.”

“That’s right, baby. You’re mine.” You slowly begin to ease your cock inside him. “And I’m yours.” You press your hand against his pelvis, a pretty marking appearing on it.

Simeon suddenly wakes up moaning your name with his hand stuffed in his underwear. He gasps and yanks it out. He quickly wipes his hand on his clothes and begins to pray. “Please deliver me from temptation.” He repeats the same phrase over and over but as his body begins to grow hot, his prayer becomes strange.

“Please give me [Name]’s cock–” Simeon gasps and covers his mouth. “No…Forgive me— I need his co—” He covers his mouth again. He can't talk. He attempts to pray silently but that doesn't work either. It just makes him feel even more horny.

He begins to absentmindedly remove all of his clothes, his hands moving on their own to touch his wet pussy. He leans back, eyes out of focus, and begins to touch himself but he doesn't really know how. He just rubs his folds, which feel extremely sensitive. “I’m…I’m a sinner..” He mumbles, still out of it. “And a slut.”

“Only [Name] will accept me now.” Simeon brings his hand up to his tattoo and presses on it, a wave of pleasure flowing through him.

He stumbles out of the bed and drunkenly walks to his guest room, where you’re sleeping. Knocking didn't cross his mind as he opened the door.

“Si- Simeon?” You ask sleepily, sitting up. “Is something wrong?” You can't tell that he's naked. You move to sit on the side of the bed and squint at him.

“Yes..” He says quietly, stepping towards you. He kneels in between your legs. “I need you.”

“What?!” You recoil. “Are you okay? Are you drunk?”

“I’m not drunk.” Simeon presses kisses along your legs down to your feet. “I’ll do anything you want, [Name]. Anything.”

“I think you need to drink some water…you're not thinking straight.” You get off of the bed. As you try to head towards the door, Simeon stops you.

“I don’t need water, I need you.” He pulls you closer, he’s somehow stronger than before, and forces you into a kiss. It doesn't take long for him to pass on his ‘fever’ to you. Heat rushes through your body as your rational thoughts dispel like bubbles. He pulls away and looks at you lovingly.

“Simeon...” You hold his chin, speaking with a loving tone. “How beautiful.” You mumble. He moans your name breathily.

“Kneel for me.” You order. Simeon kneels once again. You pull down your shorts and boxers at the same time. His eyes widen, hearts forming in them, when he sees your thick length. The process of becoming a Holy Knight can alter someone's body in major ways but he never knew it could change by this much. “Open your mouth.” You run your fingers through his hair.

Simeon opens his mouth and lets you slide your cock inside it. His mouth is unbelievably hot. He can feel the corners of his lips stretching to fit you. The thought of you stretching his pussy open next makes him moan. He stares into your eyes as you begin to thrust. You're sure they're glowing.

“Your mouth feels amazing.” You moan. Simeon moans as well. “‘S perfect for me..” You speed up your thrusts. He happily allows you to fuck his mouth. He closes his eyes and focuses on your voice. He’s so aroused it's becoming painful.

You tighten your grip on his hair as your thrusts become unruly and desperate. He looks at you again, this time with tears in his eyes. But the tears aren't because he’s upset. “You look so pretty when you cry.” You groan as you come inside his mouth. You slowly pull away as Simeon swallows your seed without hesitation. You're still hard and you both want more. You pick him up and slam him onto the bed. Somehow, the both of you are able to see perfectly in the dark. Maybe it has something to do with the glow in your eyes.

You spread his legs and smile at how wet he is. The marking on his lower stomach glows faintly as you physically observe his pussy with your fingers. He squirms around cutely. You kneel in between his legs, mirroring what he did earlier, and bury your face into his pussy. Simeon moans. “Yes– oh- yes~!” He sucks in a breath. “[Name]~!” It's like he's ascended to heaven.

You drag your tongue up to his clit and gently suck on it. It quickly and unnaturally swells in your mouth. It feels like he’s stuck on the edge of an orgasm, although it feels good nonetheless. You slip a finger into his hole and then another when you realize how easily it entered him, despite his tightness. “Ooh- oh, [Name]~” Simeon squeezes your fingers tightly as you attempt to finger him. The constant flexing of his walls make it difficult to move them but you don't mind. You’re more interested in how that’ll feel when you fuck him.

He can tell he's not going to come from this. He's not sure why, it feels like there's something blocking him from doing so. “Put…put your cock inside me, please~”

You smile and move away, standing back up. “Of course, my love.” You lick your lips and line up your cock with his pussy, slowly coating your tip with his slick. He bites down on his lip and uncontrollably twitches as you begin to sink into his sopping warmth. He throws his head back and grips the bed sheets while moaning shamelessly. You're barely inside him. His entire pussy is throbbing so heavily, it's almost like a second heartbeat. Blood soon spills from your penetration.

The true representation of his sin.

He moans your name with his enchanting voice. Your cock ‘knocks’ on his cervix and strangely enough, it seems to be allowing your entrance. Like it wants you to enter his womb. You don't think about how that should be impossible and slide further inside him. “It feels– feels so—” He gasps, squirting. His eyelashes are fluttering rapidly.

“There you go, baby. Come for me.” You rub his clit with your thumb. He writhes around, no longer squirting but his cunt’s still squeezing you like crazy. He isn't able to think about anything at all, his brain is overloaded. The outline of his tattoo is becoming a bright blue. “Good boy…keep going.” You praise him.

Simeon wants to say your name again but he is completely unable to speak.

“Let’s make up for all your years of abstaining.” You start to thrust. He slowly comes back down to earth with each thrust you make.

“Ah–” His eyes are sparkling with tears. “You’re so big…stretching me out~”

“That’s right, I’m making your pussy fit the shape of my cock.” You slowly rub the bulge on his stomach, fucking him at a slow pace. “Your body’s gonna remember me and only me.”

“That's– that’s all I want~” Simeon moans. “Only you~”

“So pretty…” You brush his hair out of his face. He looks like a painting. You bring your hands to his waist and slowly build up to a faster pace. He reaches for you so you lean in. He wraps his arms around you.

“I love you.” He says in a shaky tone.

“I love you too.” You look into his eyes. For a brief moment, he realizes this isn't the real you, then he brushes it off. He feels strange. “My sweet Simeon.” You kiss him. The bed starts rocking due to your quickened thrusts. You separate from the kiss, some saliva dripping down his lip.

He looks down and notices the marking on his womb is glowing and the same color as his eyes. His desire has been satisfied. It’s all over. He looks up at you, suddenly shaking like a scared rabbit. The artificial light flickers out like a used lightbulb. He can't see you clearly anymore. The only lights are the glow in your eyes and the faint moonlight. “[Name]?” He asks.

“Hm?”

You're still…you’re not aware like he is. He suddenly feels disgusting. He forced you into this. Even if he wasn't completely conscious. He should tell you to stop, but he doesn't want to. Is it so wrong to want a little more? “I…I-” He stutters. “Come- come inside~” If he can't have you, maybe he can have a part of you.

You kiss his cheek. “Of course.” You come inside of him only moments later. It feels like he forced it out of you. You look at him with an exhausted but happy expression before passing out on top of him. He doesn't try to move you.

You slowly wake up. You look around the room and notice a stain on the floor that you didn't notice before. And your bedsheets seem to be different too. You also feel a little strange. Refreshed, but strange. You get up and leave the guest room. You can smell coffee so you go down to the kitchen. “You're up pretty early. Don't you usually sleep in on Tuesdays?”

Simeon shrugs, not looking at you. “I felt like getting up early today.”

“Well, I’m not doing anything today. Maybe I’ll make breakfast this time?”

“It's okay. I’ll make it.”

“If you insist.” You know you can't convince him otherwise. “I wanna do something for you though. You deserve a gift.”

“Protecting my town is more than enough.”

“You’ll never change, huh?” You chuckle. “You know, the bed sheets look different from last night. Am I crazy?”

Simeon breaks the mug in his hand. You shoot up from your chair and rush over to him.

“I- I’m okay.” Simeon heals himself. “There wasn't anything in it yet.”

“Good. You…seem weird today.” You notice he's not making eye contact with you.

“I..” He presses his forehead onto your chest and frowns, tears forming in his eyes. “I did something horrible last night.”

“What do you mean?” You bring him into a hug and gently rub his back to comfort him.

“Please…please don't hate me.”

“How could I hate you?”

“Last night…something strange came over me. I wasn't fully in control of myself and I forced you to…to..” He begins to sob.

“Simeon?” You ask, concerned.

“I forced you to have intercourse with me!” He blurts out, pulling away from you. He turns around and doesn't look at you.

You pause. “It must’ve been the work of a demon. It's okay, it's not your fault. It wasn't my ‘first time’ but…was it yours?”

Simeon’s eyes widen. “That wasn't your first?”

“No.”

He bites down on his nail. “When?”

“Um…maybe a decade ago?”

“Before you became a knight? And you haven't since then?”

“...Yes.” You assume he's uncomfortable due to his beliefs.

Simeon sighs. You were ‘reborn’ during your ceremony so you’re technically a virgin but you still have the experience. “Are you going to remain celibate?”

“I…well, I hope to find someone in the future. To marry, of course.”

“Oh.” He clenches his fist. “Do you have anyone you’re interested in?”

“I suppose I’ve caught a liking to Solomon, he—”

Simeon whips his head around. The look in his eyes is scary. “No.” He grabs your shirt. “No. You can't. You can't leave me.”

“Simeon?” You look at him in disbelief.

“I…I’m not letting you leave.”

Simeon looks at you sleeping peacefully on his bed. He isn't sure how, but he caused you to pass out and he was able to carry you here. He didn't even break a sweat. Due to a holy knight’s ability to neutralize certain forms of demon magic, Simeon is sure he isn't using that as you would've been fine if he was. But that leaves more questions to be answered.

He slides his hand down to his lower stomach and touches the glowing blue mark on his womb. It hasn't gone away. What is it? If it's not demonic then is it holy? How could this be holy?

He gently caresses your face. “I’m sorry, but I can't allow you to leave.”

You’ll be missed in the order of the holy knights but no one will worry when Simeon tells everyone he has bigger plans for you.

#wicks🕯works #top male reader #male reader #ftm character #dom male reader #obey me simeon x male reader #obey me x reader #obey me x male reader #obey me simeon x reader #obey me simeon smut #obey me smut #tw noncon #bottom male character #wicks🕯️events

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entitled-fangirl · 7 months ago

Text

May I?

Cregan Stark x pregnant!reader

Summary: the Lord of Winterfell had grown too protective- but for fair reason.

Warnings: cursing, talks of labor problems, Cregan freaking the freak out

A/n: based on an ask!

Masterlist

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Cregan couldn't help from letting a large smile crawl up his face.

His pretty wife, now a few months pregnant, walked into the court.

One of her slender hands rested on her swollen stomach.

The people turned to see what had caused the door to open so swiftly, and when seeing it was their Lady of Winterfell, they relaxed.

She rounded the table, coming to Cregan.

He had stood the minute he had seen her figure nearing, and now he was able to wrap his arms around her frame and bury his face into her hair, "Everything alright, pretty?"

She nodded and relaxed against him, "Tired of just staring at the walls."

He frowned and pulled away, "So you've decided to join me in court instead?"

"If you don't mind it."

He chuckled and brushed a strand of hair from her forehead, "I don't mind it at all. Sit."

…

But now the weeks were beginning to rack up, and Cregan swore he could see her stomach grow more each day.

And along with it was his rising protective instinct.

She couldn't seem to even leave the walls of Winterfell without him looming over her.

Not that she minded.

…

He dropped his sword in the middle of his sparring session when he saw her enter the courtyard.

Even in the cloudy air of the North, she glows.

She walked slowly, on no mission to get anywhere, and her eyes wandering from place to place.

Admiring.

He abandoned his sword and partner quickly, walking to her with broad steps. "What are you doing?"

She turned to him as if just realizing he was there. "Oh. Just… on a walk."

"A walk?" He asked with furrowed brows.

"Yes, I take one every day. It's usually earlier but I lost track of time."

He nodded, looking back to the doors she had come from.

Guarding it was a guard who stared back at them.

It irked Cregan.

"I see." He finally said.

"You've abandoned your training," She pointed out.

"I can hardly find myself caring," he said. "I would hardly be able to do anything with you in my line of sight."

She smiled brightly and he felt his heart shudder at the sight.

He would do anything to keep a smile on her.

His mind begin to race at the idea of anything bringing her displeasure. Pain, even.

Gods, she shouldn't be out here like this.

"Go back inside," he said as he bit the inside of his cheek.

She hummed lightly, not catching his harsh tone, "I haven't even gotten to speak to-"

"-Go inside, my love." He leaned forward, placing a sweaty kiss to the crown of her head and a hand moving down to rest on her swollen womb. "I will collect you for supper."

"Oh." He tried not to let his heart fall at the sound of her disappointment. "Alright. Supper then." She took his hand from her stomach and kissed his dirt covered knuckles, "Do train hard for me."

He smiled, "You've no idea."

He didn't move until he saw her figure disappear behind the doors.

And the stupid fucking guard that had watched her the entire time.

"You!" He pointed his sword out to point at him, "C'mere."

The guard's brows raised, but he complied, moving toward Cregan, "Yes, my lord?"

"Draw your sword."

The man paused, "m… my lord?"

"Your sword!" Cregan said with a raised voice.

Cregan tried to tell himself he was doing this for the practice, not for the satisfaction of besting the man who dared look at his wife.

Their swords clashed loudly in the yard, but the man was no match for the Warden of the North.

He was quickly being outmaneuvered by the Lord who was beginning to release his anger.

His sword was thrown from his hand, and Cregan's foot came up, pushing him to the ground.

There, Cregan stood over him with his sword to the man's throat.

Cregan quite enjoyed the view.

He got down on his knees and leaned down to the man's ear, "Look at my wife like that again, and I'll cut your fucking eyes out."

If the man responded, Cregan didn't notice as he put away his sword and retreated into the walls of Winterfell.

…

The grand maester approached Cregan as he walked down the halls, "My lord. I need to speak with you. About Lady Stark."

He paused in his step and turned himself, "Is she alright?"

"Oh, yes. The check up went well earlier. She is progressing wonderfully. There are just a few things we must clear up, you and I, before she has the child."

"Alright. Name it."

"Not here, my lord. It is… sensitive."

Cregan huffed and walked with him to the maester's quarters, shutting the door behind him. His anxiety began to eat at him.

"Now, I do not believe it will come to it, of course, but the main question is about certain… complications that may show themselves during labor."

"Just ask the question," Cregan growled.

"Right," the maester nervously fidgeted with his hands. "If a problem occurred and we were… unable to… save both…"

Cregan felt his gut roll. He had not considered such a thing.

"…my lord?"

Cregan's head shot up, "I'm sorry?"

"I asked which would you prefer to… take priority."

An impossible question to ask a husband and father.

A more impossible question to ask the Warden of the North.

He needed an heir. The people quite literally demand for one. Someone to carry the bloodline. He wanted a child with her more than anything.

But He needed her. He needed her like air to breathe. In a place like the north where the sun never shined, she made up for it, lighting every room she stepped into.

A world without either of them was not something he even wanted to think of.

He had welcomed this new change of the child the second she had told him.

To think, something could so easily take her from him.

And he would be helpless to it.

He felt bile rise in his throat.

…

"You're to take Dark Shadow with you when you leave Winterfell from now on."

She paused mid-bite over her plate, "W… Why?"

"I…" he dropped his fork with a loud clatter as he leaned back in his chair in frustration. "You're to do it."

"I love him, but I don't want a dire wolf with me. Scares the others away-"

"-Even better!"

"That is my reason for leaving the walls. To speak to the people."

Cregan grunted, "Not right now."

"Nothing will happen to me out there, Cregan-"

"-Yes, I will make sure of that."

She stopped herself and took a long and deep breath, "I do not understand. Why?"

"Because I commanded it!"

Silence filled the dining hall as the two stared at one another.

Her small voice broke it, "You have such little faith in me that I cannot grow our child?"

"What?" His voice softened. "Wh- No. No. I did not say that."

"You did!" She stood from the table, "You do, Cregan! You do not believe I can do this for us. For you." Hot tears began to flood her eyes, "So concerned with an heir, you do not even trust in your wife!"

His form didn't move until she was far from the dining hall.

…

Three days since their argument, and Cregan was beginning to feel the dread consuming him.

Prince Jacaeys Velaryon had arrived yesterday, giving Cregan a much needed distraction from it all.

He opened his eyes, looking over to her form in bed as he always did.

But she wasn't there.

He sat up quickly, noting that the sheets were cold as well, meaning she had been gone a while.

Since the pregnancy, she had never awaken before him.

He let out a grunt and quickly dressed himself.

Cregan practically ran down the halls until he found one of her servants, "Where is my wife?"

Her eyes widen, "Out, my lord."

His jaw clenched and his voice lowered, "Out where?"

"W… With the prince, my lord."

He shifted his weight to his other foot and leaned his head down to her. He felt bad, but he couldn't help the harsh gaze he studied her with, "To where, exactly?"

"She… she made me swear not to tell you, my lord."

Cregan felt as if he could rip her arms off, "You'll tell me anyway."

"I am loyal to her, my lord."

He wanted to be enraged at that, he really did. But he admired that about the servant. He let out a sigh and let his voice return to its usual timbre, "Point me in a direction then?"

She nodded, "Perhaps meeting a… pet… or sorts?"

No.

No. No. No. No.

He immediately moved his feet, running at a fast pace down the hall.

No. No. No.

He barely registered voices or concerned glances as he ran to where he knew she'd be.

…

Jace smiled as he ran a hand over Vermax's scales near his nose. "Dare to try?" He asked over his shoulder.

The very pregnant Lady of Winterfell bit her lip with a smile, "You really think he'll let me?"

Jace turned to her completely now, "Vermax trusts me. And I trust you. Therefore, I don't see why he'd refuse."

It was Jace's idea, to introduce her to Vermax. She seemed fascinated with the dragon when he arrived.

That, and obtaining the favor of the wife of the Warden you hope will supply your mother with an army wouldn't be a terrible thing, either.

She stepped forward, one hand out in front of her and the other over her stomach.

Jace muttered calming words of Valyrian to the dragon as she did so.

Her fingers were inches from the great dragon's hide when a voice rang out, "Do. Not."

Cregan stood a few yards back, panting harshly.

Vermax's head immediately moved to want to see the source of the sound, and she had to quickly back up to avoid being knocked over by the beast's large head.

Jace's hand shot out and steadied her as he looked to Cregan, "Careful with your words, my lord."

Cregan couldn't describe it all.

Horrified. Nervous. Protective. In awe.

Staring at the girl, seeing his entire future in front of him.

"Please," he whispered out as his gaze softened. "Please be careful."

Jace noted the man's softened brow, "She's safe, my lord. Vermax is young, but quite full of love."

She stared at Cregan still, her head tilted, "May I still…?"

She let the question hang in the air.

He couldn't let anything happen to her.

He wanted to refuse. Drag her back to the walls and lock her away. Shake her until she saw reason.

But he had been denying her everything. And doing so again could be just as dangerous to her as petting a dragon.

He nodded just barely, not trusting his voice again.

Her eyes lit up and her voice was soft, "Thank you."

She turned to the beast again, and her hand reached out as before, her other on her stomach.

Cregan noted the hand on her stomach, a protective gesture over the life that she carried in her.

Each slow step was like a dagger being twisted in his chest.

Her hand reached the scales, smoothing over them.

And the dragon lets out a low purr.

A bright smile comes to her face and she looks back to Cregan.

His arms are out, as if ready to catch her and shield her from dragon fire.

He can't even enjoy the moment through his pure adrenaline.

Jace smiles as well, "I do believe Vermax likes you."

Cregan finally spoke softly, "Who could not?"

…

The door to their chambers shut and Cregan turned from them to her, "I hate to be angry with you. Let us be done with it entirely."

"That easily?" She asked as she pulled at her dress.

"I do not doubt your ability to carry our child. You do it so… beautifully." He rubs a hand over his face, "I am a proper fool for ever making you believe differently."

"No. I understand your concern for me, love. I should have respected your wishes."

He crossed the room and grabbed her hands, "No. I…" he paused in thought. "It's not about having heirs, pretty. I care for our child. I do," he leans his head down to catch her gaze, "But I care for your wellbeing all the more."

She couldn't stop the small smile that pulled at her lips, "Perhaps we may compromise."

He grinned, "A compromise?" He leaned forward and kissed her forehead.

"You missed."

He leaned back, "Oh?" He raised a brow, "Did I?"

She grabbed his chin, pulling him down to her, "You did."

Their lips connected, gently but firm.

"Foolish man," she spoke against his lips.

He chuckled, "Pretty girl."

...............................................................

#cregan stark x you #cregan x reader #cregan stark x reader #creagan stark #cregan stark #cregan stark x y/n #house of the dragon fanfiction #house of the dragon memes #house of the dragon #game of thrones x y/n #game of thrones x reader #game of thrones imagine #game of thrones fanfiction #game of thrones #drew drools over cregan stark

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annoyinglilbro · 21 days ago

Note

Prince who starts invalidating himself and going to royal events as a princess to please his family, knight who corners him later, not following any orders nor letting him come unless he admits he's a boy. (After all, the knight's job is to protect the prince)

Prince being pushed into an abandoned corridor and glaring at the knight.

“What is your problem?!”

“What’s yours? What is all this? Where are your button ups, your trousers? Why are you parading around in corsets and lace?”

Prince who scoffs and crosses his arms. He looks away from the knight and forces his eyes on some random tapestry on the wall.

“Father is done entertaining me. They let wear my hair short and wear my brothers clothes for years. But now I’m an adult, it’s time to stop playing pretend and be the princess the kingdom needs. They’re giving me some time to let my hair grow, and then I’ll be presented with suitors. Each from our ally kingdoms, and I will choose one to marry.”

Knight who shakes his head. It can’t be true. He has been at the prince’s side since they were kids, he’d know if he was protecting a girl. Even with the corset and light flowing fabrics, that’s a boy. That’s his boy.

The same boy who would wrestle with him in his room, and get scolded for stealing extra bread from the kitchen. There was never a princess, always a prince. And he was a damn good one. Whatever is happening here is hurting him, and as his knight it’s his job to make it right.

That’s why he doesn’t hesitate when he takes the sword to the dress. When he chops away at the skirt and watches the way it tears.

“Hey! What are you doing?!”

“Reminding you who you are! This isn’t you, you’re not a princess. You’re not some dainty girl who needs protecting, who falls in line and does whatever she’s told. Where’s your fire? Where are you? You’re an imposter standing infront of me. My prince would never-“

“Oh please! I was never your prince. You’re being ridiculous.” Prince that tried to push past the knight, only to be slammed backwards into the wall once again. “Stop that!”

“I don’t follow orders from any princess. Only my prince can command me.” As he pushes his hands under the torn fabric, feeling for that spot between his legs that he knows oh too well. His fingers quickly find the bundle of nerves that they’ve called his cock on many occasions.

“Oh fuck…”

“How can you say you’re a girl, hmm? When you get so worked up from having your cock played with. Silly boy, so confused. I’ll remind you, don’t worry.”

Pulling his head back by his hair and kissing all the spots he knows drives his boy crazy. Nobody knows the prince better than him. Teeth piercing into flesh, breathing uneven, and eyes glazed over with lust. Even in a dress, he can still see the boy buried underneath. Beautiful, breath taking, in need of rescue.

Prince’s hands cling to the knight, just as they have many nights before. It isn’t fair, the prince can only feel cold armor, while his knight is spoiled in the warmth of his cunt. Fingers rubbing and prodding, sliding through slick and pressing him further and further.

“Please please I have to cum please.”

Fingers that pinch at the small bud, making the prince moan and writhe.

“Who’s asking to cum?”

“Ah…fuck.. your princess is telling you. M..make me cum.”

Knight that clicks his tongue and stops the movement of his fingers.

“I only take orders from my prince.” His hand leaves his hair and instead wraps around the prince’s throat, both glaring at the other with no real hatred to fuel them. “Dress up is fun. But it’s time to stop playing around, little prince. My sweet boy. I know you’re in there. Come back to me and I’ll make you cum until you so many times you lose track.”

Prince letting out a shakey breath. He doesn’t want to disappoint his father, but it’s so hard. So hard pretending to be something he’s not and maybe that’s why he can’t stop the sob that leaves him as he falls forward and wraps his arms lovingly around his knight.

“Please…please? Get me out of here. Take me back to my- to our chambers and have me. Take me. Please, I need you.”

Knight who pauses, his arms falling to his sides.

“Who’s asking me?”

“Your Prince.”

Knight who wraps his arms around the trembling boy, kissing the top of his head before he picks him up.

“Anything you want, my darling prince.”

#I rambled with this one whoops #royal kink #force masc #royalty kink #knight x prince #forcemasc #prince kink #prince x knight #knight kink #t4t kink #t4t ns/fw #t4t sub #ftm t4t #t4t nsft #t4t puppy #trans nsft #ftm nsft

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fastandcarlos · 4 months ago

Text

My Favourite Alonso : ̗̀➛ George Russell

summary: after being introduced at last to some of your brother’s fellow drivers, one particular brit captures your attention…

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

liked by fernandoalo_oficial, landonorris and 1,492,262 others

georgerussell63: another awesome week on the track, disappointed with the result but the car is starting to feel real good 🩵

184,967 comments

username1: trust the process george, you got this!!

landonorris: notice how I’m closing the gap in the second photo??

georgerussell63: @/landonorris you keep telling yourself that my friend…

username2: imagine being such good friends with a legend like it’s nothing 😭

fernandoalo_oficial: proudest day of my life making it onto the grid of THE george russell

georgerussell63: @/fernandoalo_oficial: you’ve really made it in life now 😂

username3: have you ever met a more popular driver on the grid??

kimi.antonelli: it was awesome to be there and learn so much from you this weekend 🩵

username4: we’re always so proud of you regardless of the result 👏🏻

lewishamilton: great drive again my friend, we’re on the rise as we finish the season!

username5: how anyone can drive in those conditions is crazy to me 🤯

mercedesamgf1: another great race weekend george 🩵

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

liked by lewishamilton, carlossainz55 and 1,483,958 others

georgerussell63: you could be forgiven for thinking my summer holiday involved a lot of food, and you would be absolutely spot on 🥂

163,968 comments

username6: forget the food wtf is going on in that middle photo 🤔

charles_leclerc: damn someone’s really dressed to impress their girl over the summer break! 🔥

username7: not even food could distract us from that photo george

landonorris: the secretive post is such an ick btw 😂

georgerussell63: @/landonorris no one is as big of an ick as you are!

username8: I’m so happy to see you enjoying your not so single summer!!

username9: scrolling through socials to see if I’ve missed anything…

maxverstappen1: stop trying to be like the cool kids with your soft launch 🙄

lewishamilton: didn’t even tell your own teammate you had a girlfriend before telling the world 😭

username10: don’t think food was the only thing it involved a lot of judging by these photos 🤨

danielricciardo: stop trying to disguise your gf with food 😂

username11: you can’t just post something like this without telling us more 😫

fernandoalo_oficial: I feel like a proud dad 🥹

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

liked by georgerussell63, lancestroll and 59,472 others

ynalonso: he’s a little more soft launch than me 🥺

6,381 comments

username12: thank you yn for doing george’s work for him 👏🏻

landonorris: and this is why you’re the favourite compared to george, never leave us hanging!!

oscarpiastri: I knew it was you all along 👀

username13: now this is the sorta partnership I can get behind 😂

iamrebeccad: remember a couple of weeks ago when I asked you if anything was going on and you said no!?

ynalonso: @/iamrebeccad I’m sorry we just weren’t ready to share 😭😭

username14: now it makes sense why he’s suddenly become so much more friendly with fernando…

danielricciardo: george really do he making himself friendly with the alonso family these days 😉

username15: his summer was definitely more than just food…george is a liar 😂

pierregasly: a little bit!? you’ve just come at us outta nowhere yn!!

fernandoalo_oficial: I wanna act surprise but secretly I was rooting for you two all along 🙌🏻

ynalonso: @/fernandoalo_oficial best. brother. ever. 😘

username16: yn is already my best friend simply cause she hard launches!!

lancestroll: you can’t go abandoning your aston martin roots now you know 💚💪🏻

username17: I refuse to believe that there are two better drivers who could make the best brothers in law 🥺🥺🥺

georgerussell63: why did I try so hard to be secretive for the whole summer 😂

ynalonso: @/georgerussell63 I just enjoyed tormenting you 🥰

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

liked by lewishamilton, fernandoalo_oficial and 64,968 others

ynalonso: every half an hour I keep switching hats and hoping that no one notices 😂

6,973 comments

username18: you can’t have two favourites yn it’s forbidden 😂

georgerussell63: as long as you prefer the blue hat to the green hat idm 🩵

username19: I’ve got images of yn sprinting between the garages all weekend

landonorris: still don’t know why you could pick either of those when you could pick papaya 🧡

carlossainz55: @/landonorris or even better still pick ferrari red ❤️

ynalonso: @/landonorris @/carlossainz55 you’re both far too annoying for me 😂

username20: can’t wait to see fernando vs george to keep yn in their garage 🥊

lancestroll: every time you runaway and go to mercedes I’m sure I hear fernando cry 😂

ynalonso: @/lancestroll he’s always been the dramatic sibling 🙄

username21: their hats are bright blue and bright green ofc we’ll notice 😂

lewishamilton: we’ll give you whatever you want if you pick mercedes instead 😉

username22: this not a sustainable way of living yn 🙃

fernandoalo_oficial: just remember you’ve been green a lot longer than you have blue 💚

username23: you need a makeshift blue and green hat for best of both worlds!!

alex_albon: safe yourself the hassle and come and join lily at williams, she keeps moaning she’s lonely 😂

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

liked by landonorris, charles_leclerc and 67,593 others

ynalonso: just for all the people wondering how george and nando are such good friends, a collection of photos I’ve taken of the two of them over the years 🩵💚

7,138 comments

username24: for everyone saying these two weren’t close before yn…here’s your proof 👆🏻

georgerussell63: I look like I’m about ten years old in that first photo 🥺

ynalonso: @/georgerussell63 still just as handsome now you’re an old man 😂

georgerussell63: @/ynalonso still nowhere near as old as your brother 😝

username25: the friendship these two have had has always been special!

maxverstappen1: now I feel old looking at how old these two now are too

username26: I can imagine fernando being the one to set them up somehow 🤔

fernandoalo_oficial: don’t tell him this now I’m supposed to be the intimidating older brother…but he’s easily my favourite driver 🥹

ynalonso: @/fernandoalo_oficial you are the least intimidating person ik 😂

username27: look at baby george in the first photo 😫

alex_albon: someone explain please how fernando is only getting better with age!?

ynalonso: @/alex_albon it’s those alonso genes 🤩

landonorris: isn’t it about time that george got himself a different haircut!?

username28: fernando watching george grow up right before his very eyes 😭

danielricciardo: the kids grow up so fast 🤧

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

liked by alex_albon, lewishamilton and 1,293,068 others

georgerussell63: she’s not used to hugging tall guys 😉

168,492 comments

username29: not george calling fernando out like this 😂

fernandoalo_oficial: just because you’re dating my sister don’t think I’ll let you get away with height jokes russell!!

georgerussell63: @/fernandoalo_oficial I’m sorry fernando please don’t hate me 😭

username30: you can’t be mean you’re basically family now 😭

danielricciardo: you’re a brave man making a joke like that 👏🏻

username31: good luck yn dealing with these two together!!

landonorris: nothing wrong with being a little bit on the smaller side 🤨

username32: you’re supposed to get her family to like you george not hate your guts

oscarpiastri: not everyone has the pleasure of walking around like a weird giraffe like you!

username33: can’t believe he’s done fernando dirty like this 😂

ynalonso: he might be small but he sure is mighty, I’d watch your back russell 😫

username34: this dynamic is delivering more than I ever thought it would!

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

liked by ynalonso, landonorris and 1,294,067 others

georgerussell63: happy birthday to my love, turns out the alonso family know how to party too 💞🍾

48,492 comments

username35: this might be my favourite post of all time 🤩

oscarpiastri: happy birthday yn, thank you for such an awesome party last night!

ynalonso: I think it’s safe to say I’ll never forget last night, thank you for organising it all babe 💞

username36: who knew fernando and george were actually the double act we all needed

danielricciardo: now share the rest of the photos you have from last nigh!?

georgerussell63: @/danielricciardo if I shared many more of the photos I have I’ll probably get banned by instagram 😂

username37: I can’t stop thinking about this party and these photos 😂😂

landonorris: I can’t erase the image of fernando on the table from my eyes!!!

alex_albon: no one enjoyed themselves at the party last night more than fernando!!

username38: who knew fernando still had all those moves…

maxverstappen1: I don’t think I’ll recover from what I saw last night for a long time hahah

username39: at least now we all know exactly where yn gets it from!!

fernandoalo_oficial: remember what happens at the club stays at the club 😉

georgerussell63: @/fernandoalo_oficial I have a lot more respect for you after last night 🍷

username40: george you have no idea that you’re about to be part of the best family ever 🤩

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

647 notes · View notes

brain-rot-central · 1 year ago

Text

Possession

A/N: This is pure filth. I'm so sorry.

Word count: 2.8k

Rating: Explicit. Please read the warnings!

Pairing: Spawn!Astarion x FemaleHuman!Tav (the reader is Tav)

Warnings: 18+, fingering, cum play, cunnilingus, PiV sex, religion kink, praise kink, breeding kink, corruption kink, possessiveness, slight bdsm?, slight DD/lg (if you squint enough), cock drunk, pussy drunk

Summary: Astarion hasn't had anything in so long, not even himself.

Until you.

Astarion sighs above you with a great heave of his chest, his head dropping low enough to rest his forehead against yours.

You unhook your legs from around the small of his back as aftershocks of your orgasm rock through you. Your legs come to rest on either side of your vampiric lover, his cock still buried within the warmth of your sex. With every rhythmic contraction of your walls around his length, you feel it twitch from within. The head of his cock is nestled at the base of your cervix, and you let out a pleasured mewl knowing he's dribbling the last of his spend directly into your ripened womb with each pulse of his shaft.

Gently, Astarion pulls his length free from your warm nest. You whimper at the sudden loss of feeling full, and his seed begins to seep from entrance. It trickles down your folds and pools under you, causing you to shiver as the night air cools it quickly against your heated skin.

“Tch, such a waste,” Astarion says with a click of his tongue. He's looking down at the apex of your thighs to survey his handiwork, disappointed seeing all of his effort lay in vain.

The blush on your cheeks was finally subsiding when a new wave of warmth rushes to your face again as his eyes study your cunt. Astarion runs a finger up your swollen sex, catching some of his spend and bringing it back up to your entrance. He pushes his finger into your thoroughly stretched hole, languidly pumping the digit in and out.

“We simply cannot have that,” Astarion comments. He removes his digit from your cunt and begins to slither down your torso, littering your sternum in chaste kisses as he goes. “In fact,” he states with a silken tone, “one cannot accept such poor conditions.”

Your nipples harden to stiff peaks as his tongue dips into the valley of your navel. Your legs bend at the knees almost instinctively as Astarion’s lips kiss the curls atop your mound.

Every memory cell in your body responds to Astarion autonomically, as if his touch has been seared into each of your nerve endings. It is intoxicating, and you can never get enough.

This man has dragged you into the depths of the Hells themselves. You've fallen out of favor with the Morninglord and have been shunned by your entire clergy as a consequence of succumbing to Astarion's advances.

It started as a simple favor; a quaint exchange. His continued vigor and vitality, all for the small price of occasional sips of your blood. You were hesitant at first, but you inevitably agreed.

You had no idea it would lead to you being on all fours in the cellar of an abandoned ruin, Astarion mercilessly pounding into you from behind as he grips your hair for leverage. You forfeited your honor to him, and your maidenhood, all too enthusiastically.

And you would do it all over again, for as long as he would allow it.

“We certainly need to rectify this unfortunate predicament,” he says. He kisses the soft skin of your inner left thigh, and you squirm at the stark temperature contrast of his cool lips against your heated skin.

A whimper escapes you as you feel the tip of his nose rub against your clit. Astarion licks a wet stripe up your center and you spread your legs wider, grinding your pelvis down onto the wet muscle.

His hands come up to wrap around your thighs as he suckles on your swollen nub, languidly stroking it with his tongue. You grip the sheets of the bed below you and pull as a strangled moan rips from your throat.

“A-Astarion,” you manage, voice barely above a whisper, “g-gods, please, it's so d-dirty…” Your voice trails off into a moan as he drags his tongue up your taint, collecting the remnants of his spend in a small well.

“F-fuck-!” you yell as his tongue pushes past your entrance, fucking himself back into your hole. Astarion hums into your cunt as he drives his tongue deeper into you, moving his head in just the right way for the tip of his nose to rub deliciously against your clit.

“The Gods are dead, my darling. There is only us,” he speaks into you. The vibration of his voice travels up into your pelvis and spreads across your abdomen, causing an obscene contraction of your walls around his tongue.

Your hands fly up onto his head and grip fistfuls of silver locks, bracing your feet on the bed as you grind yourself over his face. You cast your eyes down between your thighs to inspect the scene below, your breath coming in short gasps.

Smoldering red eyes meet yours, Astarion's eyelashes fluttering as he continues to hum into your sex. He meets your gaze once again and your heart begins to beat wildly inside of your chest.

This man was beautiful, so godsdamned beautiful.

And he was yours.

All yours.

Suddenly, he pulls himself away from your center and you whine in protest. You exchange glances and you see the corner of his mouth pulling upward into a crooked smile. Astarion pulls himself up and over your body again, bracing himself on his elbows on either side of your torso.

You moan softly as you feel his reawakened lust now resting against you, thick and heavy between your folds. The thought of using the small of his back as leverage to glide yourself against the weighted appendage crosses your mind, and you throw your head back with an exasperated sigh.

His hips twitch in response to your wanton display of pleasure and he groans, driving his hardened length through the slick heat of your swollen sex. He glides himself back and forth, smearing your arousal with slow rolls of his hips.

Once again, body almost possessed, your legs come up to wrap themselves around the small of his back, and you wrap your arms around his neck. The pre-cum leaking from his tip provides additional lubrication, and you mewl as the head of his cock teases your clit with each canting of his hips. He continues this torturous routine as he drops his face mere millimeters away from yours.

“I want you to taste us, my love,” Astarion coos as he pulls at your bottom lip with blunted teeth. “I want you to savor how well we complement one another.”

He skirts his tongue across your lips, seeking entrance. You open your mouth to accept him, and you immediately groan in pleasure at the taste spreading over your tongue.

Bittersweet yet mellow, with a distinct note that hits the back of your throat. Your whole body convulses, your back arching off the bed, chest pushing into his. It was debauched and utterly sinful; it was absolutely divine.

“Do you taste it, my darling?” Astarion asks as he pulls his mouth away from yours. His head dips to the nape of your neck and you shiver as he kisses your tender skin. “Can you taste how well we complete one another?”

Your hands travel up the back of his head and you tilt your neck off to the side, allowing Astarion better access to the column of your neck. His tongue worries the two small scars beginning to develop over your jugular vein, his favorite place to feed on you, and you grip fistfuls of his hair.

“Do you know what else I taste, pet?” His mouth closes over the ghosts of your scars and your body convulses, wanton moans spilling from your lips as he nibbles the soft flesh.

“W-hat, else?” you breathe out, words separated by huffs.

“Your arousal.” He licks a stripe up the side of your neck, mouth close now to your ear. “Your excitement.” He nips at your earlobe, pulling gently. His voice drops into a low growl and he speaks into your ear, “Your fertility.”

Your whole body arches off the bed, your breasts pushing into his chest, and you writhe under him. A bolt of lighting shoots across your pelvis as the walls of your cunt clench around the memory of your first time.

You think back to your coupling in the cellar, you on all fours as he slams into you repeatedly from behind. There was no other sound in that cellar aside from the wet squelching of your sex as he drove his length into you repeatedly.

You recall how thoroughly full you felt, how thoroughly mated. Your body willfully opening to him, beckoning him to claim you further. His hands on your hips held you steady as he filled you to the brim with his seed. You'd never cum harder in your life, your walls milking every last drop of his release.

Your clergy be damned; you knew there and then that you wanted Astarion on a carnal level. You want your womb to be desecrated by the sowing of his undead children.

“You want this, don't you?” he moans into your ear, accentuating his words with a drawn out thrust between your legs. Astarion braces his weight on one arm, snaking one hand up and over the delicate column of your throat.

You moan and lift your chin up just as his fingers wrap around your throat. “Tell me how much you want this, little love,” he says to you.

“Do you still want me?” is the silent question wrapped within his words.

Your hands release their hold on his hair and come to grasp the one on your neck. “A-Astarion,” you breathe, voice hoarse as his palm pushes against the center of your throat. Your eyes roll to the back of your head and you continue grinding your hips against his length, the head of his cock teasing your soaked entrance.

“What do you want me to do, Tavaria?” Astarion huffs out, voice desperate as he tries to resist the urge to sink himself into your warm, inviting center.

“I want… Gods…”

“What, do you want, Tavaria?” His voice is stern and demanding as he growls into your ear. “Tell me, now.”

Do you still want this, all of this? Us? …All of me?

Your head is swimming. You can think of nothing else but depraved, carnal lust.

“Fuck me, please, Astarion…” You open your eyes, hooded in lust, and meet his gaze. His mouth is slightly agape as he sucks in ragged breaths, his pupils blown wide. “Please, Astarion,” you beg.

The hand on your neck now rises to clasp your chin, holding your head steadfast. “Again,” he growls out, “say it again.” He grinds his hips further against yours.

You moan loudly into the night air, hoping no one from the nearby town hears. “Mark me, Astarion,” you manage to breathe out. “Fill my womb until the entire world can see what you've done to me.” You bring the hand holding your chin up to your mouth, placing soft kisses on the tips of his fingers. “Please,” you whine.

Astarion peels himself away from you in an instant, sitting up on his knees. “Turn over,” he growls out through gritted teeth.

It takes a second for the words to register in your brain, but your body inevitably moves as he commands. You turn yourself over on the forest floor, supporting yourself on your hands and knees. His palms sink into the plush flesh of your hips and he pulls you back toward him, his cock brushing up against the cleft of your ass.

You look over your shoulder to see him spit into his palm, working it over his length with urgent strokes. Suddenly the head of his cock nudges against your entrances and he sinks himself in. Your arousal provides enough support for him to fully sheath himself within you, and he hisses as his tip pushes against the end of your cervix.

Your arms give way and you lean forward onto your elbows, head dropping between your arms as your hips move of their own accord back and forth over his length. Your cunt throbs with each pass of his cock against your walls, and you sigh as it rubs against the spot inside of you that makes you see stars.

“Gods, you are so fucking warm,” he growls from behind you. Astarion reaches forward and grips a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back up. His other hand is sunken into your hip in a vice grip, holding you in place as he continues careening you both toward completion. You know you'll have a bruise come tomorrow, but you didn't care. You want him to mark you, to claim you.

You desperately push yourself back up onto the palms your hands, your muscles struggling to support your weight as your pleasure builds. Your whole body is shaking as you continue to meet his thrusts with your hips. Astarion adjusts his angle ever so slightly behind you, the head of his cock now pushing directly into the spot that turns your vision hot white.

“A-Astarion,” you mumble as saliva pools in your mouth, “d-don’t stop-!” You feel your thighs quaking, your cunt fluttering wildly over his length as you draw closer and closer to the edge.

Astarion catches onto your rapidly approaching crescendo and increases the pace. The clearing is filled with nothing but the wet sound of your arousal and skin slapping against skin. He lifts his chin up toward the sky and his mouth hangs open as he moans incoherently into the night air, hips never faltering in their assault.

“My sweet girl,” he says to you, voice thoroughly and completely wrecked, “you always feel so good around my cock.”

You feel yourself clench around him in response to his praise, pleasured mewls escaping your lips. His hand releases its grip on your hair, coming to rest on your hip as his fingertips sink into the supple skin beneath them. He's spearing himself directly into your cunt, directly into that spongy spot inside you, and your arms falter once again. At this point, you're not going to last much longer.

You cross your arms in front of you, resting your head on your forearms. Your brain has ceased all logical thought as he fucks into you mercilessly from behind. You mumble a mantra of “please, yes, please, oh, there, keep going,” from under him.

One particular thrust has you seeing stars explode behind your vision and you spill over the edge into oblivion. You think you scream, the pleasure ripping through you so intensely that it obscures your other senses, but they're muffled by your face buried in your forearms.

His hips still as your walls contract around him. He sucks in a deep breath through gritted teeth, uneven pants escaping his mouth. He begins to move behind you again, his hips stuttering in short bursts into your wet heat. “I'm going… I'm going to…” he pants from behind you, chest heaving.

You manage to raise your head enough to look briefly over your shoulder. He looks thoroughly debauched; damp strands of silver hair are plastered to his face and beads of sweat drip from the tip of his nose.

He is devastatingly handsome.

“Do it,” you reassure him, softly. “It's okay.”

Astarion’s mouth drops open, a raw, guttural growl rupturing from his throat. His bottom fangs glint in the moonlight and his eyes roll back into his skull as hips finally cease. The grip on your hips tightens as he pulls you further into him, and then you feel it.

Thick ropes of heat coat the inside of your cunt and you moan, feeling some of it slip out between the place where you're joined and drip down onto the forest floor below.

With a drawn-out sigh, he slumps against your back, the added weight causing you both to collapse onto the soft earth below. You feel him mouthing softly against your back, leaving absent-minded kisses across your skin as his brain performs yet another hard reset, the second one of the evening.

Astarion’s senses finally return and he pulls himself free, rolling off of you and onto his back. You reposition yourself onto your side and slot yourself against him. His arm comes down over your shoulder, and you tuck your head against his chest. You feel Astarion kiss the top of your head, and you sigh in contentment at the warm gesture.

Neither of you speak another word, thoroughly spent. As your eyes fall closed, you nestle your cheek against his chest and hear the slow thud of his heart as it lulls you to sleep.

Within his arms, you are safe.

You are loved.

You are home.

#astarion smut #astarion #bg3 astarion #bg3 #astarion ancunin #astarion x reader #astarion x female reader #astarion x tav #fanfiction #baldur's gate 3 #astarion x female tav #smut

3K notes · View notes

greatunironic · 11 months ago

Text

eddie wakes up in a strange room. this was not particularly unusual for him, historically: he’d spent most of his twenties waking up in new and interesting places (including a handful of jail cells). but after eddie, the label, and the los angeles superior court system decided it would be best if he stopped drinking and doing blow, it stopped being such a regular occurrence.

so it’s almost alarming to him, now, to be blinking up at an unfamiliar cement ceiling with the raging bitch of all headaches and generally feeling like he got hit by a truck, got whiplash in a crash with the way his neck aches. he’d think he was hungover like all those times before except for how sharp the pain is, bright.

he worries, briefly, he’s relapsed, or someone’s slipped him something. but he remembers what him and the boys had been up to, before this, and he thinks it’d’ve been a strange night indeed if someone roofied a c-list (b-list if he’s feeling charitable) musician at a fucking frozen four game.

because yeah, eddie remembers: they’d been third row, watching the wisconsin ladies clean up and cheering for jeff’s kid sister like she was about to get olympic gold. (she probably would, someday. her and that mayfield girl who played defense were looking down the barrel at a 2026 run apparently.

eddie’s been to a handful of games over the years, when touring and recording allows them to go. he’s resolutely never been a sports guy but he’ll admit, when pressed, that live hockey is pretty dope. to say nothing, of course, of how jeff would probably murder them all in their sleep if they didn’t rep the red and white for lottie.

(and also — and this is between eddie and his god alright — but lottie’s coach? standing back there in his suit, hair styled and dialed, snapping his gum, yelling at the refs? kind of doing it for him, okay. worth the price of admission, even if the tickets weren’t free.)

when he thinks harder — which hurts too — the last thing he clearly remembers was someone from the beavers scoring, bringing their lead to 5-1, and a slapshot from the other team getting out over the boards and nearly taking out some lady’s popcorn. someone behind them in the seats said, “jesus they’re getting desperate, eh?”

then shit goes dark on him, not even a fade to black, but a full on smash cut, roll credits black, and the post-credits scene is where ever the fuck eddie is at the moment. it smells like human and cold and icy hot, so obviously, he thinks, he died and went to hell like all the church ladies said he would back in hawkins, or probably just a locker room. what the fuck?

he blinks at the ceiling, at an interesting water stain on the cement texturing. he’s in the middle of wondering where the rest of his band has gone if he’s here alone, fucking abandoners, when a sweaty redhead with the bitchiest expression he’s maybe ever seen enters his field of vision.

“you’re alive,” she says.

eddie blinks again. “why do you sound so disappointed?”

“yo coach!” she shouts, already on the move away from him. “he’s alive!”

he tries to sit up, but that makes the pain in his head worse, and also draws attention to the fact that his back also hurts. he squeezes his eyes shut and makes a truly embarrassing noise of pain — if pressed, he’d call it a whimper — and a pair of big hands land on his shoulders.

“out, out ladies i got this! hey!, hey, man, don’t move just yet,” says big hands.

“yeah, no problem, i don’t want to anymore,” eddie says. he stirs up the will to open his eyes again and very nearly slams them back shut. because of course the person staring down at him is fucking coach hottie snackycakes himself. he’s even better looking in person, too, big droopy eyes, lips as pink as his bubblegum, and shiny, jesus christ. he’s still got eddie by the shoulders, hands warm through the thin cotton of his flannel and tee — because eddie’s always been more fashion than sense, wayne always said, and it’s even worse now that the paps are on him—

“oh, fuck this is gonna be all over tiktok later, isn’t it?” he moans.

“maybe not.”

“don’t lie.”

“listen, eddie — it is eddie, right?” asks coach hottie. “i’m steve. coach harrington. faughnsie — lottie, i mean — she said you’re eddie. her brother’s guitarist? what do you remember?”

“more like he’s my singer,” he says, “but sure. and not much.”

“well, you’re gonna be okay,” says coach hottie — steve. “it really wasn’t that bad, and it was probably too fast for anyone to get it, unless they already had a camera on you. you took a puck to the head when one popped up. i’d apologize but it wasn’t one of my girls who did it, so. anyway — you weren’t out for long, which robbie says is good — she’ll get a look at you in a second — but you got your bell rung pretty good. and you’re gonna have quite the shiner, trust me.”

“speaking from experience?”

“oh, yeah. closer and faster too.” he gently raps his head with his knuckles. “too many concussions too early ended my nhl days, in fact.”

“oh. oh shit, sorry, i—“

“don’t worry about it, man, it happens,” he says. “and if it hadn’t, i wouldn’t be here.”

“at the frozen four.”

“yeah, sure, that too.”

“what?”

“what?” steve waves him off. “anyway, i’m just glad to see you up, ish, and talking. looked pretty scary, from the bench.”

“i really don’t remember,” says eddie. “but i’m sure i’ll see it on tiktok later, like i said — at least, my unconscious, bleeding form.”

“i got up there pretty fast, so i doubt it,” says steve.

eddie blinks, twice. “you—?”

“you were behind my bench, and you. well,” he says with a shrug, but he’s clearly a little embarrassed, finally putting those hands away — weapons of eddie destruction, he thinks — and shoving them into his pockets of his tight slacks. “i should be getting back out there.”

“do you? you’re murdering them pretty good, unless i black out and missed them getting four more goals,” eddie says.

the corners of steve’s eyes crinkle when he smiles. eddie thinks he might just pass out again. “no, we’re still gonna cinch it, i think. looks bad, though — first time coach missing the final period so’s he can hit on the cute musician who got his clock cleaned by the biscuit.”

“oh,” he says. swallows. “uh.”

steve’s crinkly, smiley eyes go wide. “unless—“

“no less!” eddie shouts and then immediately winces. at a better, less damaging to his more than slightly concussed noggin, volume, he says, “more, actually. because pretty sure i shouldn’t be left unsupervised, and i’ve clearly been abandoned by the band, so—“

“so,” says steve.

“coach, two minutes!” someone calls.

“so, i was hoping maybe i could keep hitting on the hot hockey coach back at his?”

“i’m at the ramada inn,” he says, “and i got tape to watch for the finals.”

“i live for room service,” eddie tells him seriously. “and i’m suddenly very into wisconsin sports teams.”

“coach! go time!”

“yeah?” he asks.

“yeah.”

“COACH!”

he jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “i gotta — but, uh, later?”

“pick me up in twenty?”

“probably more like half an hour, with stoppage,” he says.

someone bangs on the door. “COACH!! let’s boogie!!”

with one last look, wide eyed and smiling, steve leaves. eddie watches him go. he’d heard hockey players were caked up but lord — eddie is about to convert to a new religion, or maybe found one, over the stretch of those slacks.

“damn,” he says quietly.

“gross,” a woman says. eddie startles and looks to the side, where a lanky brunette with a bob and an undercut is staring at him, unimpressed. she’s in some get up that screams athletic trainer, and there’s a white board in her hand.

“how long have you been there?” he asks.

she raises an eyebrow. “long enough, and honestly, i don’t know if that counts as a you rule for him, or a you suck for you,” she says and does not elaborate when he asks. “also don’t look at him like that. it’s steve. he’s basically my sister.”

“yeah? any tips then?” asks eddie. “i promise i’ll only use them for good. well. mostly.”

“god,” she says with an expansive eye roll. “you’re gonna be a nightmare, aren’t you?”

a cheer goes up outside the room as the teams, presumably, take the ice again. eddie, head throbbing, concussed, embarrassed, grins. “sure hope so,” he says.

#stranger things #eddie munson #steve harrington #steddie #rockstar au #hockey au #two great tastes that taste great together tbh #cross posted on twitter #might clean this up later + pop it on ao3

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grimdarling69 · 4 months ago

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Another de aged Ellie and Dan or otherwise known as Crack

P1 P2 P3

Damian is now regretting every decision that led to where he was at this point in his half-life.

He felt so if he had been battered by a storm all night long and he was pretty sure he was having fever dreams because fucking Lex Luthor is currently dabbing at his head with a damp towel.

Come on, Damian. You're better than this. Get up and fight him. Father would be disappointed if I failed to stop whatever luthor was scheming because of a common cold. He could already see his father's face, his disappointment shrouded in the shadows created by the looming stalactites in the cave. He'd take away Robin, he lose Richard's first gift to him. He couldn't let his baba down.

He tried to shed the blankets but his body failed him and he had to resist a coughing fit. He shivered cold and clammy. His body felt heavy and his clothes were sticking to him uncomfortablely. His hair was a mess and clouded his vision.

"Rest now, ghostling. Your very sick. I need to get you into some new clothes and quickly." he murmured quietly, leaning forward and plying his bangs from his face. For a second he thought he was going to kiss his head and he started struggling again.

"Don't-" He attempted but his voice broke off into a coughing fit. He struggled to catch his breath.

"Shh.. shhh...drink." he gently lifted a glass of water with a childishly pinky bendy straw to his lips. His gentle voice and calm actions remindimg him of his baba and he stupidly started to drink it before he remembered where he was and resisted again.

Luthor didn't seem surprised but didn't attempt to speak to him again and gently pushed him back down onto the bed. His eyes were heavy and he had to repeatedly jerk his head to stay awake.

Ancients, what was wrong with him he was a trained assassin. Not to mention Robin he could survive days without even a second of sleep.

Luthor pushed the door open again and carried soft looking sleepwear in his hands. When did he leave? The sleepwear had little stars and moons and suns periodically spread about. He couldn't help but admire them.

"Please don't fight me, Dani- Damian. You have to get out of those drenched clothes. If you sleep in them, you'll just get sicker. Come on, you love the stars." He tried in vain to fight him off, but eventually Luthor was cringing at him, scratches all over his arms and face, holding the wet clothes in one hand.

"Try to get some sleep. We'll talk in the morning." He turned the lights off and closed the door.

He waited a second to make sure he was actually gone. Once he was sure, he tried to wrangle him self off the bed but kept having to blink and rub his eyes. He had finally succeeded in getting out from under the blanket before he couldn't stay awake any longer and passed out from exhaustion.

---------

Vlad because he was Vlad Masters sometimes known as Vlad Plasmius or ugh the Wisconsin Ghost not Lex Luthor he had spent far to long redeeming himself and becoming a productive member of society to be reincarnated into a cruel ceo who cares only about his image and money and destroys the earth to make it. Creating pollution, ruining lives for no reason, abusing his powers, and trying to kill his archnemesis. Okay, maybe he was being a bit hypocritical, but he was redeemed already, and now he had to start all over!

Every villian worth their salt knows that archenemesiss are for life and he was a redeemed one for goodness sake. He may of fought his godson a lot in his early days but he had been alone for so long. He was a ghost they bonded by fighting! He also apologized for not realized that he didn't know ghost culture yet. He assumed he'd gotten a mentor ghost somewhere like he had the dairy king to teach him and once he realized he made him take lessons with that yeti docter of his.

He was the only one of his kind for decades and it certainly didn't help when his best friends abandoned him after killing him. Jasmine loved to physcoanalyze him she often tried to talk to him about his abandonment issues caused by his parents' deaths worsened by his older sister walking out on him and his future almost destroyed because of Jack Fenton and a fucking soda. That his obsession with Madelyn was caused by the fact he was desperate for family and latched onto the first thing that could give him one.

He didn't approve of cursing, he had kids-god-children that didn't need to hear it but he supposed he could excuse it just this once. Or twice.

When his godson had crashed into his island he felt the presence of his other kids but it was diluted almost. He hoped that whenever Damian woke up he could give him some context.

That was another thing. Somehow, his incredibly gifted and smart godson had apparently but reincarnated as Brucie Wayne's son. He could hardly believe it, but it was also worrying he had found some heavy scaring on him. Everywhere he was covered in scars, some had to be a decade old, at least. Whoever hurt his son was going to pay.

"Mr Luthor, sir?" His assistant knocked on his door.

Ugh, Luthor wasn't terrible he had to admit it had a nice ring to it was just-Lex?... disgusting.

"Come in."

"The um...children's cold medicine is here." She spoke unsure, but handed the specially ordered medicine over. It was brought over by a very good drone from the nearest industrialized island, perks of being a billionaire. He had even more money than in his previous life.

"Aw thank you, Susan." She blinked at him while he took the package she'd been with him since before Konner and so it was understandable she wasn't used to him just now caring to remember her name. Konner... he'll have to contact him to set up a meeting between his new son and his brother soon.

"Will you alert the chefs to cook a simple breakfast for us. No onions and no meat. He'll need to eat with this one. Have it brought to his room." He barely remembered that his godson won't be eating meat anymore after he remembered from one chance meeting at a gala but he had always hated onions and he was quite familiar with his rants about the texture of onions by now.

"Yes, sir. Right away" She quickly exited his office. He still wasn't used to humans being on his island, he typically only had animal ghosts with him or his kids if they weren't busy it was quite strange but he was trying to turn down his Vladness.

He stopped to grab a water bottle and started to head to Damian's room. He knocked on the door and waited. Dead silence met him, the white walls of the hallway was only makeing it worse. He forced himself to not think of the past, his whimpers while he had to stitch him together again for if he made to much sound they would hear him , while slowing opening the door.

He was thankfully asleep, and his fever seemed like it was going down. He packed up the damp towel and started to dab his forehead again. His eyes started to stir.

"Vlad?" His now much younger godson questioned looking even younger he seemed small for his age but he was like that in his past life too.

"I'm here." The sigh of relief spoke for itself. Damian stole the hand not currently in use, a familiar reminder that was common practice for them. His eyes closed again. He took the quiet moment to lament on each of his kids.

Jasmine, the oldest, once told him he was her rich and eccentric uncle. She never needed him in the ways her siblings did. She only lived with him on college breaks anyway. She never needed him to pay for her college, she had no shortage of scholarships. While he loved her, they were still distant. And then she was gone.

Dan, he had adopted him in his originak timeline after...an incident. Dan was always difficult in ways his siblings weren't. Dan was most similar to him, he was half of him afterall, and this often caused many different fights between them. Dan being full ghost often lived with Clockwork anyway. He'd always love him but things were always going to be messy between them.

Ellie, his blood daughter and Daniel's clone. The only one that outright considered him her father but she was very independent and he typically only saw her on weekends too busy traveling the world to have a movie night with her dear old dad. He loved her, but they fought alot she always wanted more independence and he just wanted to see his daughter.

Daniel or Damian now had always seemed to need him the most. Sticking around Amity Park even after the GIWs attack. Always asking questions about being a ghost or being an adult really. And even before that he could often find him somewhere in his house after his patrols around Amity he asked him a few times why he came around even before he had redeemed himself and could only ever get " because it's quiet but now you're here so I have to go. See ya fruitloop" and when Damian came to live with him his friends were usually there and sometimes he felt it was more a teenagers clubhouse than a mayoral manor. But he was really the only constant in his life. And in the beginning he was too injured to be alone, floating at the edge of fading away forever, so they were constantly together and they grew closer and as much as Vlad always saw him as a son he doubts Damian sees him as a father. Jack was his father and Madelyn was his mother. He knows that he still sees them as his parents even after everything he was willing to forgive them. He would never admitt it but sometimes he's glad they never came back as ghosts.

And konner...He wasn't really sure about him. He was his son, his clone he created with Superman. While he of course still had Luthors memories, and luthor seemed to love him but he often pushed him aside. He was second to his goal of killing Superman. He would have to work really hard to repair their relationship but first he needed to get to the Infinate Realms.

Soft knocking broke him out of his thoughts. " Come in."

"Sir. Your food has been prepared." Susan pushed in a large cart with 3 tiers. While this life seemed to be all about the pinnacle of opulence, his first was spent majority in bachelorhood, enough said about that.

She parked the cart close to the bed but not enough to be a hindrance. Damians eyes fluttered at the light but stayed still.

Susan looked at Damian in barely hidden concern and he could tell that Susan Darnaby, mother of three boys ranging from the ages of 24 to 15 had strong maternal instincts. Her oldest apparently worked at the Daily Planet and was apparently the main breadwinner of the family after his dad passed away a few years ago from cancer leaving the family in serious medical debt. He might have reread everybody's file and maybe everything he could find on them. The last thing he needed was one of his employees calling cps on him for stealing a child.

"He has already benefited from his rest last night, this medicine will have him in tip-top shape in no time. There's no need to worry." He attempted to reassurance her.

"Of course sir." For some reason she didn't look very reassured and with once last glance at their hands, left quietly.

"Whuz her." Damian mumbled from where his head was stuffed slightly beneath the pillow to block the light from getting in. He snickered and fixed the pillow. Damian pouted.

"My assistant, Susan. You know she has a son around your age." Damian looked positively scandalized.

"Vlad! I am not dating anyone that is affiliated with you!" He sat up and wacked him with the pillow.

"Oof. Ow." The pillow didn't really hit imhim hard it was worryingly gentle, something Damian would never hold back on he once challenged him to a pillow fight but stuffed his with rocks and we both ended up give each other stitches using the bathroom tiles to ice their bruises.

"You know i never said anything about dating, my boy. Now let's see what was prepared." Damians breakfast consisted of small cake like pancakes shaped like stars with bananas and blueberries arranged like a small constellation. While his was some larger normally shaped pancakes with sliced strawberries and bananas arranged around the outer rim. The other two tiers consisted of several scone and jams and of course clotted cream after on the second day Ellie went on a loud rant right outside the kitchen on how offended she was to not be served clotted cream. The last tier consisted of several small deserts and muffins. He even spotted Damian's favorite muffin, blueberry cheesecake. Or well in his previous life at least, he placed it on his plate anyway, couldn't hurt to try.

"I'm not really hungry." Damian waved him off.

"You have to eat to take this medicine and I know you haven't eaten since you flew in last night, or even longer. Most of this stuff we can cover up and leave out, so you can eat it later if you want." Damian hated when he used logic in his previous life but from what he can remember about his few meetings in this life he liked logic and academics and was quite ahead according to Brucie.

Damian begrudgingly ate the muffin, some fruits and a messily cream and raspberry jamed scone. He only had a bite off the corner star of the pancake before deciding he wasn't a fan of the recipe. Vlad ate both of his pancakes, most of the fruits on his plate, a chocolate muffin, and a cream and apple jam scone. Unfortunately the peace couldn't last because as soon as he deemed Damian had ate enough and gave him the medicine he decided now would be the time to talk.

" I think I'm pregnant." Damian stated calmly staring into his tea cup.

Vlad dropped his own cup and watched the beautiful fine china shatter.

"Your...What?" He spluttered.

"Technically incubation. Dan and Ellies bodies completely destabilized and I merged with their cores to save them. It's something Frostbite briefly taught me." He continued.

Thank god.

"Why didn't you just start with that like a normal person. Are you okay? Is anything hurting not feeling alright?" He could hear himself growing more frantic.

"I'm fine Vlad. There not parasites. Well ellie isn't atleast. We'll have to check with Frostbite for everything else, so we'll need to stsrt the portal as soon as possible"

"You'll need to take the medicine for at least a week before I let you start working around such heavy machinery, but i suppose you can do some calculations up here."

"What! I have to get to Frostbite. How do we know we're doing the right thing? What if...I...do something to hurt them." His voice grew quiet and he closed his eyes both arms came to reach across his stomach and his legs slightly raised and he started to hunch over himself.

"Oh, Damian. I've read about incubation before. Ghosts only allow them selves to merge in such a way with people they must truly trust. If they merged with you, nothing will go wrong. Nothing you can do will hurt them." He moved as he was speaking, sitting down on the bed now. Damian and him had reached the same height in his last life but now his new body was much larger, in both height and muscle, than Damians short height and lean muscle. Made even smaller by him shifting into a ball.

"I don't know. I still had so much to learn and what if we can't open the portal again?" He leaned into him his shoulder more level with his head.

"Have you no trust in your old man? I opened the portal on my own last time with only minor Fenton thievery, thank you. Besides,The only setback I've faced here are the corrupted ectoplasm pools." Damian snickered at him, so he knew his joke wasn't for naught. Until he went rigid suddenly.

"Wait what corrupted pools?"

"The green ectoplasm on this island has pooled together somehow and corrupted itself by laying dormant for sometime. Instrsd of the typical cool and chilling effects the green usually has it seems to be almost acid like. Bubbling and burning things, but I've constructed a purifier that seems to be working well enough." He explained quite confused by Damians sudden change in attitude.

"Why didn't I see i before? Ancients this is worse than i thought..." He stood up suddenly, beginning to pace and run his hands through his hair.

"Slow down. What's going on?" He questioned aiming for placading him, Damian needed rest and minimal stress while sick AND incubating two cores.

"The Lazurus Pits! Their corrupted ectoplasm! Grandfather harnassed them to bring the dead back and get pseudo immortality." He stopped dead at the last word but his back was to Vlad. He's never heard of Lazarus pits before...his grandfather? Thomas Wayne was immortality? But he's dead!

"Thomas Wayne is...immortal?" He questioned as such.

"What? What made you come to that insane conclusion?" He turned to face him, he looked concerned like Vlad was the crazy one muttering.

" Your grandfather?" He looked like a fish, blinking and moving his mouth like he wasn't sur what to say.

"That's actualy not even the craziest thing ive heard actually. No, Ra's al Ghul, the Demon Head is my maternal Grandfather, my mother is Talia al Ghul." What the fuck.

" Brucie Wayne slept with the demons daughter?" Damian couldn't hold back his laughter anymore and burst into laughter turning into a coughing fit, that shook his ribs, and he leant over like he wa going to fall. Vlad quickly moved to support him.

"I'm fine, fruitloop. I just need some water." Vlad steered him to lay back down on the bed. "Stop it fruitloop, your not even my..." he didn't need mind reading powers to know what he was going to say.

" I know." He still tucked him into bed. Moving to turn out the star nightlight out.

"Batman is my father. Batman is Bruce Wayne" I think I'm going to faint.

"The other..." "my siblings." "Of course, no matter what universe we're in you have a crazy family." " You can't talk you made a clone with your archenemy in both lives AND added your own DNA both times."

"It was an accident the first time!" He spluttered.

"Not the second time!" Damian returned.

"I think you need a nap, young man." He sassed.

"Vlad! I am not a baby!" He ignored that remark.

"I'll have Susan wake you up at lunchtime and we'll go to the lab. Is that acceptable for you?"

"Tch." Damian turned around and closed his eyes. He finally succeeded in turning off the lights.

"Sleep well, son." Closing the door softly.

Whatever was a half-ghost to do?

‐--------

Clark Kent was an avid hater of the waiting game. Although he was no stranger to it. It had been now a week since Damian disappeared. Tim had called his sons and broke the news. They had quicky wrapoed everything up and flew back. Jon had yelled at him for hours about having to hear about Damians disappearance from Tim. He just didn't know how to break the news to him. He knew Jon felt betrayed by him especially because they were finally stsrted healing their relationship after everything. Even worse because Jon had finally confided in him how he felt about Damian and now he didn't even tell him when he was kidnapped.

From what he's heard from Bruce, Jon can't hear his heartbeat, but knowing Lex he's most likely kept behind lead so not a totall loss of hope it just means they need detectives not supers.

So he was back at work after parting with Lois he had headed to the break room to get more coffee when he heard it.

"So what Lex has a few sick kids and you think child trafficking? We can't lose another income, mom. Ignore it. Please." He heard his coworker, one he often listened listened in to as his mother coincidentally worked at Lexcorp.

He focused his hearing onto the mother's voice on the other side of the phonecal.

" You don't get it. I can't just ignore it. He experimented on those kids then put them to bed like it was just another day. And then suddenly the kids are gone and the next day another kid is here? It's not right! Something is going on. Wveryday he wakes him up and they est breakfast then they go down to his private lab and dont come out till lunch sometimes until dinner. Last night they didn't come out till midnight and he carried the kid to his own bedroom. There's something going on and I've seen to many rich men take advantage of young children. I can't ignore this again."

Oh god, what if Bruce was wrong about Lex somehow figuring out his identity. What if he noticed him at a gala and took a liking to him. As a reporter he done countless stories on people in high positions who took advantage of their positions of authority to hurt kids. Lex had never seemed that way to him but how well did he really know him anyway? He had some kind of breakdown that changed him anyway. He needed to talk to someone who was familiar with people like this.

He has to call Jason.

A/n I took this chapter to hash out my thoughts on a redeemed father vlad and kis kids. Danny is obviously his favorite, but he does love all of his kids they just don't feel the need to stick around Amity Park like I think Danny would. Danny is also his character foil, and I wanted to tie in both parallels into both him and bruce with vlad. So that is not Canon vlads backstory but something i thought about with the fact he is desperate or obsessed with the idea of a family. Also, if you see any inconsisties between Damian and vlads' povs and the "attack," their might be a reason hint hint. I also wanted to say that vlad and lex are both quite similar in concept but vlad in my au decided to become better for his kids and to choose them first not like lex who loves kon in his own way but is still second to his own mission. vlad very much is more vlad than he is lex mostly because he sees himself in lex if he didn't choose his kids over villainy. While Damian and danny are now more of a mix between each other. I like to think that the danny that saw a random girl who just said she was his cousin and just rolled with it would just roll with the flow if he was reincarnated. I also wanted to bring up the fact that vlad and Damian will pick up the pace and be a lot more worried as you'll see next part and right now the bats are in a disarray trying to find him. Also the supers I only had Jon age up 2 years older than Damian cause he will be a bigger part of the story and I needed him older hint hint he has his mother's purple eyes in this story.

#dp x dc #dpxdc #bruce wayne #damian al ghul #damian wayne #danny phantom #dick grayson #dcxdp #jason todd #lex luthor #vlad plasmius #vlad as lex au #danny as damian au #de aged ellie #deaged dan #de aged dani #supersons #superman #clark kent

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wttcsms · 2 years ago

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diesel is desire (we were playing with fire) ; sebastian sallow

pairing sebastian sallow x f!reader word count 4k synopsis sebastian sallow is a good friend. so good, in fact, that when you find yourself under the ungodly influence of a lust potion, he's willing to help give you some relief. content contains seventh year au, dubcon (under the influence of lust potion), darker take on seb's character lol <3, breeding kink, creampie, possessive!sebastian, possessive sex, virginity loss, babytrapping

“Why did you go out of your way to avoid me?”

An accusatory voice momentarily breaks you free from the overwhelming feelings you were struggling to deal with, but the voice is too familiar.

The source? Sebastian Sallow — a very disappointed Sebastian Sallow, which after two years of friendship (and the lingering what-if of becoming something more), you’re able to identify as a Sebastian that you would much rather not be dealing with. Particularly because, try as hard as he might, he’s rather prone to saying harsh things and treating you unkindly whenever he gets into one of his moods. The hurt expression on his face is barely concealed by the scowl that mars his otherwise handsome features.

Don’t think about how handsome he is!

Instead of replying to him, you’re quick to turn your head to the side, trying to focus on the curtain that separates your cot from the others in the infirmary. It’ll do no good to engage with Sebastian right now — not whenever the reason you’ve been compelled to check yourself in to the school nurse is purely because you’re not sure if you have enough self-control to stop yourself from literally ripping his robes off of him.

But it’s not like you can tell him all that. Lying would be preferable, if only Sebastian wasn’t so attuned to you and every single one of your tells. If you attempted lying to him, who knows what more damage you would cause? Then again, blatantly ignoring him also seems equally dangerous, especially with how quick to irritate he’s been lately. Ever since you witnessed him literally murdering his uncle, the relationship between the two of you has grown stronger — being practically partners in crime will do that to a friendship — but also more… volatile. The charming fifth-year you met on your first day of school still remains, but you have long since realized that there’s more to him than meets the eye.

On the surface, he’s nothing but affable. Maybe a bit of a rebellious streak, but it’s all in good nature. In the beginning, it was fun being with him. Exciting, even. Then you started following him on the dark path he paved all by himself, and before you could realize that you were in too deep, it had already been too late to turn around. Now, the seventh-year boy standing by your cot seems so different from the one who lives on only in your memories.

“Don’t ignore me.” He means to make the words come out sharp, irritated. It resembles more of a plea than anything, and you shut your eyes, willing him to leave. It must be all in your head, but you swear you can smell the familiar scent of him: cool mint mixed with the light musk of whatever cologne he’s been favoring since the fifth year.

“Sebastian, I’m not feeling very well.” You mumble, hoping it’ll be enough to get him to leave you alone. It’s not a lie. You aren’t feeling great whatsoever. Not even the nurse, bless her heart, can figure out what’s become of you. She gave you a pitying look and an almost amused smile as she explained that — in her words — sexual urges are very normal for girls your age.

If your body wasn’t already overheating, you’re certain your cheeks would have instantly turned hot from sheer embarrassment.

“Well, why wouldn’t you tell me that instead of abandoning me the whole entire day?” Sebastian is many things with different people. With you, he is both guarded and vulnerable. Some days, when you’re not feeling your best, his emotions versus his actions can give you whiplash. He has the audacity to say something like that all the while, he sounds absolutely tortured over the fact that he had to go eight hours without your presence.

As if realizing the harshness of his attitude, he softens his tone as he asks, “Are you feeling any better?”

You had gone to the Great Hall before him because you needed to review your History of Magic notes before the test today. All you had was a bit of pumpkin juice and toast, and all had been well until you started feeling warm underneath your robes and sweater. As the heat began to travel through your body, you found it hard to concentrate on your notes. Not because of the heat, but because of the many thoughts swirling around in your head. Flashes of Sebastian that started innocently enough and quickly morphed into daydreams of him without his uniform. Sebastian with his hair messed up from the way your fingers tugged at the strands as he satiated his thirst with the juices flooding between your legs. Sebastian who would prioritize your pleasure over his and could make you cum multiple times before even thinking about getting his dick wet. Sebastian—

—who you share most of your classes with!

You knew right then and there that something had to be wrong with you. Sure, you’ve thought about him sometimes, but never to that degree. And certainly never at seven in the morning over breakfast and history notes.

That’s how you ended up lying in a cot in the infirmary, trying your hardest to ignore the intrusive thoughts of Sebastian fucking you ‘til you can’t walk anymore.

“No.” You practically moan out the word, and you’re hoping to play it off as just you being a baby about being “sick”.

You don’t expect him to turn your head so that you’re staring up at the ceiling, and you certainly don’t expect him to press the back of his hand against your forehead. His hands are cold, but surprisingly enough, it brings you some sort of relief from the fever that has seemingly overtaken your body. You bite back another moan.

“You’re burning up.” Gone is his attitude. Instead, it’s been replaced by your favorite Sebastian — the kind, caring one. The one that resembles the boy you first met. Sometimes, his care can be suffocating, but when you find yourself craving nothing but him and his touch, you don’t mind his invasion of your personal space at all. “Are there any other side effects? Does your throat hurt? Stomach? Tell me what’s the matter.”

You know how Sebastian must feel when it comes to people he cares about falling ill. His sister has only made him more paranoid about the severity of sickness and curses, and the concern and fear etched upon his face makes your hardened resolve of keeping the sordid details of your affliction to yourself melt away.

“Don’t laugh…” You warn him, but your voice seems so small and maybe even a little scared that his expression turns even more serious.

“Never.”

“I think… I think something happened to me. A charm…” You’re careful to dance around the word curse, lest Sebastian accidentally blows up the whole entire infirmary due to his emotional state. “I just feel very hot. And, um, I think the only relief would be to—”

You can’t even say it. You can barely even explain it since you don’t really know what’s happening either.

“I’mfeelingverysexuallyfrustratedandIhavenomeansofrelief!”

The two of you know that you’re never going to repeat that phrase ever again, and you’re practically near tears after that little confession.

“Oh.” He says, as if this is nothing more than a simple, casual conversation and not the most humiliating situation ever. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“Be-because it’s embarrassing!” Has he really no shame? Who would willingly admit that out loud?

“You know, I’ve heard rumors of some sixth-years trying to pull pranks by spiking the juices with love potions. Just really gimmicky concoctions, truly. Nothing too severe. Hmm… You must have a sensitivity to it, though.” Sebastian’s musings do nothing to bring you reassurance. If anything, it just makes you want to hide. If the universe is truly kind, a sinkhole will emerge from nowhere and swallow you whole. Yes, that sounds lovely right now.

Instead, the universe is sick, because what else could explain Sebastian telling you,

“If it’s relief you need, I’d be happy to help.”

Sebastian is many things to you — a dear friend, a confidant, a literal partner in crime — but none of those things involve him having sex with you, even if the offer only came from some odd sense of duty.

And that’s what this is, isn’t it? He probably feels indebted to you since the fifth-year. Maybe even anxious, too. You could expose him at any given moment, and maybe that’s why he’s been so keen on attaching himself to your side ever since. This is a humiliating predicament to be in, and Sebastian doesn’t seem like the type to kiss and tell — considering that you don’t even know the names of girls he’s been with before is evidence.

Besides, you’re only feeling incredibly needy for one person. You can accept his offer, but you’re certainly not going to let him know the truth: that only he is the one who can help you.

“Don’t be embarrassed.” His cool hand is now cupping your face, thumb brushing against your cheekbone in an almost gentle manner. Sweet Sebastian is making an appearance, perhaps to try to put you at ease. You like this Sebastian. “Just let me take care of you.”

When the haze of lust clears from your sex-addled mind, the rush of consequences will burden and crush your very conscience.

Fortunatenly enough, consequences are clearly the last thing on your mind.

It would appear that the only thing you can truly focus on is Sebastian and what his idea of ‘taking care of you’ is.

The Sebastian staring greedily at you is an unfamiliar Sebastian. You’ve become accustomed to the many variations of himself: Angry Sebastian, who says the most vile things out of spite and usually misguided anger; Remorseful Sebastian, who is quick to grovel (he’s quite good at groveling, really) and wants nothing more than to be back in your good graces; Happy Sebastian, although there are variations upon this very variation — the trick to seeing whether he’s pseudo-happy or not is all in his smile (the fake one is eerily perfect, the real one is crooked and a rarity). This Sebastian, though…

Hungry.

The word doesn’t quite explain the dark glint in his eyes or the way his hands are almost reverently stroking your body. Your skin felt so, so hot just a few minutes ago — then again, just a few minutes ago, you still had your school jumper and blouse neatly intact. Now, you’re laid practically bare, prey to Sebastian’s more-than predatory gaze.

If the two of you weren’t such great friends, you might have had enough sense to be scared.

The only articles of clothing left to protect your dignity and shield you from his eyes are your skirt (which is already riding up to expose your thighs due to his wandering hands), your white cotton panties, and the matching bra.

“How do you feel now?” He asks, and you want to tell him you’re still feeling embarrassed, but his hands feel surprisingly nice on your skin, and you can’t help but hunger for more. Perhaps the look in his eyes, the one you couldn’t quite find a proper name for, is the same look you’re giving him.

“More.” You whimper out, not caring if you sound selfish or impatient. This is awful. The two of you should put a stop to… To whatever the hell this is! This is a horribly unbecoming, unsavory situation you are in, and if things progress like how you think they are going to (how you want them to), then you’re both dead once all the adults find out. Professor Weasley would probably force the two of you to be wedded within the next day of her finding out, not to mention that the headmaster would probably have the both of your heads on sticks.

But you don’t tell him to stop because your rational thought is slipping, much like your bra. You’re viewing everything almost as if in a trance, almost as if this is happening to someone else and not you. But it is very much you; it’s your nipples hardening after being exposed to the cool air of the infirmary. It’s your bra that Sebastian tosses to the side. He’s licking his lips, eyeing the expanse of skin that has been revealed to him. In ordinary circumstances, you’re certain you would make all attempts to cover yourself up and try to regain some sense of modesty.

In these circumstances, you practically arch your back and mewl out for more, more, more.

More touching. More skin-to-skin contact. More of Sebastian. You want him. All of him. Every part of him. You want his cock ramming into your cunt, you want his hands wrapped around your throat, his mouth spewing out words of filth right into your ear. Most importantly, even though all you can seemingly focus on is having him ravish you, you can’t help but to be greedy and dare to hunger for more. You want his secrets — all of them. You want to know the nightmares that plague him, and whether he’s full of regrets, just like you. You want to have a claim to his soul, just like how he already has a claim to yours. You want to know that when his heart beats, it is calling out for you.

“I’m going to kiss you now.” He announces, like he’s waiting for you to protest. He’s not directly asking, but the question is still there, as is the warning. Can I kiss you? If you let me, there’s no going back.

“Please.” You whimper, completely and entirely at his mercy.

“Say it.” Sebastian swallows hard, almost as if he’s also nervous and too charged up with desire. His fingers are loosening his tie. He has already shrugged off his robes.

He doesn’t tell you want to say, but you already know what he wants to hear. The words have been resting on the tip of your tongue this whole entire time, anyway.

“I want you to— to kiss me, and more…” You look into his eyes. The lights in the infirmary make them appear a lighter color than usual. “I want more. I want you, Sebastian.”

The moment the last confession slips from your soft lips, Sebastian’s mouth descends upon your own. His body is angled awkwardly, trying not to crush you with his weight, but you can feel the heat emanating from him all the same, even despite the layers of his clothing that separates the two of you.

You think the world stops spinning when his lips slot against yours. He tastes like the pumpkin juice from this morning, sweet and refreshing. There’s a lingering taste of spearmint toothpaste. You want to keep kissing him forever. You want him to kiss you everywhere else. When breathing becomes a necessary thing, he stops. You frown. You didn’t want him to stop. Oxygen is overrated, anyway.

He lays a hand against the pillow you’re resting on, staring down at you, want clearly displayed on his visage; desire is etched onto every facial feature, and his eyes are gazing so intently into yours, you wonder if he’s a Legilimens.

“Promise me you won’t regret this. Swear that you truly do want this.”

He must not be a Legilimens, then. It’s so clear you’ve been in… It feels odd to admit it. Wrong, even. But it’s the truth—

—you’ve been in love with him since the fifth year.

You don’t keep someone’s secrets, their crimes, to yourself when you don’t love them. You let him perform Cruciatus on you, and you forgave him. No — you didn’t. Because you asked him to. There was nothing to forgive. You would endure it, over and over and over again, just for him, only him. And to think, you’re flooding your panties just at some simple fantasies of him, and he has the nerve to believe you don’t want this? Don’t want him?

“I promise. I swear it to you. I want this entirely.” And maybe liquid courage had been slipped into the juice you’ve consumed as well because you find yourself admitting, “I’ve always wanted to do this with you. If it… If it had to be done the first time around, I would always dream of you doing it to me.��

He stops breathing, just for a moment. Gapes at you, even.

“Y-you’re a virgin?”

You wonder if you’ve gone off and ruined the mood. You wonder if you should take it back, say you were just joking, but before you can, his lips are pressing against yours once again. This kiss is even hungrier than the last, and you’re not quite sure how that’s even possible. It’s almost as if he wants to devour you whole.

“Thank you.” He gasps out, so close to you that his breath tickles your nose. “Thank you for entrusting me with this, love. I promise I’ll make it good for you, just as you deserve.”

And suddenly Sebastian is just everywhere. His sweater is discarded on the floor, right next to your bra and his tie. His belt is unclasped; he hasn’t even bothered to remove it entirely, just displaced it enough to where he can unbutton his trousers, and he’s pulling it down — his pants, that is. And the briefs. He hasn’t entirely disposed of everything, just partially. Meticulous Sebastian Sallow who is now so far gone into lust and depravity that he cannot even handle wasting another second by removing himself entirely of his clothes. You have made a man into a beast.

But you see the way he’s eyeing you — all dark hair and sharp teeth. He flips your skirt up, exposing your damp panties to him, and he licks his lips again, and you realize — perhaps too late, or perhaps you’ve known all this time — that Sebastian has always been a bit of a beast. A wolf only coyly imitating domesticity.

“You’re so wet.” He brushes a finger against your cotton-covered folds, and you shiver.

Yes! Your body seems to cry out. More, more, more! Your back arches, keening, craving his touch. You’re soaking through the fabric, making it practically translucent. You’ve never been this wet before in your life. You’ve never wanted his touch more badly than you do now.

“For me.” He mutters, but in the silence of the infirmary, you hear him all too clearly. “Is this all for me, love? Have you been like this all day?”

You nod, not trusting yourself to form coherent sentences. Even if he’s not staring at your head, far too fixated at what’s between your legs, he hums his approval.

“Don’t worry, my love. I’ll make it all better.”

He’s kissing you. He’s got your panties only pulled to one side, and you think he’s muttering apologies against your saliva-coated lips. Something that sounds awfully like sorry, so sorry, but I can’t wait, and I don’t think you can, either. You barely catch a glimpse of his cock before you can feel the sharp heat of his length against your inner thigh. You would have thought that there would be some preparation, especially since this will be your first, but you’re thoroughly soaked. You’re aching for a sensation you have never felt before, but the animal inside of your brain is telling you, instinctually, to seek Sebastian out. That Sebastian will make it all better. That’s what he said he’ll do, and he’s kissing you, and he’s apologizing, and—

—and the world stops spinning.

No. There’s some slight resistance at first, your poor cunt protesting at the intrusion. A second later, and he’s slipping in half of his length with considerably more ease. A few inches more, and his hips are pressed against yours, and oh— Oh, it’s like you’re made for him. There is no resistance. There is no pain. There’s just you and him, and your body is welcoming him home. Where has he been? It seems to ask. Please don’t ever leave again.

“Fuuuuck.” He hisses it out, and his teeth are gritted, and he’s admiring you. His eyes flicker to your face, down to your breasts, down down down right to where the two of you are connected. The word comes out broken, and yet, drawn out. As if he’s struggling to speak.

Then he starts thrusting, and suddenly you realize that the world hasn’t ceased its spinning. No — now it’s moving entirely too fast. It must be off its axis. You feel otherworldly. You feel like this pleasure, this overwhelming, absolutely delicious pleasure, cannot simply exist on earth. It should be impossible. It should be impossible to find comfort and rapture in the way the tip of his cock seemingly kisses your cervix. You expect pain.

You only find mindnumbing, earth shattering pleasure.

You feel stretched beyond your limits. You hear his pants and his groans, and you’re moaning, too. Calling out his name, which is so silly, he’s right there, he’s right there. There, at that special spot, at the spot you’ve never been able to discover on your own. You now know why adults advise so heavily against these type of relations — it’s simply addicting. You don’t think you can stop; you don’t think you want to stop.

“Oh, fuck. Fuck, you’re so good f’me. Such a good girl. My good girl, aren’t you?” He’s rambling. His thrusts are considerably sloppier, and you feel his thumb brush against your clit, and you arch your back some more, practically screaming out his name. The stimulation is too much — it’s not enough — and you will always crave him. “Tell me. Tell me that you’re mine.”

There’s something so, so addicting about his possession. About being treated like his possession.

“Yours. M’yours, Seb. All—” You can’t finish your sentence. The pleasure is becoming too much, and you’re too sensitive, and he’s doing this thing, this absolutely amazing thing, where he rubs circles on your clit in tandem with his harsh thrusts, and you’re cumming. You don’t ever want to come down.

He feels you cum, sees your juices drench his cock as he pulls out, only to push right back in, relishing in the feeling of your contracting walls. He leans down, biting on your neck, and you take a hand to grip his dark hair, still cumming, and now he is, too. Spurts of his cum are flooding into you, painting your walls, successfully staking his unrivaled claim on you. You have been compromised. If anyone were to find the two of you out, you would have no other choice but to take his hand, his ring, his family name, him. You would have to take it all.

Coming down from his high, he has enough kindness left in him to lick at the wound he’s left on your neck. Your eyes are fluttering close, the intensity of it all thoroughly exhausting you. You don’t know the thoughts swirling in his mind. You don’t sense the longing behind him stroking your stomach, wondering if the Felix Felicis — his bottled Liquid Luck he’s spent forever brewing — has done its job. It would surely be very lucky, indeed, if his seed takes this first time around.

Your breathing slows, and he feels your heartbeat even out. You’re exhausted, poor thing. Perhaps he had been too rough.

He’ll apologize, he decides, by doing something that’ll benefit the both of you. He ought to clean you up, get you tucked in, and when you wake, he’ll go down on you. He bets you taste so sweet, so innocent. He had known, of course, that he was your first — that he was always going to be your first. Your only.

He wonders if the effects of the lust potion will still linger in your system even after you wake up. Probably so — he did it brew it quite strongly.

But the adoration, the love, in your eyes is something no amount of skilled potioneering can create. No; your feelings for him are real. You just needed to lower your inhibitions to get to the confessional stage.

And now that you have confessed…

Sebastian Sallow can rest well after confirming what he’s known ever since he first laid eyes on you:

You’re his.

#sebastian sallow x reader #sebastian sallow x you #smut #hogwarts legacy #sebastian sallow smut #one shot #lemon

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the-saltiest-saltine · 1 year ago

Text

Reservations and Repose

(Yan!Chrollo x Fem Reader)

@sukunasfavoritehole hopefully this is enough to tide you over until my ao3 finally gets an update hehe

Word count: ~7.3k

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You’re naïve enough to believe Chrollo’s asleep. He loves that about you.

Warnings: NOT SFW, non -con thigh fucking, somnophilia, drugging, imagined not sfw scenarios etc

a/n: SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG IT WAS 3/4 FINISHED THEN I FORGOT ABOUT IT my sincerest apologies.

Also this is my first time writing smut so please go easy on me 😥

Chrollo is very disappointed in you.

You let him kiss your cheek this morning following a deep sleep. You didn’t reciprocate, though he continues to see your progress and knows that an ever-hopeful yet can be added to the end of that statement. To some extent, the allowance of such an act could be chalked up to his acceptance of you, flaws and all, willing to appreciate the neutrality of it as opposed to ardent rejection. In a matter of weeks, you’ll be returning the gesture. And in a matter of months, you’ll be doing it gladly. Warmth, or perhaps weariness, has slowly but surely seeped its way into your actions recently, your shaky hands finding a place in his, fingers interlaced.

Is that to say he was under the impression that you’d completely given yourself to him? Absolutely not. There’s fear in your smiles, as much as they may have metamorphosed from obviously and mockingly forced to meek and endearing. Chrollo has shown you all that you know he can do. This has been enough to keep you relatively restrained over the months. If he showed you all that he knows he can do, you’d most likely curl up into a ball and sob until you dried out. That’s not necessary, though. It’ll never be.

Like many things, it wasn’t linear. It was a path that went upwards and downwards and forwards and backwards and in cycles, cycles that would always leave you curled up, sobbing in his arms, grasping onto him for whatever comfort it would give. But progress is progress, right?

Ignorantly, he began to believe the crumbs of affection, of acceptance, of acquiescence. Stupidly, he thought you were making progress. It’s been a significant amount of time since he was last this naïve. If he wasn’t so disgruntled by your transgression, he’d most likely bask in the nostalgic feeling. But he can’t, for the time being, because you’re trying to do something very rash.

As unfortunate as it is, you’re trying to leave him.

It’s audacious, having thought that the monumental power difference between you two had been thoroughly demonstrated on multiple occasions, a well established and silently acknowledged fact of your travels with him.

It’s irritating, although regarded with the same irritation as one would have with a pet goldfish trying to jump out of its tank. You silly thing, why do you want to abandon the place in which you are safe?

It doesn’t particularly make sense, though. He’s checked his cards - nothing suspicious has been bought in his name. No travel tickets or prepaid car hire. He’s even checked the jewellery collection - maybe you’d snatched up a nice necklace or bracelet or pair of diamond earrings to pawn off. But again, nothing. No suspicious bags have been packed. No loose tiles or floorboards or ceiling panels to hide supplies in. Your clothes are all neatly folded and hung in your wardrobe.

You’ve got something up your sleeve- something desperate and jittery and not fully thought out. Something that relies on luck and prayers far more than precision and blow-by-blow planning. He never particularly took you for a daredevil, but to see you get pushed to such a limit, to be forced against your own timid nature, is beyond satisfying. If he could pluck it out of you and analyse it under a microscope, he’d be elated. Or perhaps even, he supposes to himself, he’d be so fulfilled that he might abandon the current pathway of his life, aimless and bloody and cyclical, finally so consumed with his obsession over you that nothing else is valued in the slightest.

He can’t say he didn’t expect an ulterior motive for your apparent benevolence, at least initially, but for it to be kept up for this long? The stares felt almost too natural. The gradual lessening of your flinches when he placed a hand on your shoulder, the way your gaze would be drawn to him rather than away, even if only to flick away immediately - the subtleties were downright impressive. To be able to track everything simultaneously, to be able to remember to exhibit so many behaviours at once…Perhaps he should be taking acting lessons from you.

Chrollo had watched you, humming a pop tune this morning, cheekily shaking your hips from side to side as you fried some eggs, over easy, the notes sometimes interrupted with a sharp inhale between your teeth when the oil spat just a bit too high and would burn you ever-so-slightly. A domestic sight.

You’d let him give you another kiss on the cheek before he shrugged his coat on, giving you one last lingering glance before he’d walked out the door and into the hallway of the apartment, locking it with warm Nen made of comfort rather than capture. He gave you another cheek kiss (despite his ever-growing urge to dip lower) when he got home to the smell of spices and vegetables and the bubbling sound of a low simmer. You don’t fight them anymore, and barely even recoil now, a result of steady but slight crossing of boundaries - his record was eleven times in one day (at least, his record for when you were conscious) when he was feeling particularly affectionate, although you’d definitely soured up by the end.

The…fantasies he’d had of domesticity…they were just that, weren’t they? Fantasies, mere ideas that were appealing enough to fully flesh out in his mind. Whatever actions you’ve taken, whether it be pecks to the cheek or folding his shirts, staining them with the scent of you, they’ve all been a means to an end. That certainly wasn’t part of the fantasy.

You’ve been buttering him up like the thick slices of white bread next to his bowl. What a betrayal.

Tonight’s stew is spicy and chunky, served courteously by you. His palate is experienced from an adulthood of travel, wealth, and nights spent with gullible women who couldn’t tell the difference between a Prince Charming and a swindler. Truly, there is little he hasn’t at least tried. Including this.

So, if there’s no other signs of you wanting to leave the comfort of the apartment and the familiarity of his presence, then what could’ve possibly cued him into your motives?

It’s something tenuous, something that could’ve gone unnoticed to anyone else. It’s something subtle, buried under layers of rosemary and thyme and paprika. But diphenhydramine is such an acquired taste. And it’s one that’s made the past few weeks and months crumble to dust.

Oh, you sweet thing.

Acting as oblivious as ever, he spoons chunks of zucchini and carrot onto the bread, taking large bites, chewing and swallowing with purpose, the taste of the sedative lingering. He considers smacking his lips for good measure, to play around with you a bit, but eventually decides against it. That’ll come later.

You sit across from him, silence between you two. Normally, he’d fill it with tales from his busy day - but you’ve been so good lately, that he’s begun to refrain from doing that. Nowadays, he asks you what you’ve been up to, every painstaking detail from your dull days without him. But that’s only if you’ve been good, or at least if he’s under the impression that you’ve been good. As it turns out, you haven’t been good, you aren’t being compliant, and now he simply waits.

You stare into your bowl of stew, but he can tell you’re watching him in your periphery. It’s so very fascinating, the way you absorb each mouthful he takes, washed down with frequent sips of water (there’s no other substances in that, obviously). He takes another swill of the liquid, tilting his head slightly back, and in the corner of his eye, he can see the way you observe his Adam's apple bobbing with each gulp. Does it appease you, the sight? Does it intrigue you? Does it make you, even for a moment, reconsider what you’re about to do?

Chrollo pauses for a moment, before placing the half-empty glass back onto its coaster. He knows the smirk that comes onto his face is nothing short of wicked, but he truly can’t help himself.

“Are you not hungry, my love? You’ve barely touched your food.”

Barely is an understatement. You haven’t touched it at all, in fact. Stupid, really. He knows that you know that he’s observant - but that information is irrelevant in this situation, considering it doesn’t take an keen eye to figure out your pattern of stirring your spoon around, picking up some carrot - even blowing on it for good measure - and nodding along with what few words he spoke initially, before giving an mhm! of agreement and letting it drop back into the bowl. You spend extensive amounts of time apparently fishing for just the right piece of zucchini, sorting through copious amounts of lentils (and seemingly taking the time to individually count them all), dragging chunks up the side of your bowl only to push them back down into the fray of assorted vegetables.

There’s almost a sort of jump in response to the words, ringing clear and well projected. But it’s contained above the shoulders - your head snaps to look at him, your eyes widening momentarily, staring into his own, trapped.

He can feel the shaky breath you take to steady yourself from over here, air stagnant and mouth dry.

“No,” you reply, “not particularly.”

He cocks an eyebrow at that, mouthing an oh before returning to his meal. It doesn’t matter whether you take the bait or not, his suspicions have long since been confirmed. Confirmed, in the sternest sense of the word, syllables enunciated with force, the knowledge of your true intentions well recognised. Whether that displays on his face or within his interactions with you is inconsequential to the known ending of your silly stunt.

The sound of you chewing is enough to bring his attention back out of the bowl. That’s not fake.

So you’re eating it too? It’s certainly a bold move, but one he wouldn’t dare put past you anymore. You were always a clever one, one to be placed a mere few tiers below his own intellect.

He hasn’t caught you swapping the bowl out for a fresh one. Maybe you’ve mastered the art so quickly that even he can’t notice?

No, not likely. Not in just a few months. That’d be impossible.

Your bites of pumpkin are preceded with the slightest hesitation, a quick breath to presumably psych yourself up to the self-sabotage. He hates to see you so scared when you’re properly sharing a meal with him like this, deciding to return to normalcy as a reward for your cooperation.

“Tell me, darling, what did you get up to today?”

Your eyes flick to his, momentarily ensnared in the grey, before looking up at the ceiling to aid in the process of giving a verbal description of what you read, how you cleaned, how you entertained yourself with rearranging your meagre book collection (not his, that would be asking for trouble). The response is practically identical to every other time he’s asked the question, plain and unindulgent. It’s boring, he thinks, even with the unacknowledged omission of the hours you spend staring at the walls and pacing around the living area. He’s tempted to pry into how you decided on tonight’s dish, but decides against it. Not for lenience or mercy, but rather amusement. To give away what he knows now would simply be a waste of a situation you’ll never attempt to put yourself in again.

If you knew what Chrollo knew, would you still bother to indulge him?

You stare at him for a moment, allowing him to draw things out, before nodding at the I see he gives in response. He gives a forward nod to your bowl, giving you gracious permission to eat again after starving you for the length of your interrogation, merciful as ever. Your fear is better contained behind a split second’s confusion before you register the nonverbal instruction, picking up your spoon once more and eating with more confidence this time, taking exaggerated bites of zucchini that barely make it past your teeth, chewed excessively into grey paste before being swallowed. Maybe you reason that if you chew enough, you can break the drug down into something that won’t knock you out. A cute thought.

The spices stain your lips an enticing red, the chilli making them plump up so deliciously. If he kissed them, would they burn him? Would the capsaicin leave his lips tingling, a reminder of your soft touch?

He likes to think he’ll know the answer soon.

Chrollo feigns sleepiness, furrowing his brows in mock confusion as he tells you that he can’t quite keep his eyes open - perhaps he overdid it at work today.

Yes, work, as he loves to call it, like there’s the possibility of him spending his time away from you at a desk, punching in numbers on a computer, monotonous and repetitive and damn, couldn’t things just switch up for a day? Work, as in a beer-bellied husband whose idea of experimental fashion is changing which tie he wears with the same white button-up and black dress pants each day. Work, as in an assembly line employee who wakes up at three o’clock to be at the factory by four, ready and willing to make whatever sacrifices necessary to support his loved ones. Work, as in something at least vaguely respectable.

Work, as in literally anything other than stealing and slaughtering and scourging.

Chrollo relishes in the way your shoulders relax a little. It’s almost too adorable. Chrollo also relishes in the way they tense up again when he adds how it’s suspicious really. I don’t believe I’ve ever felt a tiredness such as this.

There’s an underlying anxiety in your pretty, pluckable, ever-so-slightly bloodshot eyes. Where others would be concerned for your health, he finds endearment, you precious thing. After admiring them silently for a moment, he announces that he’ll be off to bed now, darling. Remember to be there for me when I wake.

He leaves you alone in the kitchen to stew in your unease.

____________

Now he’s lying in bed, on the side closest to the door, limp as anything. It doesn’t matter whether his facade convinces you or not, he’ll have you in his arms by morning. The blinds aren’t fully down, leaving a pleasant blue hue that gives him a good visual of most of the room. Your side of the bed is still firmly tucked in from when he made it this morning, after running his hands up and down your arms until you’d given a great shudder and shoved him away - a pitiful attempt that he’d impishly gone along with.

Anticipation tickles his nose and prods at his heart. Childishly, he wants you to get over with it already, to sprint in, swinging a knife wildly, or cue him to start the chase with a slam of the front door so violent that the hinges threaten to crack. It’s unfortunate how your faux compliance conditioned him to be unable to accept a halt, or even slowing, of progress.

Ah, some solace - he can hear your footsteps come up to the door, attempting, albeit poorly, to be quiet. Or maybe they are quiet, to the average man, but someone well-versed in the art of stealth can practically see the way you tiptoe closer. The faint sounds paint a detailed visualisation of your movements - the balls of your feet lifting from the ground, the flexing of your toes, the dorsiflexion at your ankles, the soft thud of your heels hitting the ground.

The bedroom door creaks open, a thin streak of light hitting his eyelids, making him see an ever-so-slight orange behind them. He might be able to visualise your walk accurately, but the same cannot be said for your face. Are you fearful, lips downturned and eyes wide? Are you determined yet cautious, eyes narrowed and lips pressed into a thin line? Are you smug? Condescending? Grinning from ear-to-ear, excited to finally have what you believe to be freedom?

You’re not, he discerns.

Instead, you huff a sigh, a sweet note that makes his heart jump, a small flutter that could only be instigated by you. It’s a sigh of relief. The door is shut. He expects another door to be slammed, too - the front door, hinges quaking as you sprint to the stairs as far as you can, too scared to wait for the elevator (and for your sake, he hopes you’ve brought a pair of running shoes - you’re on the 35th floor, after all). But that doesn’t happen.

Instead, he can hear the clanking of bowls and dishes, the smooth schwip as you push breadcrumbs off the chopping board into the bin with the back of the serrated-edge knife, and how you place said knife into the block without taking another one out.

So you’ve decided against stabbing him tonight? How agreeable.

In fact there seems to be no malice in the way you’re stacking the bowls, no scraps of extra force in how you shut the fridge. Whilst the sounds of your cleanup are nothing short of a ruckus to his alert ears, there’s an intentional tenderness he can hear. A conscious effort to be as quiet as possible with somebody sleeping peacefully in the next room.

It’s a gesture he’ll interpret in the best way he can. Even if he knows he’s deluding himself that you want to be quiet for his own peace rather than so you can escape, he’ll be sure to bring up the former as reasoning for your actions over the next few days, regardless of how you’ll spit venom at him, hissing that he couldn’t be more wrong.

Next is a movement he didn’t expect in the slightest.

You come back to the bedroom, with a pile of fabric in your hands - clothes, maybe? He thought you’d be off and away as soon as possible, or you wouldn’t get close to him again at the very least, standing patiently by the door until whatever you’re waiting for had occurred.

The quiet-ish footsteps make their way past him this time, and straight into the ensuite.

There’s the soft sound of clothes falling, and then the tap is turned on.

You’re…showering before you leave?

You really are a good teacher of the quirks of humanity. Logical as ever, he’d most certainly take no time for hygiene practices if it reduced his chances of being able to go on a small, liberating adventure. But perhaps that’s part of the plan? Do you not want to have a speck of dirt on you so you don’t smell bad? Will you hide out at a fancy gala, and have to be as fresh as possible? Are you trying to wash off Nen, perhaps?

No, that would never work, and he’s certain you know this too. Still, the idea of a little hopeless fire in you, taking a precaution you know is futile, makes his lips twitch.

So many questions, few of them answerable at present. His mind is stimulated so wondrously, for once not finding boredom in the predictability of human behaviour. He’s truly chosen well.

And then there’s something else, rising above the sound of the rushing water, above the drain gurgling it down, greedily gulping it away.

You’re humming.

It’s relatively random, most likely improvised, and slightly off-tune, but endearing all the same. He can taste the notes, sweet and soothing, running down his throat smoothly and pooling warmth in his belly.

You heave a sigh, and the tune changes. And then he recognises it.

It’s something he heard as a boy, back in Meteor City. He’d hear it at night, walking back to whatever semblance of a refuge he had with Franklin and Shalnark, past the hamlets of the younger children. Letting himself get lost in it, he can feel himself crawling to shelter on scraped knees, walking on calloused heels, eating stale bread, all accompanied by the faint smell of garbage, a smell that years of exposure had waned to a neutral accompaniment of the setting, rather than an inconvenience or hazard.

Despite the unhygienic nature of it all, it’s sweet. It’s these memories - memories of grime and rot and infection - that are the most pure. The most uncorrupted. They’re full of innocence and hope - just like you.

These qualities make you think you’ll leave him.

Upon remembering this, he’s tempted to barge in and ruin your peace, eager to hear your inevitable yelp and nervous laugh as he quizzes you about tonight’s events. But he doesn’t. Your lullaby is too enjoyable, the tune far too agreeable to stomp out yet. Resisting sin by committing another, he decides he doesn’t want to kill this mockingbird, if only to selfishly continue to hear it sing.

Few moments have come like this since you came to be with him. They’re all short-lived in comparison to the cold life he’s had, a firecracker popping on his tongue, fleetingly filling his mouth with syrupy sweetness before quickly dying off, barely an aftertaste to be savoured. He’s scratched them all down in an old leather journal with a quill and ink, lest he forgets what it feels like, or how to get that feeling again, but thankfully they’re scratched even deeper into his psyche.

You’d been agreeable enough for a reward of a dinner somewhere several stories up, city lights shining behind you, framing your hair beautifully. You were reluctant at first, turning your nose up at him and the priceless food in front of you, opting for the bottle of red wine instead. It wasn’t supposed to be gulped down with such vulgarity like that, but that was part of your charm and by your second glass you were giggling and halfway through your third you looked at him right in the eye, cheeks tinged pink, and you smiled a smile that you’d forget by morning but he wouldn’t…

He’d returned to the villa after a long day to find the fans blasting, and you slumped over on the couch as credits rolled on the screen in front of you. He’d flicked the TV off, not before noting the rom-com’s name, and regarded you, with your deep, even breaths and singlet strap falling down. He picked you up and carried you to bed, laying you down on the thin blankets, fixing your strap despite the small voice that called to him to take off the thing entirely. Your head rested on the pillow, your face not scowling for once, and you’d huffed the sweetest of sighs…

That’s the kind of moment this is.

There’s no thought of what he’ll be doing with the troupe tomorrow, or in a week, or what move to make next depending on what you decide to do. Every nook and cranny of his mind, every convolution of his brain is filled with the thought of you. Tonight, it’s warm and viscous, slowing time and cutting both of you off from the rest of the world; the rest of its filth.

In this moment, he can see himself in the shower with you. He’s across from you, lathering body wash onto his shoulders, letting the foam run down his back. All the while, he keeps his gaze on you, watching how your hands run over your body, soap running along your sternum, between your breasts, along the curve of your hips, your ass, all whilst you hum that tune… shit, he can’t let himself get hard now. He manages to drag himself out of the daydream, barely, just managing to claw himself to the surface of reality.

Caps are popped open and the lathering of soaps can be heard over the course of your performance, with a finale of the tap being turned off. There’s a fumbling of fabrics before you come out, followed by yet another move he doesn’t expect.

You walk up to the bed, peel the sheets back, and lie down beside him. You then roll onto your side, facing him. After a few moments, you prop yourself up onto your elbow.

A moment of nothing. You’re frozen, as is he. Calm before the storm, he prepares himself to catch your wrist and hear you shriek.

You lean over.

And then there’s a featherlight sensation on his forehead, right in the middle of his tattoo.

Had it been a split second later, he would’ve opened his eyes and turned to face you with a smirk as you screamed. But it’s not a split second later, it’s now, and now you’re kissing him. There’s no real benefit for doing such a thing that he can identify right now - perhaps you know he’s awake, and would like to make amends? Surely you know that that wouldn’t be enough to satisfy him.

The contact sends an electric zap to every corner of his body, although he manages to not make himself jolt. Months of stifled desire bubble up from his insides, desire that’s spent so long smothered by rationale of better outcomes and forcing himself to think of his bloodied obstacles and late nights alone in the shower. As often as his lips find their way to your forehead, unfortunately the reverse doesn’t occur even half as much.

You pull away, like you’re hesitant about what you’ve done, like you’re waiting for him to snap his eyes open and sit up with inhuman speed, ready to pin you down or tie you up or even slap you for tonight’s inconveniences. But that doesn’t make sense, because hesitation is supposed to occur before such an intrepid act, not afterward.

After receiving apparent confirmation that you’re not about to be attacked, he can sense your head slowly but surely coming to rest on your pillow. You shouldn’t strain your neck like that, someone like you could get hurt over time.

The back of his shirt is peeled up, slowly, delicately, and he has to focus to keep his breathing even.

There you lie, staring at the twelve-legged spider etched into his skin, his number a pale contrast to the black ink, practically jumping out at you.

It’s your reminder, he supposes, of what he is. Theoretically and legally nonexistent, practically traceless. Zero evidence. Zero remorse. Zero morality.

Zero.

Then-

One, two, three.

Your lips mark a trail up his spine, at the bottom of the abdomen, right in the middle of the zero, on its head. Don’t shudder.

Once your deed is done, you pull back. There you lie, staring at the twelve-legged spider etched into his skin, so silent that you’re barely breathing.

The fabric of his nightshirt is guided back down. You roll over and proceed to go limp, succumbing to the drugs intended for him.

What was that?

You’re not touching him anymore. He can sense the gap between your bodies, one that he would close every night, pulling you close.

Was it a relief? To go to sleep without him touching you?

You’d always stirred up such a fuss about his arms being around you as you slept.

It had always been a cause for seething rage on your part, later argument, later whining, and more recently huffing. Even last night, the stiffness before you fell asleep was a cause of his own discomfort. But you didn’t have to deal with that tonight, and now you’ve fallen asleep in record time. He can’t say it was just from the pills.

Did you change your mind on leaving after you felt their effects? It doesn’t seem likely that you’d ditch all that to sleep. Rather, that you wanted to sleep on your own terms.

He’d spent so much time concerned with stopping a potential escape, that he didn’t stop to consider that maybe, just maybe, that was never the goal to begin with.

And now Chrollo rolls over to face you, gently tugging on your shoulder to pull you onto your back.

You’re serene as ever, a sight to behold.

He brushes the back of his knuckles along your hair, feeling its texture, so light that his calloused hands - hands that have seen many a bruise and burn and slice and hangnail caught and ripped on the job - almost can’t feel it. Your exhales come out more as huffs and sighs now compared to gentle breathing, and he allows a chuckle (one that he finds incredibly endearing, as much as you’ve let your disagreement to that sentiment be known, preferring to describe it with wounding words such as “condescending” and “grating”) to slip past his lips.

It reminds him of you when you’re awake, when you used to try so hard to be difficult for him, when you used to scream and scratch as he’d spoon you, grip ironclad, until all you could do was huff and puff and plead with him (and as much as he enjoyed your attempts to compromise, this was something he simply could not relinquish) and eventually, your cursing would die down, your muscles would go limp, and you’d fall asleep.

Sometimes the sun would be up by the time you relented, and your breaths would be the heaviest then. It was amusing, how quickly you’d switch. One second, you were cussing him and his troupe out, the next, you were a paragon of tranquillity, the visage of an angel before him. He’d pray you love him.

He wants to grab your jaw, hold it firm, and kiss your lips as hard as he can. He wants to tilt his head and take and take and take. He wants to keep taking even if your breathing lightens. He wants to keep taking even if your eyelids flutter open, hazy doe-eyes looking at him with dozy confusion.

Well, he’d never deny his own indulgence.

Leaning in, he presses a kiss to your forehead, just as you did to him.

The touch is as gentle as he can make it, as gentle as he can permit himself to be. There’s a split second of what he could almost call fear, an image of accidentally squeezing you too hard and hearing your bones snap flashing in his mind.

He rubs his thumb over where his lips previously were, feeling an unanticipated wetness left behind.

It’s then that Chrollo realises his mouth is full of his own saliva - whether that was because he was so entranced by your actions that nothing else mattered, body as limp as he could allow, or because, like some sort of filthy animal, he couldn’t help but drool at the contact from you, starved for it like a hyena, he doesn’t know. He swallows. That’s better.

And now for the main event.

He dips down to your lips, and lightly presses his own against them. The feeling is so heavenly, he wonders if you really are an angel. If you were one, would you bless him? Would you destroy him?

If you were to know what he’s doing, would you hate him more?

He pulls away.

The journey to get here was sizable. Memories of tonight flash by; your cooking, your conversation, your shower. Your humming.

Ah. The tune he heard as a boy. Innocent, naïve, hopeful.

Well, he’s a man now. And far less innocent.

He lets out a hum of his own, deep and rumbling.

Chrollo moves to straddle you, peeling the duvet and sheets back, layer by layer, unveiling the best present he’s ever gifted himself. Just moving into such an intimate position is enough to send pangs of heat downwards, the hardness he fought against earlier returning with an urgency.

For a moment, he tries to fight against it.

Is it to save himself from your hatred? Is it to save you from what he’s planning?

It’s neither, he discerns, as the attempt was doomed to fail before it even started. He knows it was never meant to succeed.

His groin only throbs harder, aching for friction. It’s a spur-of-the-moment thing, the way he presses it against your clothed crotch, rocking back and forth, the slight relief just momentary as his desire only grows.

He regards your unsuspecting face. Stunning.

Restraint is draining faster now, but still is present just enough to stop him from grinding any harder despite the urge. But if he’s to stop his movements, he’ll need a different kind of stimulation.

He bunches your shirt up, pulling, sliding a hand under your back so he can slip it off your arms and neck.

Now your chest is bare. How ravishing.

His fingers hook under the band of your sleep pants, dragging them off in a clean motion.

And now your legs are bare. How alluring.

He doesn’t take your underwear off - that would simply be crude, and he doesn’t need to tempt himself anymore. If he got the privilege (or right, considering your standings) of seeing you fully nude, as opposed to having a single layer covering the most tantalising part of you, he’d be oh-so-inclined to do something regrettable. His logic fights to win space within his buzzing thoughts, fingers daring to twitch as his imagination fills in the gaps of what the thin black layer forces to be left to it.

Chrollo parts your thighs for good measure, the maximum he can allow himself at this moment. It’d be impossible to not let his hands and gaze trail up them, observing how as he roams upwards, your flesh gets softer, warmer; how the flimsy fabric can’t hide all of your darker flesh; how your lower lips are pressing against the cloth, visible despite the darkness…

God, you’re so fuckable.

There’s a pretentious voice in his head, albeit muffled, that cries protests at the use of such a word to describe you. You’re something far more than that - beautiful, exemplary, one-in-a-million, ethereal. Surely your mouth would be better put to use having a fulfilling conversation with him, a conversation he can dissect and steer and puppeteer, as opposed to just opening as wide as it can to accommodate his cock, taking it as deep as your gag reflex will allow, barely able to breathe, much less talk. Although, he thinks with a faint, deep groan, twitching in his pants, that’s certainly a hypothesis I’ll have to test.

With the sight of your breasts, nipples hard and skin goosebumped from the chill of the room, it’s decided. Just because making his cheeks warm and his cock rock hard isn’t your most prominent trait, doesn’t mean that you aren’t absolutely exceptional at it.

Temptation isn’t something he’s inclined to resist, brushing a thumb over your nipples before leaning down to take one into his mouth. He swears he can hear your breath hitch as his tongue swirls around, breathing getting slightly lighter. An eager hand reaches for the other one, kneading as gently as he thinks he can.

Soft is the first thing he thinks. Your flesh is so soft, so delicate, so tender. If you were awake, he’d vocalise his compliments - and do so loudly, unrestrained.

Your breathing changes as he points his tongue to lightly flick at your nipple repeatedly. Chances are you’re being taken out of REM sleep, but your consciousness doesn’t matter at this stage. And some part of him hopes for it, brief images flashing in his mind of barely-open teary eyes slowly rolling to the back of your head. They’re obscene, so utterly immoral to even fantasise about, yet even the split-second thought makes his stomach jump, shivering a bit as he feels himself be almost overcome by them.

He can’t help but slightly wet his lips in anticipation, relishing in the knowledge that his instincts are being held back with the slightest thread. If he moves even slightly faster than his rational, calculating, non-carnal mind intends, then it’ll snap. He’ll snap.

Almost trembling, he reaches across to his bedside table. The movements are imprecise, but he’s sure this practice will allow him to execute them with much more grace for the inevitable time you’ll be awake. Yes, you’ll be awake and whining and he’ll wet his lips in anticipation and be met with your lingering taste and you’ll want him as much as he wants you-

He almost falls forward as his own lust threatens to overtake him. Focus on the necessary steps.

Taking a shuddering breath, he leans down to pull open the drawer, to find a bottle hidden at the back, purposefully concealed behind an upright copy of Tess of the D’Urbervilles. Quickly shifting his weight back, he pops the cap open, spreading some of the slick contents onto his fingertips. With his free hand, he pulls down the loose elastic of his pyjama pants, shucking them off, the cold air making him quiver slightly.

Time’s running out.

The movements are trembling, sloppy as he pours lube onto his length, and then onto your spread thighs. There’s a frantic inertia of sorts, a mad momentum - the more he does, the faster he has to go, the anticipation making his stomach swell and dip. He’s really going to do this. It’s really going to happen, and it’ll be amazing.

There. Done. Everything’s ready.

Chrollo takes a shaky breath, gripping just above your knees, and squeezes your thighs around his dick.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Your thighs are warm from the duvet, perfectly cosy and wet from the lube for his cock.

Little time is wasted as he begins to thrust his hips, trying not to give himself too much too soon. The steady pace is slowly increased, little by little, a fragile incline so he can drag this out for as long as possible.

Can you feel it? Can you feel the warmth radiating from him? Is there some part of your mind that’s awake, but can’t do anything to stop him? Or better yet, is eager to please him?

He strains out a hiss through gritted teeth, peppering kisses over your exposed neck, trying his best not to bite. The pace increases yet again. His eyes are fixated on the mound in your underwear, a more sinister form of curiosity burning within.

What does your pussy look like?

He won’t use En, that’s just cheating. He wonders and ponders and conjures up the most filthy images his mind can muster. A warm, tight hole that clenches for him as he slips in and out, teasing you. A pretty clit for him to tease with his fingers as you whine, for him to suckle on as you choke on sobs of pleasure. Folds for him to run his tongue through as you rut your hips against his face; for him to run his tip along, collecting your slick.

He imagines how his cock would look disappearing inside of your cunt, how your grip would be so suffocating, how your tits would bounce as he fucks it (because shit, they’re already moving so vigorously now, as he holds his strength, and he can’t even begin to picture what they’d look like if he loses control buried deep inside you, repeatedly stuffing you to the hilt as you cry out). He imagines how you’d tighten around him, babbling something incoherent as you wrap your arms and legs around him, and oh fuck, he can’t pull out now. He imagines the tension snapping, giving a rumbling groan as he shoves himself into you as deeply as possible, eyes screwing shut and burying his face in the junction between your neck and shoulder, riding out his high with a few shallow thrusts.

And finally, he imagines how his cum would look leaking out of your pussy, twitching and swollen from a nice good fuck. The afterglow. The squeak you’d give if he fingered it back into you, growling at you to not waste a drop, keep it all inside for me.

The thought makes his hips stutter a little, threatening to slip out of the plushness between your thighs. Once he regains his rhythm, though, they’re speeding up, relentlessly fucking himself into your thighs over and over, kneading the flesh as he squeezes them tighter and closer.

Chrollo cups your face with a single hand, and leans in.

It’s the second time he’s properly kissed you tonight, and it feels fucking amazing. Your soft lips, your soft thighs, they’re all working together to make his head swim in bliss. You’re working to make him feel good. Yes, him. Nobody else. You’re his.

The thoughts run wild. He has as little control over them as he does his hips.

How would it feel to fuck you in some other position? How would it feel to flip you onto your stomach, pulling your hips back to meet his, as he stuffs himself into your sopping cunt over and over, watching your ass bounce? How would you cry out at the way his balls slap against your swollen clit, building up the pressure inside you until you just can’t take any more?

How would you grind on top of him? How would you moan as you bounce, tilting your head back as you stretch yourself on his length, panting? How many times could you do it until your legs trembled uncontrollably, forcing yourself to impale yourself on his cock just one more time? When he’d plant his feet on the bed firmly and thrust his hips up, grabbing yours and bouncing you in time, would you wail, or simply slump over, completely unable to form a thought as you cum around him for the nth time?

You’re flexible enough to fold into a mating press, right? How deep could he go? How fast could he go? How would your beautiful skin look covered in love bites?

The coil of pressure within him grows even tighter even faster, balls slapping against your thighs, hips pistoning rhythmlessly.

If he asked, oh-so-nicely, for you to get on your knees and please him with your mouth, would you oh-so-sweetly do it? Would you suckle his swollen tip? Would you tease him with a glint of mischief in your eyes? Would you find his most sensitive spots and exploit them? Would you trace your tongue along the veins? Would you massage his balls? Would you let him control the pace, a hand intertwined in your hair? Would you look up at him as you tear up, doe-eyes wide and eager to please? Would you rub your pretty pussy while he shoots thick ropes of cum down your throat, pressing your nose against his pelvis?

Yes, he decides as the coil begins to snap, you would.

Chrollo comes to a sudden halt, choking out a rich groan in a low timbre. The noise becomes more strained as he rides out the high, the overwhelming euphoria becoming just a bit too intense as it begins to morph into overstimulation. Once he’s sure the moment’s over, he lets go of your legs, pulling back to catch his breath and admire his work.

Ropes of cum paint your chest, some making it as far as your neck, your chin. It’s beautiful, the unruly mess he’s made - no, the mess you’ve made of him.

You’re a real beauty, you know that?

The bathroom tiles are cold against his feet as he grabs a washcloth to clean you up. It’s sad to see it go, to a primal extent, but it’s probably for the best to ensure he doesn’t get any ideas for a second round tonight.

For future nights, though? The chest he’s covering up will soon be exposed soon enough.

He’ll have to get more sleeping pills. You simply must try this again soon.

Next time, he’ll taste you. The time after that, you’ll taste him. He can hardly wait, nor can he stop the dull throbbing starting up in his groin again.

He sates himself for the time being with the knowledge that the time after that, you’ll be awake.

#chrollo #chrollo lucilfer #chrollo lucifer #chrollo x reader #yandere chrollo #yandere chrollo lucilfer #yandere chrollo x reader #yandere hxh #hxh #hxh x reader #yandere hxh x reader #tw yandere

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goldfish-afterhours · 1 year ago

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Genshin Characters Apologizing After a Bad Fight

Characters: Diluc, Childe, Kaeya, Zhongli x Gn!reader

Type/genre: Bulleted headcanons, angst/hurt comfort?

Warnings: Curse words, probably not the healthiest coping mechanisms/apologies

Diluc

His apology comes out strained, as if the words are clinging to the back of his throat

His fists are clenched tight by his side. He prepares himself for you to yell, to scream at him

But you don’t even turn around to look at him

Diluc always saw you as his rock, his lighthouse in the stormy night, the one who keeps him steady as his duties of both vineyard owner and vigilante shake him back and forth like a ragdoll

But right now, it hits him for the first time how small your back is, how human you look

Has he been taking you for granted all this time?

When you don’t respond to his apology, he calls your name, and you finally turn around

His eyes widen when he sees the tears streaming down your face

His heart absolutely breaks. How could he have made you, his love, his everything, hurt this much?

Before either of you says anything, Diluc flies towards you, cradling your head gently in his arms, as if any slight pressure would cause you to break and shatter like glass

“How pathetic of me to make you cry. I’m so sorry.”

Childe

His heart could rival the weight of the world right now

Childe isn’t used to disappointing others. No, he’s always been the golden boy, the prodigy, the one who sets the bar and breaks it at the same time

So how come you are sitting with your back to him, refusing to say a word?

And why can’t he find it in himself to say something, anything, to make this better?

He is petty person, someone willing to drown an entire city rather than admit defeat. Any word of apology is almost impossible to force out of him.

Instead, he drops a book in front of you. It flips to a random page, and you can see the photos and names of people listed on it

Not unlike a cat bringing their owner a mouse, this was Childe’s form of an apology, even without the actual words being uttered.

“Choose any person from this book. I’ll bring you their head.”

Kaeya

His fingers are restless, constantly scratching the back of his hand or twisting each other

His jaw is clenched, shoulders slumped forwards as he refuses to look you in the eye

“I…I was wrong. I’m sorry.”

You knew that Kaeya had a hard time with apologizing—not because he was arrogant and thought he could do no wrong, but the emotional and physical toll it took on him was great

He often finds himself caught in a dilemma

On one hand, he has a difficult time admitting he is wrong as it forces him into a vulnerable position. To be wrong is shameful, an embarrassment.

On the other hand, he knows he fucked up. And he knows there are only a very few amount of fuck ups people let slide before they get fed up and leave.

And having you leave is not something he can afford

Kaeya’s seen this before. Faced again and again with abandonment, he knows a simple “I’m sorry” is not enough to make most people stay

But it is all he can offer

He prepares himself for the worst, but he was not prepared for the way you gently lifted his chin with your hands, a soft kiss melting away his fears

Zhongli

When you slam the door to your room, Zhongli doesn’t try to stop you

He doesn’t knock on your door, nor does he try to coax you out

He knows your type of anger—it’s like fire, and feeding premature apologies or sweet nothings would only fan the flames

So he sits outside your door until you’re ready to come out

Slips you snacks and books from under your door, in case you get hungry or bored in your anger

When you see the treats and novels slowly appear from under the door, you’re still fuming, but it’s difficult to be furious knowing your thoughtful lover is on the other side, not pushing you to calm down but trying to make you comfortable as you sit with your anger.

When you finally calm down enough to unlock the door and step outside, Zhongli is waiting

There is not a trace of annoyance on his face, but you can tell he relaxes a little from relief that you are willing to come speak with him again

Takes your hands in his, giving them a gentle squeeze as he apologizes for his behaviour earlier.

“Please accept my apology, my love. I never meant to hurt you.”

#my writing #genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #genshin scenarios #genshin headcanons #genshin angst #genshin hurt/comfort #Diluc #Childe #Kaeya #Zhongli #diluc x reader #childe x reader #kaeya x reader #zhongli x reader

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 2 months ago

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A Special Surprise

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. Not all kinks or triggers are tagged. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Summary: Your husband surprises you with an unexpected invitiation but it might not be what it seems.

Character: Peter Parker

Day Eighteen of the December Daze Challenge.

Prompt -a crackling fire sets the mood.

Note: As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

“Excuse me, miss, I have a reminder for you,” Friday’s voice startles you in the silence of the empty house.

“Yes, Friday? I’ve already picked up the dry cleaning,” you say in resignation.

“And I have crossed that off the list. Miss, this is a different reminder. You are to arrive at the cottage in three hours. Accounting for current traffic conditions, this means you will need to leave in the next hour.”

Her voice seems to echo as you sit in confusion. You stare at your half-finished tea. Despite the heat of the porcelain against your hands, it offers little comfort.

“Friday, I don’t recall setting this reminder,” you say at last.

“Yes, miss. It was Mr. Stark.”

You nod and your heart flips. For the first time in days, you feel... something. Your lips twitch and you sit up straight. Your shoulders hurt from the weight of the disappointment. Tony wouldn’t abandon you for Christmas. He just wouldn’t. You should’ve known he was pulling one over on you.

You turn and hop down from the stool. You grab the tea and dump it down the sink. You wash and dry the mug, then put it away. It’s like your husband always says, how can you doubt him?

“Miss, I have a list prepared to pack. Would you like my assistance?”

“Please,” you accept. You’re so happy you can barely sort through your emotion to hear your own thoughts.

Days you spent in dread of being alone. It’s the one thing you made Tony promise you when you said yes to his proposal. Don’t abandon you. You couldn’t take it. And when he told you about his mission abroad, you nearly broke down right there.

He didn’t even apologise, just said that you knew who he was, that he had responsibilities. Yes, you knew, but he swore you were his priority. Well, he got you good.

You follow Friday’s directive and pack your bag. You roll it down the hallway after you and let it bounce down the stairs after you. She informs you that the Lexus has a full tank and is waiting for you. Oh, Tony, you can never get anything without having to work for it a little.

You can’t wait to see him. This month has been so lonely. You’ve barely spent a moment together as he only passes through on the way to his next briefing or appointment.

You go into the garage and throw the bag in the trunk. Friday reminds you to bring a coat but you can’t help yourself. You tell her you’ll be just fine. The car has heat.

You start the engine and Friday greets you from the speakers in the dash. She guides you through the gates and onto the mainway. You could bounce out of your seat but there’s no point getting so excited until you reach your destination.

Oh Tony. Your heart is pumping as you grip the wheel tight. You have two hours at least ahead of you. Save your energy.

By the time you come in site of the lake and around the dirt road, drifts of snow blowing through the trees, you’re yawning. You pull up as the windows haze with an amber glow. You can smell the smoke that plumes from the chimney.

He outdid himself again. Ugh, you feel like such an asshole! You even thought of taking his gift back. Good thing it’s still in your closet.

“Oh shoot!” You say aloud.

“Miss, is there something the matter?” Friday asks.

“Um, no, it’s fine,” you say as you shift into park, “Friday, thank you. Please go to standby.”

“Initiating.”

You shut off the engine and take a breath. Your chest is thrumming. Relief, excitement, happiness. You were starting to get worried. The thought of being alone through the holidays was devastating and then your mind raced to other things. Everyone knows about Tony’s reputation with women and those rumours hadn’t stopped since the wedding.

You get out and grab your bag. It crunches over the thin sheet of snow as it mulches into the dirt. You drag it up the stairs and stop on the porch, looking down at the faint outline of footprints. He must have been here all day preparing.

You let yourself in, hoping you might be able to surprise Tony in turn. You hear the fire crackling as the din flickers through the doorway and into the entryway. You ease the door shut and put your bag near the wall. You hang your jacket and take off your boots.

You near the living room door and peek inside. He’s not there but you’re welcomed in nonetheless. On a fluffy rug in front of the fireplace, there’s two glasses and a bottle of water, along with a tray of chocolate-dipped strawberries.

You come closer and feel the heat in your cheeks as you grin. It’s perfect. Usually, Tony’s grand gestures are... grand, but this is just quaint enough to be cute. It’s so much better than a trip to Paris or an expensive diamond necklace.

“Happy Holiday,” the voice that startles you scares you for more than its timing. It’s not the one you expect.

You reel to look at Peter as he watches you from near the doorway. You blanch in horror. Oh my gosh. Did you misunderstand? Is this a group thing? If it is, why the wine and chocolate? You’re lost.

“Peter, what...” you look at the rug then shake your head as you frown at him. “Where’s Tony?”

“In Munich, I think,” he shrugs casually.

“Munich? But—Friday said he was expecting me. That he’s here?”

“Did Friday say that?” He tilts his head. “Cause that’s not what I programmed her to say.”

“Not--- you?” You sputter. “It was you? Why?”

“Why not?” He slowly crosses the room towards you.

You notice the differences in him. His hair is parted neatly, you think there might even be gel in it, and he wears a dark blue button up that exposes just the top of his muscled chest. You gulp as he stops right in front of you.

“Tony left. He flew halfway across the world. During the happiest time of year,” he reaches for you and you wince as he caresses your cheek. Your eyes round as your confusion turns to horror. It makes no sense. “He married you then abandoned you.”

“No, he’s just... busy.” You catch his hand and sniff. “Peter--”

“What?” He twists from beneath your grasp and grips you instead. He’s stronger than you expect. “You’re going to tell me he loves you? That you love him? I know you’ve been crying into your pillow. I know before you came here, you were sitting alone in that empty house.”

“Enough,” you plead weakly. You can’t disagree because he’s right, but you don’t want to hear it.

“Do you want to know where he really is?” He breathes as he brings his other hand up to cradle your face. “Not that it matters. He’s not here. I am.”

“Peter,” your lip quivers. Peter is Tony’s protege, he’s a friend, he’s not like that. He can’t be that to you. You’re married and he’s-- “Peter,” you repeat, “please.”

“I hurt too,” his voice quavers as he holds you tight. You latch onto his wrists but he doesn’t budge. “I’ve been hurting. Alone. Like you.” He leans in until his lips are right in front of yours. You whimper as you stare back at him helplessly. “I can make it better. I can make you feel better.”

Before you can say anything, his mouth is on yours. He smothers you as he squeezes your head between his hands. You suffocate in his thrall and slap your hands against his chest. You feel the sheer strength bound there and slide your touch down as you try to shove him off. You’re only reassured of his power as you do.

“Mrs. Stark,” he parts as he keeps your skull clamped between his hands as he leans his forehead against yours,“I need you.”

#peter parker #dark peter parker #dark!peter parker #peter parker x reader #drabble #spider-man #mcu #marvel #avengers #december daze #navy and roo's sleepover

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lovesick-desires · 1 month ago

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please bless us with your writings. I need to see yandere jayce talis alphabet.

JAYCE TALIS

YANDERE ALPHABET — REQUESTED BY AN ANONYMOUS USER

CONTENT WARNINGS: gender neutral reader, season 2 spoilers, yandere behavior, manipulation, swearing, sexual behavior/touch, abuse of power, kidnapping, irrational fear of being abandoned, no use of Y/N, mentions of drugging, guilt tripping, verbal abuse, degrading behavior, mentions of psychotic break, mentions of going insane, rage-induced violence, mentions of Stockholm syndrome WORD COUNT: 3.2k JAYCE'S YANDERE ARCHETYPE: overprotective, possessive

AFFECTION

How do they show their love and affection? How intense would it get?

❥ From the start, Jayce would be physically affectionate.

❥ He is a really affectionate guy. From soft touches like putting his hand on your shoulder to putting his arm around your waist. This man has his hands all over you.

❥ In regards to intensity in public spaces, you won't get much more than a hand on the ass or a kiss nearing the jawline.

❥ If he's willing to do that in public, imagine what he is like in private.

❥ Oh boy, his hands are on you 24/7 if you two are private, especially if you two live together.

❥ All I am saying is just be prepared for a slap on the ass or two in private.

"Hey, babe, sorry, sometimes I can't help myself."

BLOOD

How messy are they willing to get when it comes to their darling?

❥ For S1 Jayce, I personally can not see him as a messy kind of yandere.

❥ He would utilize his power and charisma to take care of any possible obstacle in his way to you.

❥ Despite his golden retriever exterior, this man is smart and knows exactly what he is doing.

❥ In regards to S2 Jayce, this man has changed into a man who will utilize his strength to his advantage as well.

❥ He has been through hell and back and is more than willing to protect you at any means deemed necessary.

"I... will NOT lose you again, okay? Be mad at me for my actions if you want, but I did what I had to."

CRUELTY

How would they treat their darling once abducted? Would they mock them?

❥ Jayce is not the kind of man to abduct you as he would rather win you over the traditional way.

❥ However, if you push him too hard, he might resort to extreme measures.

❥ Look, you pushed the man too far. Just let him love you, please!

❥ However, he would not be cruel to you. He would try and understand your point of view as much as he can but he can't just let you go. What if you leave and never come back? What if you date someone else? What if you cut him out of your life? Please don't leave him. He needs you.

"I... I can't lose you, babe. I am sorry it came to this, but you have to understand I am doing what is best for you, for us!"

DARLING

Aside from abduction, would they do anything against their darling’s will?

❥ Jayce, as a free spirit himself, understands your wants and needs for freedom and he will respect your choices.

❥ However, he will not let them put themself in danger at all.

❥ If there is any possibility of you getting hurt, Jayce forbids you from doing it.

❥ It's just for your own good.

"No, babe, that's way too dangerous. Let's... uh... do this instead! Yeah!"

EXPOSED

How much of their heart do they bare to their darling? How vulnerable are they when it comes to their darling?

❥ Jayce is a complete and utter softie, much to his own digression.

❥ When it comes to you, his heart is bare.

❥ He wants you to know how much he utterly adores you and is very good with showing it.

❥ However, his kindness can be easily exploited for weakness, but don't do it too often or he can catch on.

❥ If he catches on, he might be disappointed in you for how you treated.

"Babe, I don't appreciate you trying to exploit me here... I just want you to know how much I love you..."

FIGHT

How would they feel if their darling fought back?

❥ For S1 Jayce, oh man, this man would be devastated.

❥ While he understands what he is doing is wrong, he only wants you to love him like how he loves you.

❥ He might even start crying just because you tried to fight against him to get away.

❥ However, S2 Jayce would be a little more toughened up and gruff with you fighting.

❥ While it still hurts his feelings, he is more dominant with you and willing to put you in your place.

"Hey, babe, cut it out. Stop... struggling!"

GAME

Is this a game to them? How much would they enjoy watching their darling try to escape?

❥ Absolutely not, he does not want you to leave him.

❥ If he found out you broken out of where he kept you, he would most likely have a mental breakdown before running out frantically to try and find you.

❥ He really only wants you to love him.

❥ And let him love you.

❥ Please, let him love you.

"Babe? Babe! Where are you?!"

HELL

What would be their darling’s worst experience with them?

❥ Probably if they are kidnapped by him.

❥ Waking up alone in his bedroom with a pounding headache from the drug he slipped in your drink really threw you for a loop.

❥ When you would try to get up, you would hear the chain rattling. The chain was tied to the bed with a cuff attached to it around your ankle.

❥ It would be an incredibly confusing and scary experience.

❥ But don't worry, when Jayce gets home from the lab, he is sure to calm you down (or at least try to).

"Hey! Hey, babe! I am so sorry! I-I didn't expect to be gone so long. Don't worry, I will explain everything."

IDEALS

What kind of future do they have in mind for/with their darling?

❥ He would mostly want a domestic future with you.

❥ A house, a wedding, maybe some kids (only if you want them)

❥ He just wants to settle down and spend the rest of his life with you.

❥ Maybe, you could be a little house-spouse for him

❥ Man, he would love that.

"Babe, I'm home! Work was a drag, how have you been, hm?"

JEALOUSY

Do they get jealous? Do they lash out or find a way to cope?

❥ This man? Jealous? Oh hell yeah.

❥ It doesn't matter if you are with your family at a party or some guy at a bar, he wants to be with you more.

❥ Why do they get your time and he doesn't?

❥ He should be the only one you spend your time with.

"Hey, just curious, who was that guy? Is he a friend of yours?"

KISSES

How do they act around or with their darling?

❥ As mentioned in the AFFECTION segment, Jayce is a physical affectionate man especially with you.

❥ He constantly craves your skin under his, even if it is a gentle pat on the back.

❥ He always shows them off as his close confidant even though he wishes you two were more

❥ If you are his romantic partner instead, oh boy he is flaunting you everywhere.

❥ He is as proud to be yours as he is proud that you are his

"Hey, have I introduced you to my lovely partner? This is the one I'm always talking about."

LOVE LETTERS

How would they go about courting or approaching their darling?

❥ When Jayce first meets you, he's like a lovesick puppy, constantly following you around and trying to strike up a conversation with you.

❥ If you are a council member of Piltover, he will try to get you to endorse his ideas to the other members, trying to show you the amazing things Hextech can accomplish even though it is just a ploy to spend more time with you.

❥ If you are a scientist, it's even better for him so he can show you all his ideas with Hextech that he has planned.

❥ Even if you are anyone else, he will find any, and I mean any, reason to spend time with you.

❥ Eventually, you two will get closer over the time you two spend together.

❥ Jayce will slowly warm himself into every aspect of your life, making you almost always near him in some shape or form

❥ Eventually, Jayce will start getting flirtatious, dipping his toes in the water.

❥ He wants to make sure you are comfortable with his advances. If you aren't, he will try another approach. If you refuse all his advances, he will slowly keep seeping into your life until you eventually come around to him.

❥ Eventually, he gathers the courage to ask you on a date. Maybe something small like grabbing coffee together.

❥ If you accept his request, he will slowly start requiring more of your time, removing you from your peers and any other obstacles.

"Hey, babe, I know you have some plans tonight with friends, but I found out about this really cool festival that's only going on tonight and I'd like you to join me. C'mon, it will be great!"

❥ If you decline, Jayce will be disappointed but act like he's brushing it off. He just wants to show you the world. But don't worry, he will certainly keep trying.

"Ah, I understand. Uhm, no matter, just... let me know if you change your mind, okay?"

MASK

Are their true colors drastically different from the way they act around everyone else?

❥ The only main difference is how clingy this man is to you.

❥ He constantly has to have his hands on you.

❥ In private, if you are his romantic partner, he will be a lot more cuddly. Playing with your hair and giving you those puppy eyes.

❥ He knows exactly how to get to your head and heart.

"C'mon babe, five more minutes and then I'll let you out of the bed..."

NAUGHTY

How would they punish their darling?

❥ In regards to S1 Jayce, he does not believe in punishment.

❥ Violence only makes his love more scared of him, and he doesn't want to do that to them.

❥ Instead, he is more docile in doing things like the silent treatment and playing with your emotions.

"Babe, don't do this to me. You know how upset it makes me when you do this kind of thing..."

❥ On the other hand, S2 Jayce is much more willing to put his darling in their place.

❥ While he does not resort to physical violence against them, he will utilize verbal abuse.

❥ He will degrade you for your poor decisions until you are on the verge of tears, making him realize he went too far.

❥ After realizing this, he kneels down to you and comforts you, gently rocking you back and forth in his arms.

"Shh, shh, it's okay. I'm so sorry, babe, let it out."

OPPRESSION

How many rights would they take away from their darling?

❥ As mentioned in the DARLING segment, Jayce understands your rights as a human being.

❥ While he is possessive of your person, he is willing you to have a somewhat loose leash if you two are in a relationship.

❥ Just don't wander too far from him.

❥ If he abducted you, then expect to have a much shorter leash.

❥ The man wouldn't kidnap you unless you pushed his buttons and made him fear losing you. He didn't want to kidnap you but you left him no choice.

"Babe, I know you want to go outside, but you know I can't let you do that. What if someone sees you?"

PATIENCE

How patient are they with their darling?

❥ Jayce has a surprisingly long fuse. He is willing to play the long game to get you in his arms.

❥ However, if you keep rejecting him, that fuse might get shorter.

❥ He only has so much patience for when you play hard to get.

❥ He knows you must want him. You have to.

"Hey, c'mon, no need to play these games with me, alright?"

QUIT

If their darling dies, leaves, or successfully escapes, would they ever be able to move on?

❥ If you die in an event such as Jinx's attack on Piltover at the beginning of S2, he would try everything to bring you back.

❥ He doesn't care if it is unethical. He does not care at all...

"Babe, babe, please come back to me..."

❥ If you die under his care after he kidnaps you, this man will absolutely lose his fucking mind. He would never forgive himself for letting you die.

❥ If he is somehow the cause of your death, he might actually go insane and try to believe you are still alive. He will refuse to believe he caused it.

"Babe, babe you're just asleep, right? Yeah, yeah, you are just asleep..."

❥ If you somehow left him or broke up with him even after all the guilt tripping and manipulation he used on you, he would be utterly distraught.

❥ He would try to move on at first but he just... can't.

❥ He begs for you to take him back, on his knees and everything.

❥ When you refuse, you really have him no choice for him to kidnap you.

❥ He just can not lose you...

"I'm sorry, but you left me no choice."

❥ If you escape him after he kidnaps you, he will check every crevice of Runeterra to try and find you.

❥ This man will leave no stone unturned.

❥ You will be found, and when he finds you, he will bring you home.

❥ Right where you belong.

"Hey, babe, miss me? I sure as hell missed you."

REGRET

Would they ever feel guilty about abducting their darling? Would they ever let their darling go?

❥ Of course! When you wake up crying out of fear, the guilt hits him like a truck.

❥ He immediately starts to comfort you, trying his damn best to calm you down.

❥ He wants you to be happy, not crying out of fear from him.

❥ However, when genuinely considering the possibility of letting you go, he realizes he just can't.

❥ The man of progress no only wants to keep you with him forever, he also has a reputation to uphold.

❥ He knows damn well if he lets you go and word of what he did gets out, he would be done for.

"I-I just can't let you go, babe. You mean too much to me. I am so, so sorry."

STIGMA

What brought about this side of them (childhood, curiosity, etc.)?

❥ It didn't spark until he first met you.

❥ You changed something in him that he didn't even know could be changed.

❥ He liked it...

❥ ...Hell, he loved it...

❥ He didn't want to let you go.

❥ To let this feeling go...

"Ever since the day I met you, I felt this... this spark... and it changed my whole life."

TEARS

How do they feel about seeing their darling scream, cry, and/or isolate themselves?

❥ If you are crying and miserable after he kidnaps you, he feels very guilty for subjecting you to his selfish desires.

❥ He immediately tries to console you, trying to wipe away your tears.

❥ He will get you your favorite things and foods to try and bring you around him more if you try to isolate yourself away from him while under his care.

❥ He understands why you are scared and wants to comfort your fears.

❥ Just let him comfort you.

"Shh, shh, babe, calm down. It's okay, I promise I am not going to hurt you..."

UNIQUE

Would they do anything different from the classic yandere?

❥ Jayce is much more sympathetic and understanding that the traditional yandere.

❥ Unlike most yanderes, he tries to understand your needs and wants and accommodate to them.

❥ Like I've said before, this man wants you to be happy. No matter the time taken, the price tag, nothing matters to him but your happiness.

❥ He just wants to see your sweet smile.

"That's it, babe, smile for me."

VICE

What weakness can their darling exploit in order to escape?

❥ Definitely his kindness. 100%

❥ He has a big, soft heart that he bares for his darling.

❥ If you are a cunning and manipulative person, you can get this man to bend backwards for you and make him loosen his leash.

❥ But keep in mind, he is kind, not stupid.

❥ If you push it too far, he most likely will tighten your leash more than what you started with.

"My kindness is not something you can just play around with, babe. Don't even try."

WIT'S END

Would they ever hurt their darling?

❥ Only if he went into like a psychotic breakdown.

❥ Even then, he would most likely immediately snap back to reality and realize what he did.

❥ Once he sees the damage, this man immediately starts crying and blubbering. Snot and all.

❥ He feels utterly horrible for what he did to you.

❥ Please forgive him, he didn't mean to...

"Oh... Oh shit, baby. I-I didn't mean to! I-I'm so sorry!"

XOANON

How much would they revere or worship their darling? To what length would they go to win their darling over?

❥ Oh boy, can this man worship.

❥ This man loves you more than life itself.

❥ He would literally kiss the floor you walk on if it was socially acceptable.

❥ If you two are in a relationship, expect a lot of praise from this man.

❥ He will constantly be telling you how amazing you are, bringing you gifts and flowers whenever he can.

❥ Even if he has kidnapped you, don't expect any less praise.

❥ This man just wants to love you with all his heart.

"Shh, babe, calm down. Just... let me hold you."

YEARN

How long do they pine after their darling before they snap?

❥ Jayce is a man of progress as well as a man of patience.

❥ He can wait for you, he can be patient.

❥ However, if you keep rejecting him, he will get less and less patient with you.

❥ Why are you playing hard to get for this long?

❥ C'mon, you know you like him.

❥ Eventually, he would snap and kidnap you, but I would say that would take solid months of him pining for you.

❥ It's okay now because he has you now, don't worry, he just loves you so much.

"Listen, just let me take you out for coffee just once... Please?"

ZENITH

Would they ever break their darling?

❥ Most likely not.

❥ Jayce just wants you to be happy and love him.

❥ He's just more willing to go farther than most.

❥ The only way you would break is most likely from isolation from the real world.

❥ Stockholm syndrome would most likely get to you first, however.

"Just know that I will always love you. Okay, babe?"

ARCANE MASTERLIST

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