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themidnightcrimson · 14 days ago

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nosferatu ࿏ wm

summary: in which you are much too trusting of a creature who wants more than a dance with you.

words: 6.0k

warnings: blood, supernatural, horror, gore, dubcon/noncon, top!wanda, fem!reader, biting, oral, breastplay, bondage, victorian era

this is a dark!fic for 18+ only. minors dni. read with discretion.

Your corset was so tight around your waist that you could not breathe. It was a sickening shade of pink that was supposed to portray girlish innocence about you. It was made specifically to match the color that imbues your cheeks, though now it was more of a sharp crimson red.

“I cannot believe your impudence,” your mother breathily spoke in a vexed air as she stiffly ripped the white gloves from her hands. “Your audacity.”

Rolling your eyes, you threw your head back against the wall of the compartment, feeling the familiar but nauseating shake of the carriage, the click-clack of the horse’s hooves going as fast as your heartbeat. Biting your lip to ward off any retaliating remarks towards your mother, you reached behind your waist and fiddled for the bow of your corset, snapping the ribbon undone and inhaling the first large breath of fresh air since the night began.

“At this rate, you’ll never be wed,” your mother continued to grumble as she neatly folded her gloves in her lap and looked out the window of the compartment door, the tree-lined field flickering past her eyes as the carriage moved on down the sandy country road. “I wouldn’t know what gentleman in all of England would wed such a usurping, galling, exasperating little—”

“Please, Mother, I haven’t had my vocabulary lesson yet this week,” you sarcastically battled as you ripped the matching pink ribbon out of your hair, letting your long waves flow down your shoulders. Your mother especially hated when you wore your hair freely down like that, citing that it reminded her of the harlots of Dorset Street.

You had to admit that your behavior was not the most ladylike this evening, but that was your entire mission. Your mother had been trying to marry you off to every man that comes across your path since you were of age. What she didn’t know (or rather was entirely aware of but simply unable to comprehend or acknowledge it under both societal implications and her own personal dogmas) was that you actually preferred the company of women.

It was just another fancy political ball she’d dragged you to. As always, she put you in clothes you didn’t want to wear, made you speak to people you didn’t want to speak to, and expected you to take it all with sugar and a big smile.

“Is this how you behave at those other parties you attend? Those invalids might be able to handle your inexcusable behavior, but I certainly won’t.”

It wasn’t that you didn’t like parties at all. You actually very much enjoyed going to the parties you liked to go to with people you actually liked to be around. Could these parties become a little unsavory if warranted? Yes, they could. But you yourself never participated in those things. You just thought the people there were nicer and didn’t have giant sticks shoved up their bums. Plus, the food was always better.

“Well, I hate to burst your bubble, young lady, but there will be no more attending these parties of yours.”

“Mother!” you exclaimed, looking at her with eyes of disbelief. “I am a grown woman. I will go wherever I please!”

“Not with what’s been happening,” she argued, glancing at the folded newspaper sitting on the cushion beside her that she had picked up on the way to the ball. The Old Post. The front of it read Vampyres in the Village.

“You can’t be serious,” you grumbled, turning away from her with a pout. “You really believe in that stuff?”

“It’s devil-work, dear,” she said in a quieter, more serious tone. She stared at you for a moment from across the compartment before slowly leaning forward. “I’m not saying this to try and… control you. I’m saying this to you because… because you are my daughter, and I want to keep you safe.”

You could tell she was biting back vomit at saying kind words to you. “And things have been… happening in the city. Horrible things. And it seems to be happening only to people like you. Pretty, single, young girls. But most importantly, naïve girls.”

You rolled your eyes and turned further away from her. “You say my head is full of air, but I’m not the one who believes in fairytales here.”

“Miss Margaret’s daughter is still missing.”

Miss Margaret was a close friend of your mother’s, which you found surprising because Miss Margaret was one of the kindest women you’d ever met. Her daughter was your age, maybe a year or two older. She hadn’t been seen for two months now since she attended one of the parties you liked to go to in the city.

“She probably ran off with a boy,” you argued even though you knew that was not her daughter’s character.

Your mother didn’t even bother to argue that because you already knew. She only shook her head and turned back to the window, taking a deep sigh. “I’m only trying to keep you safe. It’s one thing to have an unwed daughter, but it’s entirely another thing to have one that’s dead.”

“I’m sure that’s what you’d prefer.”

You shouldn’t have said that, and you didn’t even need to look in your mother’s general direction to feel the look of shocked hurt on her face.

Maybe if your mother hadn’t fought tooth and nail to keep a noose around your neck your whole life, you might have listened. You might have heeded her advice.

Things might not have ended up the way they did.

If only.

࿏

You knew exactly how to scale your own house by now. Granted, you had to be barefoot while you did it.

Clutching your shoes in one hand, you teetered on the edge of the windowsill of your room, carefully stepping down on the ledge of the roof. From there, you could set your foot on the top sill of another window, and then catch the vine-wrapped lattice going up the side of your parent’s estate, and it was a breeze from there on. You always enjoyed this feeling. The chilly autumn night air breezing between your legs as you wore a more casual dress that did not require a skeleton of its own. The wind fluttering through your loose locks of hair. The light of the full moon above you guiding your way down. Feeling agile and smart, free and unfiltered. Sometimes, your favorite part of these nights was just the sneaking out.

You always enjoyed the feeling of the dewy grass on the bottom of your feet when you finally hopped down to the ground. You’d jog like this, barefoot and wild like some kind of heathen, all the way down your country driveway to the main road where your friends had a carriage waiting for you.

When you said these parties could be a little unsavory, you meant it. While you mostly stuck with your friends and did not participate in these acts, all around you people were doing all kinds of unknown drugs, being lude with each other, engaging in certain dares or pranks. Sometimes there was a theme to all this, and tonight happened to be a masquerade, except instead of socialites and rich people, it was the ones of society who yearned a more stained quality of life.

This party was especially sex-driven, you realized with an air of shock as you walked in behind your group of friends. They were handing out masks at the front, and beyond that, you could see people basically eating each other at every sitting area in the large auditorium. Someone was throwing this at a large estate where everything around you seemed to be made of gold.

See, there were a select few rich people that participated in and most importantly, funded and housed these parties. There was a group of people, higher on the social ladder, who liked to throw these unsavory parties sometimes in their own homes. You could tell that this party was definitely one of them. They always seemed to get much more extreme when one of these people hosted it in their own home. The odd thing about it was that no one really knew who they were other than that they were seemingly nocturnal and rather pale, possibly as a consequence. Nightcrawlers, they sometimes called them. They always infested the local bars in the later hours of the evenings.

“My Lord,” your friend whispered under her breath as she eyed the couples (sometimes multiple couples all in one cluster) all around. “I think I’ve seen three bare buttocks already.”

Uneasiness settled into your stomach. While you normally enjoyed these parties, you usually tried to stay away from the ones that appeared to have a more carnal purpose, mostly because you did not want to have to fight off random men under the impression that you wanted to be a part of it. To your surprise, though, you actually saw a few women together, and a few men together also.

A mask was flung in your direction, and you took it. It was black and gold with a sharp nose, covering the top half of your face and leaving your mouth exposed. Trying to clear your vision as you stared out of the eye holes, you followed your group of friends into the party. It became denser the further they led you into it, and soon you could feel bodies touching yours.

“Wait!” you called when your mask slipped and covered your eyes, blinding you in the thickly packed room. You stumbled over someone’s foot as you tried to adjust your mask, and by the time you finally corrected it over your eyes, you could not locate your friends. Starting to panic as you were packed in a sea of people, feeling eyes behind odd foreign masks staring you down, you looked around for your friends, frantically calling their names.

You were turning in circles, growing dizzier and fainter by the second. This was a horrible idea. You should have listened to your instinct and turned around as soon as you walked in and saw what was going on at the party. Even now, in the crowd of people dancing to the oddly calm music that did not match the strong energy of the dancers, you could hear faint moans and the vague smell of sex drifting in the air.

You were about to melt to the floor and curl yourself into a sobbing ball when suddenly you felt a purposeful hand press into the small of your back. Gasping, you turned sharply, ready to slap the man who dared think he had a right to touch you, when you were faced with something unexpected.

The only thing you saw that was expected was pants—a men’s dark red velvet suit, decorated with lacy white wristcuffs and a rather poofy white chestpiece beautifully ruffled. But instead of seeing broad shoulders, you saw softer ones, and a curve at the chest and hips. This person wasn’t as tall as you expected, though they were several inches taller than you. Instead of a cropped cut, or perhaps a shaggier cut with handsome curls around the ears, this person had long, silky, wavy red hair that went down to their chest, flowing like a beautiful lake of deep rust.

A pitch-black mask covered the top half of their face, but instead of whiskers, or a beard, there was smooth, pale skin and delicately soft pink lips. The jaw there was strong, but there was a feminine curve to it.

A woman. This was a woman who was now curling your hand around the small of your waist, somehow enveloping it completely around you, pulling you against her and taking your hand in her other hand.

Gasping, you stumbled as she strongly started pulling you into a gentle dance through the crowd that seemed to make way for her.

You struggled to see her face, as the mask covered the top half. Those deep pink lips curled into a cupid’s smirk that brought some sort of chill up your spine. Even in this crowded room, with all the unpleasant noises and smells, your entire focus was on this woman pulling you to her breast and holding you with an iron strength that shocked you.

Though her mask, like the others, had carved holes for eyes, the lighting cast a shadow over the material that kept her eyes from view, and it was rather dim in the room anyway.

You opened your mouth to speak but failed to find words as the redheaded woman in a man’s suit spun you in a circle, and as she did, the source of light from a chandelier above finally glared through the holes of the mask, and you jolted in shock when you saw a flash of red eyes behind the mask.

Instinctively, you tried to pull away, but her arm would not budge. Had you ever known a man to be this strong, let alone a woman?

“Who are you?” you asked, but it came out in a tiny, hoarse whisper that surely only you could hear. Somehow, she heard it.

“Your dream woman,” she smoothly husked with an impish smirk, and you saw another flicker of red in the eyes of the mask as she spun you again before it went dark again.

Sewing your eyebrows together, you stumbled to keep up as she spun you. “Why won’t you let me go?”

“Because it’s so much more fun when I don’t,” she said with a small chuckle. You noticed that her hand holding yours was ice cold. “Besides, you looked a little lost back there.”

“I was perfectly fine,” you argued, finding it incredibly rude that this woman would not let you go, though being so close to her was making your spine tingle with something that bordered attraction and the urge to run for your life.

“You were far from fine, though you sure look fine,” she said, and you noticed how nice her voice was, such a pleasant cadence, like honey to your ears. Suddenly her arm around your waist disappeared, and she was spinning you around. Losing your balance, you let out a gasp, feeling yourself about to fall until she spun you back into her, wrapping her arms around you and leaning you backwards in her strong hold.

She grinned down at you, and you almost didn’t notice.

“What—” you said, startled. Her teeth, ivory white, were sharp. Like, as sharp as your father’s hunting knives. Glistening even in the dim light. Some unsatisfactory stain of red between them that made your stomach uneasy. It was strange, to see such a pleasant pair of lips stretched around teeth that looked so deadly.

“You’re beautiful,” the woman whispered, her eyes lowering down your neck and to your chest left exposed by your dress. You’d picked this dress because your mother hated how particularly revealing it was.

You saw the flash of scarlet irises again through her mask. They seemed to glow as she drank you in with her eyes.

“You can’t even see my face,” you whispered with a tone of playfulness at the fact that the woman was obviously staring at your chest with a look of hunger that you could see even through her mask.

Glancing back up to your face, she smiled handsomely and reached towards your face. Your instinct was to push her hand away, berate her for daring to take off your mask without asking, but for some reason your body did not budge. You involuntarily let her remove your mask, her eyes drinking you in.

“I didn’t have to take it off to know that you are the most beautiful woman in the room,” she flirted shamelessly, her hand on your back gripping you. She was still holding you in a leaning position.

Deciding to have fun with this odd woman, you smirked and said, “Your turn. Remove yours so that I may see who is holding me so.”

The woman hesitated but smiled again, reaching up and slowly removing her mask.

She was beautiful—like the kind of beautiful you had never seen before. An alien, strange beautiful that did not feel real. Something churned in your gut, some kind of knowing, a fear, but it was muffled. Her red eyes, her sharp smile, it was suffocating down the instinct in you that was telling you to get away from her as fast as possible.

She cocked her head, her eyes never leaving yours. “Come with me,” she spoke, and it sounded like many voices at once. Her grip on you was hard now, and if she hadn’t been compelling you with her magic, you would have seen the bloodlusting look on her face.

You didn’t remember leaving the party. You also suddenly couldn’t even remember arriving at the party. All you knew was that suddenly you could hear the click-clack of hooves against cobblestone and the cold night air blowing through your hair, and something else in your hair, too.

You sharply turned your head to see the same redheaded woman walking next to you, her hand in your hair, stroking it softly, playing with the strands between her long-nailed fingers.

“Where are we?” you questioned, slowing your walk and looking all around you. You did not recognize this street at all.

“We’re on a walk, my love,” the woman cooed, cradling her arm around you and pulling you into her. “You were becoming faint at the party.”

Your head felt fuzzy. Muddled. Like you needed to remember something that you just couldn’t remember, but you knew you desperately needed to.

“I’m… I’m confused…” you cried, clutching your hands to your face. You wanted to ask her where she was taking you, what she was going to do to you, why her teeth were so sharp and her eyes so red, but something was stopping the words from coming out of your mouth and even stopping these anxious feelings from being realized by you. There was a false blanket of calmness over you that was not coming from within you. It was suffocating you.

“Do calm down, beautiful girl,” she said in a velvet tone in your ear, suddenly very close to you. The moonlight rained down over you as she pressed her lips to your ear in a soft kiss. Something hard grazed the skin there, but it wasn’t enough for you to really notice.

The street was nearly empty. There were a few shops that were all closed down at this time of night. As you passed one that had a string of garlic hanging down over the door, which a lot of shops had now with all the rumors flying around, you felt the redhead stiffen beside you. When you were far enough away, she let out a breath as if she had been holding it.

Stupified, you hadn’t noticed this.

You also didn’t notice the way she walked faster, goading you forward with a hand at your back, as you passed by a church with a large cross on its steeple. The church also had garlic over the door, and had even built a fence of sharp whittled stakes all around the front. This city was so paranoid.

“Where are we going?” you question, noticing finally that the more garlic-protected doors you passed, the more the false sense of security lifted from you. Unbeknownst to you, the protections were interfering with the woman’s magic on you. “Where are you taking me?!”

“Be quiet!” she hissed at you suddenly, her red eyes fiery in the dark night. She looked monstrous now, albeit beautiful, and you finally realized the fear inside you.

“Get away!” you yelled, slapping her hand away from your waist and stepping away from her. “I don’t want to go anywhere with you!” You glanced around to see if anyone was around, but there was no one.

“Don’t yell!” the woman said louder this time, and her teeth started to look even sharper than before.

Finally, with all the garlic and crosses and stakes preventing her from being able to stop you from thinking your own thoughts, you could hear the instinct, loud and clear within you, telling you to run from this woman, this witch, this monster, this…

Vampire.

You ran as fast as you could on the uneven cobblestone. You were a very agile girl, thanks to so many times sneaking out of the window and running away. You always impressed people with how fast you could run, and you knew you could definitely outrun a woman in a stiff suit.

Until she appeared right in front of you with lightning speed. You didn’t even have time to be shocked. Her hand passed over your eyes, and you were asleep, falling limply into her arms like dead prey.

The last thing you thought of was if your mother had noticed you were gone yet or not.

࿏

You could tell it was dark before you even opened your eyes. When you did manage to finally flutter your eyes open, the first thing you saw was candlelight. A dark room with red carpet and black walls. Candles, everywhere. Some semblance of a bed that you lay on, naked. Something wooden in front of the bed on the floor which you realize to your sleepy horror is a coffin. And worst of all, to your upmost terror, standing to the side of the bed you lay on staring at you with a vile look of hunger, the redheaded woman.

She was holding a glass in her hand that held what appeared to be red wine, but it was way too dark. As the last memories flood back into your mind as she takes a slow, sickly sip, you realize that it is not wine in her glass.

“I know you’ll be much sweeter than this,” she thickly says after swallowing, lowering the glass and grinning at you with reddened teeth. “I could smell your blood as soon as you walked in.”

You attempt to sit up but there was an invisible force keeping you pressed flat on the bed. “Please let me go,” you whisper, your eyes welling with tears. You can’t exactly feel the fear inside you, not with whatever magic this vampire was putting inside you, but your body felt it and informed you of it in the form of hot tears rolling down your cheeks in an emotionless cry.

She laughed and started towards the bed, the movement causing you to jump. She set the glass down on the table beside the bed, eyes flickering at you as she slowly leaned over you, the weight of her hand on your pillow tipping your head closer to her. She was so close now. Deep scarlet eyes, pointed teeth, locks of her rust hair grazing your bare chest and tickling your nipples which you realized now were erected. Her breath smelled of iron, of old iron that had been sitting out in the rain. It smelled of flesh and of blood casting over your face for how close she was to you.

“Don’t be so frightened,” the vampire cooed, reaching her hand under you. You gasped at her cool touch, her oddly delicate and soft hand which glided across your back which arched for its way, coming to the other side of your waist and holding it gently so that her arm was completely curled under you. She had you trapped now, hovering over you, holding you. There was a crazed look in her eye now as her skin touched yours, as she smelled your scent and felt your warm flesh in her hand and listened to your heart beating so fervently, so frightened.

“You will enjoy this, love,” she continued, her nails digging slightly into your side as she lowered herself down further on the bed. She parted your legs with her knee, and it made you gasp in shock as she slid her other knee between them also, forcing your legs to spread. You felt the cool air of exposure in your middle, feeling now the strings of wet between your folds. She could smell it, you knew, by the way her nostrils flared and her beautiful lips twisted into a knowing smirk. This woman was an animal, a beast with senses that far outpowered yours. She could smell and hear and feel and see everything, down to the hairs on your arms that stood on their ends.

Were you enjoying it already? Why was your skin basically vibrating as she laid herself over you? Why were you slick as if you were with a lover? Why was your back and hips arching towards her hungrily as if you were the one thirsting for her and not the other way around?

Was she persuading you? You had heard of these vampyres being skilled in the art of witchery, particularly in the use of persuasion. It was heard of vampyres luring their victims to them willingly, as if the humans were offering themselves to them. Was that how she got you outside of the party in the first place?

You could feel the radiation of her powers vibrating through you, her red eyes seeming to glow in the dark room. “Oh, darling,” she whispered, bringing her hand up to your face and caressing your cheek. Your cheek was burning hot against her cold hand, which only invigorated her more.

“Your body is so warm against mine…” she murmured, her eyes trailing down your body to your bare chest. Lowering herself, she moved her head towards your neck area.

“No!” you instantly screamed, jerking your body against her as her face disappeared below your face. She dug her nails hard into your side, causing you to squeak, and then her mouth was on your neck. “Please! Stop! Don’t!”

You writhed and shrieked until you realized that you felt no intrusion of teeth into your veins but rather just a forceful yet gentle kiss of heavenly lips on your neck. The vampire’s breathing was heavy and thick, blowing hard against your skin as her entire body went rigid over yours like a predator. Her hips were the only thing that trembled, pressing hard between your legs.

“Fuck,” you heard the vampire curse into your neck as she pressed more kisses, letting her body push harder into yours. She was salivating, leaving your neck slick as she pressed more and more flurrying kisses against your soft skin. “So soft and warm,” she murmured, rubbing her entire face into the expanse of your neck, digging the bridge of her nose into your collarbone.

You were shocked when a gentle moan left your lips. She was kissing and rubbing her face all over your clavicles and chest, rolling her hips into you with a steady rhythm. You were starting to feel dizzy with warmth and lust that throbbed sinfully through you as this monster had her way with you.

She lowered further and finally was met with the pillowy hills of your breasts. She nuzzled herself right into them, leaving open-mouthed kisses on your flesh there that was so tender it gave way to the slightest of her touch. It felt like she was vibrating against you now, breathy and rigid and drunk. Her tongue slipped out of her mouth and lapped over the peak of your nipple, earning a loud gasp from you. Her eyes flickered open, alert at the sound, and looked deviously at you as she started to lap at your tit, the points of her fangs sticking through her lip like a kitten.

Sewing your eyebrows together, you squirmed under her, unsure of what, if anything, was going through your head. There were your thoughts, and the thoughts she wanted you to think, and thoughts your body was sending up your spine to your brain, mostly sinful and desirous.

Chuckling throatily against your nipple, the vampire grinned, which caused her fangs to scrape your skin.

“Ow!” you exclaimed at the tiny but strong sting you felt. It only felt like a papercut until the woman’s pupils went large, and she sunk her fangs into the soft flesh of your tit. You gasped in shock at first, watching the readhead’s long fangs sink into your breast, blood immediately streaming out of where she bit.

The scream that left your mouth was loud and burned your throat. The vampire grunted and groaned as she tasted your blood, her hips fully grinding into you now, her body melting on top of yours as she moaned huskily into your wound that she drank from.

You were at a loss for words as you thrashed against her strength and clawed at the pillows and blankets around you. The worst part was that, as much as it hurt and as much as you feared for your life, your middle was throbbing and more slick than ever as she ground herself into you, turned on from the mere taste of your blood.

Finally, the woman retracted, gasping open-mouthed, her lips and mouth smeared with the bright red of your blood. Her pupils were blown, red barely visible, your blood dripping from her fangs. She breathed heavily against you as your blood streamed down your breast, trailing to your stomach.

“The sweetest I’ve ever tasted,” she breathed almost inaudibly. She looked completely different now, like drinking from you had changed her features in some fundamental way that you couldn’t describe. She looked more beautiful than ever, and whether it was her persuasion or the sinner that had been hiding somewhere deep inside you, it made you even more slick to see this woman so beside herself, hovering over you, her mouth and chin covered and dripping with your blood, declaring you to be the best.

Seeming to still be gasping for breath, the vampire lowered herself more down the bed until her shoulders were what kept your legs spread open.

“My heavens,” she breathed as she inhaled the scent of your arousal, her eyes focused between your legs. “You sick little thing.”

Shame blushed across your face, but it was replaced with the blush of pleasure when the woman put her mouth over your clit. Her hands curled around your hips, holding them with iron strength as she devoured you. Your cum mixed with your own blood over the vampire’s mouth as she lapped at your soaked folds, somehow masterfully avoiding nicking you with the blades in her mouth. Her tongue plunged inside you, supernaturally long as it curled to reach your pleasure spot deep inside.

You were the one absolutely beside yourself now, grabbing at the sheets, at her soft red hair, arching your back off the bed and pushing your hips into her face. Any thoughts of life or death, the risk of it, being a prey trapped with its predator, your blood leaving your system through the deep bite on your breast, were all gone. All you knew now was this beautiful woman’s tongue deep inside you and the bridge of her nose digging against your clit.

A burst of pleasure exploded inside you, and you found yourself screaming out, blinded, only urged on with a more vigorous effort from the vampire’s tongue. Her nails had dug so hard into your hips that there were ten bleeding marks in the shape of fingernails on your skin, unbeknownst to the vampire who was joyously overwhelmed with the taste and smell of your blood and juices in her mouth.

Finally, when you had relaxed, she pulled away, looking up at you from between your legs. The blood on her face was still there but had been wiped away in most spots, turned pink by the mixing of your wetness which glistened over the bridge of her nose and down her chin. Her long tongue came out from her mouth to lick at her lips, her throat clenching as she swallowed.

You had never felt such physical bliss in your life. Your entire body throbbed and ached wonderfully, churned with the duality of it being so sexy and so morbid at the same time.

In fact, you’d nearly completely forgotten about the morbidity of it all until the vampire, eyes crazed even more, gazed down at your fleshy thighs. Her lips twitched in a smirk before she dove down and bit right into the inside of your thigh.

Reacting with a shriek and kicking your legs, you could feel her bite this time was much more painful and aggressive. She was not just biting you, she was sucking your blood.

“Stop!” you exclaimed, trying to kick at the vampire that seemed to be made of steel. “Stop! Stop! Stop!”

She did stop. She pulled away sharply, face bloodier than ever, and lunged upwards. In a flash faster than you could realize, she grabbed your jaw and snapped your head to the side, digging her face down into the crook of your neck and sinking her teeth into your throat. The weight and strength of her body naturally held you down against the bed as she devoured you now in a more real way. You could feel your blood draining from your veins, leaving them cold. You could feel your head get lighter and lighter, your arms and legs feeling more and more numb until finally you went limp in her arms like a lamb. Vision blurring, you were moments away from death when finally the monster pulled herself away from you with a heavy sigh.

The redheaded woman had to stand up out of the bed to restrain herself. Your blood streaked darkly down her chin, staining the white lace of her chestpiece which she clawed at to give her throat room to breathe. You were a pathetic thing now, covered in your own blood at your breast and thighs, laying limply on the bed, eyes rolling as you tried to jolt yourself awake.

“My dear, I believe I’ve found heaven in you,” she whispered, recovering herself as she approached you again. You were half-conscious as she easily picked you up in her arms, holding you bridal style. Your head and arm hung down limply, the both of you blood-streaked and throbbing with different sorts of feelings that were somehow mutual. She carried you to the end of the bed where, at the floor, was the wooden coffin with the lid open. Gently, she laid you down into the soft red velvet of the wooden coffin.

She was about to stand up before you weakly grabbed at her collar. She paused, something glistening in her eyes as she stared down at you with a sewed brow.

“I don’t want to die,” you coarsely whispered. Most people wouldn’t have been able to hear you but, either because of the kind of monster she was or because your blood was running through her body, she understood exactly what you said.

“Don’t worry, my lamb,” she said with a crimson grin. “I wouldn’t let a treat like you go to waste. I’m going to keep you, pet. You’ll sustain me for as long as your body can take it. For now, you must sleep and rest, for my satisfaction is brief, and my thirst comes in quite short intervals.” She paused and stood up, letting your hand fall away from her collar. “Sleep well, little lamb.”

She closed the lid on your bleeding body, leaving you locked in the dark coffin.

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff #scarlet witch #scarlet witch x reader #vampire #halloween #kinktober #crimsonween #marvel #lgbt #lesbian

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ienjoywritingfilth · 4 months ago

Text

teach me, general

hi: i wrote this because general acacius is still making me feel hornee things®. I don't know shit about roman gladiator times, about the language, about a n y t h i n g this is just a debauched excuse to think of this man naked and fucking.

You've been promised to another man to save Rome, but you have no desire to become his wife. Marcus Acacius has been assigned to ensure you do not flee before your wedding. Things happen.

trope: enemies to lovers

pedro character: Marcus Acacius x female reader (you)

warnings: innocence kink, age gap (not specified, but he an old peepaw just how we like him) , Marcus tries to be good but we like him bad, AU as fuck because i have no idea what happens in the movie, virgin bullshit, eating out, allusions (are what whores do for money or candy) to other sex, , i think that's everything.

RATED 18+

wanna see my other stuff?

"I will not play nursemaid to a spoiled child."

Marcus sweeps the scroll from the desk angrily, standing and stalking to the window, his cape fluttering behind him.

Commander Cassius, an older man and one of The emperor's most trusted advisors stands in the corner, his gnarled hands folded in front of him.

"She has not been a child for quite some time, General Acacius," the commander replies, a smirk crossing his lined mouth.

Marcus only makes a scoffing noise at that, refusing to turn around and give the older man the respect he thinks he deserves.

"She is desperate." the commander adds, walking in Marcus direction. "She is to be wed tomorrow."

"The city talks of nothing else."

Marcus is sick to death with talk of your marriage to a neighbouring royal family. The marriage means bountiful coin and harvest for Rome. It's a step towards unification and the future.

But for the last several months it's all he's heard of between battles. The dress, the food, the entertainment. It's all so grating to hear about when he throws himself into daily combats.

"She has made her feelings on the matter quite clear," the commander says with a gentle exhalation. "There is concern she will flee in the night."

"Why?"

"She has no desire to marry. No interest in continuing the bloodline."

There are rumors of course. That the Prince you've been promised to is dim, that he drinks too much, that he has an eye only for men. It's no wonder you don't look forward to such a union.

"She says she will study at the universities instead," Cassius chuckles. "A silly fantasy. She is a woman after all."

Marcus is quiet with contemplation. He'd just returned from battle days ago. He was still weary, his patience thin. The poor reception home from his family adds to his bitter mood.

"But she is wise beyond her years," the commander says. "She has managed escape more than once, as you well know. It was you yourself who retrieved her the night of her eighteenth birthday in the olive grove was it not?"

Marcus rolls his eyes recalling how you screamed and punched his armour as he dragged you down from the branches, throwing you over his shoulder. You screamed until your voice was hoarse as he carried you home that evening, shouting obscenities in his ear the entire way.

All because you'd wanted a chance to see the Gladiators. You'd begged your parents and they'd been quite clear that it was no place for you. You'd snuck out anyway, caught by Marcus before you could even get to the Coliseum.

When he does not reply the older commander stepped forward, placing a hand on the younger man's shoulder.

"You have your orders from the Emperor."

Marcus shrugs off the older man's touch, his dark eyes sharp.

"And why must it be me?'

'"Because, General Acacius, you are the one man that cannot be fooled by her."

The slave is at the door when Marcus knocks at your bedroom. Their face is covered; their stance cowered when they open the door widely.

"General Acacius," the quiet voice observes eyes on the ground. Marcus is grim-faced, entering into the room.

"I have been instructed by the Emperor to keep watch tonight."

"I see," the woman nods, her face still tilted respectfully to the floor. "I was just about to fetch her dinner."

Marcus steps further into the lavish room with its bright, white walls and smooth marble floors.

"Where is she?"

"She is in her bed," the slave replies bowing even more lowly.

Marcus' dark eyes move to the bed, seeing the sleeping figure's chest rise and fall through the gauzy curtains that hang on all sides.

"The sun is not yet set."

"She is overcome. Her wishes for the marriage to be called off have been ignored."

Marcus nods, watching as the slave goes to move past him. Her feet slap the floor slowly, everything in her body suggesting an unhurried dedication to her position.

She brushes Marcus' sleeve and he sniffs the air, a familiar scent wafting over him. Roses.

Without warning his large hand darts out, grabbing the slave by the arm and dragging her back into the room before she can leave. The door is slammed shut, her exit blocked.

"General-"

Marcus says nothing; he simply rips the veil from the woman's face, shaking his head in frustration as your uncovered visage stares unblinking back at him.

He watches as you sneer, your irritation clear.

"How did you know?"

"Rosewater," he replies in a husky murmur. "No slave could afford to bathe in such luxury."

You pull your elbow from his grasp, furious at being caught. You call out to the girl in your bed.

"Amilius you are released."

A taller woman a haggard face and wild hair rolls out of the bed. She is clearly a slave but wears an embroidered toga meant for royalty.

"You will still be paid," you assure her as she approaches you both, her eyes on the floor. You retrieve the pouch of clattering coin from your locked cabinet, placing its heavy bundle into her shocked hands.

"It is too much."

"Not at all," you insist. "I thank you for trying. You may keep the clothing as well."

"You are most welcome."

The smile the two of you exchange is sweet and Marcus is furious at the sight of it. How dare you think up this scheme and how dare this slave go along with it?

"You are bold," he says, stepping towards her. "To defy the word of your Emperor and not expect retaliation."

"She did it only to defend me," you break in, stepping between Marcus and the girl. "To give me a chance at escape."

"Treason," Marcus snarls, his eyes still on the girl behind you. "You will be put on trial."

Amilius shrinks back, her eyes wide. The thought of punishment like this never occurred to her. She simply follows what you tell her, as she always has.

"I will say I drugged her," you shoot back. "I will be put on trial. I will be sentenced to death. I choose that. Anything is better than a marriage to that self important caenum!"

Your chest heaves with untapped anger. Marcus knows that this is true. You are just stubborn enough to choose death but it would mean only calamity for Rome.

"Leave us."

Amilius nods and shuffles from the room, closing the door behind her. You watch as Marcus locks it before coming back to you.

"So they sent the General," you say with a laugh as you remove the slave’s cloak you were wearing. You drop it into a chair before looking at him. "How fearsome a creature I must be if the strongest General in the army is sent to watch me."

"Fearsome I think not. An annoyance to be sure."

You roll your eyes, going to the table that holds the wine and other spirits. Several chalices are there, empty and ready to be filled.

"Some wine, General?"

Marcus shakes his head. He would never drink when on such a job. He doesn't trust you. You shrug, pouring two glasses anyway.

Marcus is surveying your room, quietly taking in all the personal touches. He notices you position your writing desk to the east, to enjoy the midday sun. Your bed is soft and layered with furs to keep away the chill.

You walk back over to him, holding out the larger chalice to your guest.

"Here."

You watch as Marcus takes both chalices in hand, swapping the one you poured for him with yours. You go to deny him this but he's already taken a deep pull from his glass, smiling at you when you make no move to do the same.

"None for you?"

You try to keep your voice even, not wishing to show your hand.

"I find my thirst rather quenched."

"Is that so? Or is it that I caught onto your pathetic ploy to drug my wine?" Marcus smirks, taking a deep sip.

You say nothing; you bite the inside of your cheek instead. Marcus digs the blade in a little deeper.

"The vial made a rather obvious noise when it hit the rim of the chalice."

You bite so harshly you draw blood.

Its hours later and the fire has been cracking for the better part of the evening since the sun went down.

Marcus sits on an ornate chair before the fire, his body stoic and broad and strangely intimidating despite his continued silence. He has the chair facing you, not letting you out of his sight for even a moment.

You sit at your writing desk, hunched over parchment as you write hurriedly. The scratch of the stylus is the only sound in the bedroom.

Marcus exhales slowly, irritated at needing to be here at all. Knowing his luck, he'll also be forced to be at the royal wedding as well.

You stand and take a stretch, cracking your back as you arch your spine. The flowing fabric drifts over your body pooling at your feet. Marcus takes note of your head tilted back, eyes closed. He doesn't remember your profile being this striking. He muses it is one that should be etched onto roman coins, remembered by those to come forever after.

You walk over to him with a tired look in your eyes.

"It is late," you tell Marcus.

Marcus doesn't reply. He simply sits there, waiting for you to tire of whatever game you've begun.

"I thank you for the fire, General."

"You are most welcome."

He isn't expecting you to walk behind him pretending to stoke the fire. And he can only blame his lack of focus on his extreme lack of sleep. He'd managed none during battle and at home it seemed he was more than a little restless.

He feels your hand slide the dagger from his hip, realizing too late. You go streaming across the room, your eyes wild when he races after you.

"Impudice fur!"

"I have stolen nothing," you shoot back at the insult.

The two of you circle what another in the room like your own miniaturized version of the Gladiator pit.

"You have stolen years off my life," Marcus growls. "You have turned my hair silver."

You look at the dark hair threaded with grey in parts.

"You have done that yourself, General, thanks to your love of bloodshed and the battlefield."

Marcus rolls his eyes. "Only a stulte would think my strategy anything other than necessary."

"If you insist," you say rolling your eyes, clearly disbelieving.

"Return the weapon."

Marcus is strong, he is quick and you will have to submit to him. There is little else to do, aside from throwing yourself out the window behind you. The thought of that horrible childish man being your husband makes you seriously consider it.

You can't help it, thoughts of being his wife, of being tethered to such a man disgusts you. You would more readily marry Marcus Acacius if you had to. At least the man had honour and dignity.

And then all at once the answer is clear to you. You drop the knife onto the floor, hearing it clatter as you spin and throw yourself towards the large open window.

Your feet slap against the stone floor as you fling yourself towards the open air. The realization that before you die you will know what it is to fly.

Marcus is on you almost immediately, grabbing you around the middle before you can tumble to outside. He yanks you back, tackling your unwilling body to the ground. He pins your hands to the ground. You attempt to wrench from his grip, squirming under him.

"Stop these foolish games."

"It is no game," you shout. "It is my life! I will choose if I live or die!"

All at once Marcus is very aware that you are not the child he once saw in the halls or at events. The child and then teenager he found so grating with her questions that he took to ignoring her.

"Still yourself."

You wriggle in his grip like a worm. As you do your hips graze his cock and he's shocked to find a stab of arousal hit him.

It's as if for the first time he sees that you've become a woman. A beautiful one at that, all soft curves and kissable mouth. He stares at the damp plump of your lips and realizes that he's growing hard under his toga.

He throws himself off of you, hunched over until he gets to the window. You're rubbing your wrists, completely unaware of what happened as you stand, glaring at him.

"It is what is fated," Marcus barks at you.

"How easy for you to say!" You scoff disgusted. "Tomorrow I will be the wife of a childish boor who would rather chase cock than spend a moment with me. Rome will be safe for a time, yes, but at the cost of my entire being. And you, General Acacius, will go on living your life free of restraint."

"I come with my own shackles, believe me."

"And what is that? Too much coin for wine? Too many prostrating followers who blindly obey you?"

"A wife who married me for my title. Two stepsons with the combined intelligence of a pomegranate seed.” Marcus shakes his head. "You act as if everyone may rule their destiny but true freedom is granted to only the few."

He can see the fight leave your body.

But he knows you’re still upset. He moves over to your desk, needing a break from your smoldering glare. The parchment you were working on earlier sits there, writing unfinished. Marcus takes a scroll in hand, squinting down at it.

"What are these?"

You rush over, your face red as you rip the scroll from his hands.

"Nothing!"

Seeing your weakness Marcus holds it up out of reach, a childish grin on his face as you leap up, trying to grasp them. But it's no use, he's taller, stronger and you fall back, defeated.

“Tell me and I will return it to you.”

"They are poems," you mutter exasperatedly, feeling shy.

"Your own?"

"Yes."

"I wonder what about," Marcus says and he reaches into the desk to find several more scrolls. "What dress to wear to the market? How best to complain about having everything?"

Marcus takes them in hand, a sneer evident in his face as you reach for them again.

“You promised!”

“As you promised your fidelity to the prince.”

“My father promised him. I promised him nothing.”

Marcus lets out a small huff before turning his back to you. You can see him unrolling the scroll, beginning to read. You watch him, feeling both furious and anxious. These are some of your innermost thoughts that he’s reading.

There is a long bout of silence. You watch his broad shoulders sag, his hand flipping the page over and continuing to read. He does this through several sheets until you can't stand it anymore.

"Give it here!"

You pause with your hand on his elbow. He's solemn, but that's not what shocks you. It's the tears that he wipes quickly away with his free hand.

"Are you---"

"No."

You step backwards, your hands falling to your sides. You have known the general since you were a child of thirteen. Over ten years you have been in his company and only now have you seen him lose his composure.

As a child you were convinced he didn't feel true emotions. He was always this tall, impressively stoic figure. You never spoke to him outside of your father's company. You only heard everyone talk of his skills on the battlefield, of his keen mind. The only time he truly emoted in front of you was when he ripped you from the warm embrace of the olive tree, forcing you back to your boring life. Hissing at you that you were ungrateful for all you'd been given.

"This is very beautiful," he admits in a voice dragged over sand. "The way you describe death is very," he searches for the word. "Vivid."

"Thank you," you reply dumbstruck.

You've never received praise for you writing outside your friends. So to receive it in the form of your current enemy is more than a little shocking. Marcus has no allegiance to you, in fact, his response is so genuine because you know he's fighting against his inner desire to chastise or condemn.

Seeing this hulk of a man with tears still damp along his waterline has you softening everywhere. He's looking at the pages and then back at you.

"Have you any others?"

"Yes," you nod.

"All on the same theme?"

"A variety."

"May I see?"

You walk to your writing table, pulling out the parchment you hide from prying eyes and pass them into his outstretched hands. You wait with your lower lip lodged under your top teeth, your fingers twisting together. You don't know why but you crave to know what he's thinking.

You don't need to wait very long.

"It is clear there are limitations to your skills."

He has the familiar arrogant expression on his face as he says this. You bristle sharply at his words and he notices.

"You write of death, you write of jealousy, you write of fear,"' he says. "All of these you compose with obvious talent, with a voice I feel here."

He taps the centre of his chest before he holds up some of the pages you laboured on.

"But these? The poems of love, of desire? They feel false."

You take a moment to digest what he's saying. He's treating you like an equal, as if you're someone who can take the criticism. It propels you to explain instead of running away in embarrassment.

"People want poetry to transcend them, to deliver them somewhere beautiful. How else to do that other than with poems on such topics?"

He holds up the pages.

"It clearly does not come naturally."

"It is a challenge at times."

"You write of loss with such acuity," Marcus explains. "Why then do you describe the action between a man and woman so stiffly?"

"I have experience with loss."

Marcus stares at you, surprised.

As the daughter of the emperor he'd just assumed you'd have your fair share of romances. You're a beautiful woman and if you were anyone else but the Emperor's daughter he might have pursued you himself.

You feel his gaze trained on you and you walk to the fire. The flames reflect in your eyes as Marcus continues to watch you. You swallow your embarrassment and look over your shoulder at him.

"Will you tell me?"

"Tell you what?"

"What I am to expect on my wedding night."

Marcus lets the scroll fall from his hand onto the stone floor. At the sound of its contact he shakes himself, retrieving them and placing them on your desk.

"You have not known the touch of a man?"

With cheeks stained in embarrassment you shake your head.

"I have not. The life of the privileged daughter isn't one that allows for entanglements," you sigh. "I fear for what awaits me."

Marcus thinks of your future husband, a man who doesn't want any part of you. You'll wither on the vine, ripened and juicy and waiting.

What a waste.

"I cannot," Marcus says. "I am simply here to ensure you do not flee."

"Perhaps I will not flee if I know what is to occur."

Marcus sighs and strides towards you. You watch as he pulls over one of the chairs you had at the window, placing it across from the chair you sit in before the fire.

"You will be wed; there will be the wedding celebration with most of Rome at your unity. Then he will take you to his chamber."

You lick your suddenly dry lips.

"I am no fool. I know what the day’s events will be, General. I want to know what happens in consummation."

Marcus inhales deeply. He can feel himself growing stiff. You are a delectable thing, forbidden in so many ways. He itches to touch your skin and taste your cunt.

"He will, he will press his mouth to yours."

"Show me."

"No."

"Please," you beg, coming to stand closer to him. "Once I know what is to come I will feel more able to conquer this fear I feel."

Marcus debates this as he stares at you. And it's his cock that does the thinking for him when he steps closer to you.

Marcus sighs heavily through his aquiline nose. You hold your breath as he grips the back of your neck, like you're a bothersome kitten. Holding you there he lowers his face to yours, grazing your lips with his.

You coo gently at the sensation, your nipples hardening as he wraps his arms around you. He's so broad, so muscular, you feel so vulnerable and yet safe in his arms.

You cling to him, body immediately wrapping around his, pressing so tightly to him that you feel everything. Your hips roll against his and you shudder pleasantly when you feel his breathing hitch.

"More," you beg. Marcus groans, his large hands coming to cup and knead your breasts as his tongue invades your mouth.

He's murdered men, he's plotted army overtaking, and he’s attacked the unarmed, but touching and kissing the virgin daughter of the emperor? This is the most corrupt thing he's ever done.

And you're so desperate for him, no hesitation in any part of you. You just allow him to plunder your body, his mouth moving down your jaw to your neck and then the barely concealed valley of your breasts.

His hands move around your body, pressing and caressing and skimming until they land at your backside. You kiss him fervently, feeling his palms tug you against his hard cock.

You whimper, eyes rolling back as the two of you grind against one another. It feels so sinfully good to do such a thing.

"That is enough," Marcus says stiffly, pulling back from you when you make that sound. He looks at your swollen lips and dazed expression.

"Please, show me everything," you whisper. "Teach me."

Marcus has a fairly good idea that your wedding night is going to be brief and awful. The least he could do is give you some pleasure before you're thrust into a lifetime of timid touches and non-existent intimacy.

Just once, a sinful voice whispers. Fuck her just once to see how it feels.

"I cannot."

You feel insecurity wind its way around your ribs before tugging brutally. Its clear Marcus does not find you handsome enough to tempt him or he still sees you as a child. In humiliation you turn from him and take a seat before the fire once more. Your shoulder sag as you gaze down at your clasped fingers on your lap.

You hear Marcus sigh from the window before you sense his approach. He comes to sit in the chair opposite you, his gaze so serious.

"It would be wrong."

"But I desire it."

"It would be dishonourable."

"Please," you beg him again, finally raising your head. "My entire life you have been there for me, coming to my aid. And now I turn to you for the final time, General. Please help me."

"I cannot do it."

"But why?" You demand now, knowing that your patience is wearing thin. "Give me one true reason."

He lifts his muscular frame out of the chair, crossing until he gets to you. You gaze up the length of him, not flinching when he drops to his knees between your parted thighs.

Marcus tilts forward until his body nears yours, his hands on either side of your chair arms. His body is so warm, so broad. You fight the urge to touch his chest as his swollen mouth brushes your ear.

"Because if I were to start, it would take the entirety of the Emperor's army to stop."

You blink slowly, your eyes trailing over his face and body. Your entire body is fizzy, like lightning is coursing through your veins instead of blood.

"I would pull you apart," Marcus hums against your skin. "I would draw noises from you that you cannot begin to imagine. I would have you shaking and begging for more and I would continue."

You can't breathe.

“I would fill you with my seed, marking your womb as mine. I would do it over and over until I was spent, only to do it all again at dawn."

Marcus groans softly, his dark eyes scanning down your toga to the swell of your breasts.

"And even then I would not be able to cease," Marcus says as he squeezes your breasts through your toga. "I would train your mouth, your cunt, every hole you possess in the ways of pleasure. All would be mine, nothing left for another."

You stare at him, unblinking.

"And so you see why I must refrain," he finishes huskily. "Why I cannot give you what you believe you desire."

When did he go from the scowling general to a real man with such a filthy mouth? You’re quivering all over, desperate for him to be even closer. Your eyes drop to his full mouth, aching to feel it again.

"What if that is what I crave? What if I have no desire for you to cease?"

Your fingers go to his, pulling one hand under your toga, leading him up between your silken thighs. Marcus allows it, eyes on you but his hand inching towards your centre.

"You do not know what you ask."

"Show me, Marcus," you whisper, your mouth nearing his. "Make me yours if only for tonight."

Your lips slot between his, kissing with uncertainty as your hands go to the buttons at his shoulder. His fingers are slowly teasing your entrance as he stares at you.

You arch as his thumb begins to circle your clit, his long fingers starting to nudge your liquid heat.

Marcus knows that every inch of you he touches is another year in the pit if he's discovered. You are the most forbidden fruit in Rome. Yet he continues to slide two fingers to the knuckle into your core, curling them as you cry out for him.

At the sharp sound of your cry he withdraws his fingers, glossy with slick. He stands, needing to clear his head. He feels your confused gaze on his back.

"I cannot defile you before your wedding," he explains. "Your chastity is of the utmost importance."

"The slaves tell me of ways to circumvent such an issue," you tell him as the cape he wears falls to the ground.

He watches you untie his toga, urging it from his body until he stands there in nothing but his gladiator sandals.

He is truly a sight to behold. Golden, muscled, captivating in the same way blood along knuckles shine in sunlight. You take your time to walk around him, admiring the tight taut of his ass, the breadth of his wide shoulders littered with scars and the curls that tease the bottom of his neck.

You save his front for last, taking your time to watch the trail of hair move from his navel downward.

His cock is hard, thick and heavy. It weeps at the tip, already so eager. It hangs there; too large for you to imagine entering you as you reach out and touch it. He hisses at the first point of contact.

He watches as you carefully touch him, marvelling at the iron of his cock until the silk of his skin. You trace the vein on the underside, trailing it from the base to just below the mushroom head.

You slide down to your knees, fascinated. Amilius has spoken to you of men when you’ve asked. She has been married and has a child. You know a bit of what men like but only in theory. You lift your eyes up to see Marcus staring down at you with a heated gaze. Your hands go to his thighs, gently resting there.

You grin before leaning forward and placing the sweetest peck to the tip of his manhood.

Marcus growls softly in the back of his throat. His eyes close briefly before opening, looking darker than before. You watch as he takes his cock in hand, gripping it by the base and pulling it towards you.

You part your lips, ready to take him on your tongue and are surprised when instead he drags the tip along your bottom lip, leaving a trail off pre-cum there. You lick the remnants, curious at the salty taste. He watches you with increasing interest.

"Irrumabo," Marcus murmurs, his cock tapping against the full of your bottom lip. "Yes?"

You nod, opening your jaw. Marcus smiles, thumb tracing the curve of your mouth.

"Not tonight," Marcus says as he shakes his head, bringing you to a gentle stand. "Tonight is your pleasure."

He tugs the gown from your body, letting the silk pool on the ground beside you. You shiver under his gaze, noticing his length which twitches.

Marcus feels his breath leave him as your nude body is bared to him. You look so innocent there, waiting for him, gazing nervously at him through your lashes.

"Goddess," Marcus hisses, his hands coming to cup your breasts. "I am a condemned man for even looking at you."

He lowers his head eagerly, nipping and licking your nipples as you cling to him, urging him to take more as you arch your spine.

"Marcus, please more," you moan.

Unceremoniously he pushes you back to sit in your chair, your legs splayed in surprise. He drops to his knees, moving your legs to hook over his wide shoulders. You allow this, your body limp and eager to be posed by his strong arms and hands.

He looks up to see you panting, staring down the length of your body at his face between your legs. Without breaking eye contact Marcus dips forward and licks a stripe up the centre of your sex.

Your eyes immediately shut as pleasure ripples through you. His wide hands grip your creamy thighs, holding them in place as he continues to probe his tongue deeper into your channel.

Your hands grope the air around you fruitlessly. You don't know what to do with them. Marcus notices and he takes your wrists between his grips, forcing them to card through his hair.

He goes back to sucking your clit and you feel your hips buck. Your fingers dig into his skull, holding the curls and you understand why he placed them there.

"Harder," he tells you sharply as he peppers your inner thighs with sweet kisses. You tug harder on his curls and he groans softly in approval.

You make a shuddering noise of pleasure and it dies in your throat as he pulls back from you. His eyes are stormy as he looks up the length of you to give you a disapproving shake of his head.

"Silence, cherub. We do not need the guards coming to investigate your shrieks."

You nod breathlessly, clapping a hand over your mouth as he continues. The sounds are muffled against your palm as he brings his hands to slide under your ass, pulling your sex deeper into his mouth as he consumes you, groaning into your cunt when you cum.

"Marcus!"

"Quiet," he reminds you between licks.

As you sit there in the chair he brings you to a second steady orgasm, revelling in the muffled yips you make when you begin to writhe against his face, coating him in your essence. When your shuddering ends Marcus slowly withdraws his tongue from your cunt, gazing up at you with a dazed look.

"My husband will do this to me?" You pant; your body shiny with perspiration. "It was so pleasant. I felt the sun within my body."

Marcus remains on his knees, his mouth glistening with your arousal. He gives you a pitying look, knowing full well that your husband to be likely won't see you past your wedding night.

The thought enrages him as he sits there, cheek against your thigh as you give him that hopeful expression.

"No," Marcus finally admits. "I believe his actions will be more perfunctory."

You frown.

"How? Show me."

"You ask too much."

"Yes, I do," you admit with no hesitation or embarrassment.

Marcus gives you a calculating look before standing. You sigh, waiting for him to leave when he crouches down beside your chair, sliding his hands behind your back and under your knees and hoists you into his arms.

"I will give you what you desire," he tells you gently. "I can deny you nothing."

"You have denied me much over the years," you remind him with mirth. "When I tried to see the Gladiators fight and you pulled me from that olive tree?"

"And I never heard the end of it. Imagine denying this request? You'd have me hanged."

You give a shy giggle before lacing your fingers behind his neck, your mouth finding his with ease as he carries you to the bed.

The two of you lay in the twisted blankets of the bed, bodies gleaming with sweat. Marcus did exactly as he promised. For hours he took you apart, forcing you to come on his fingers, his mouth, his cock. You took him at every turn, eyes shut and your mouth covered by his palm or his lips.

And now that the dreamy haze bleeds into reality you find yourself frowning. Marcus, with his arms holding your body to his notices immediately.

"What troubles you?"

“Tomorrow I will be another man's wife," you say with tears in your eyes. "Rome will be saved for a time but at what cost? I'll never feel pleasure like this again. I'll never have you in my bed again."

Marcus feels a pull behind his ribs, and he leans forward to kiss you gently. You respond, your tears damp on his cheeks.

"Your lessons will continue," Marcus promises, kissing behind your ear. "I will make sure of it."

"My husband--"

"Will be thankful when you are with child," Marcus tells you in a hush, his hand curving over your stomach. "My child."

Your eyes are luminous.

"After your wedding night he will not come to your chambers," he promises. "But I will. I will drink the nectar between your legs and I will spill myself down your throat. I will have you everywhere and when we pass in public although there are no words to be uttered you will know I think only of you. That I am yours and you are mine."

He wipes away your tears with his large thumbs before pulling your mouth to his. You fall asleep in his arms, the sensation of his body there to protect you through the night.

Marcus stirs the next morning to the sound of birds outside the window; it's cheerful and bright as the sun that hangs high in the sky.

It feels right that your wedding day should be beautiful when you yourself are so exquisite.

Marcus feels his cock hardening immediately at memories of last night. Of the sounds you made and the way you felt. He looks forward to a life with you, even if it must be in secret. You are something special, something like freedom.

He cracks open his eye to take in your sleeping face, but your side of the bed is empty. A scroll is there beside him in the empty bed instead, his name written. With a panic in his heart he unrolls it, finding a lock of your hair tied with a ribbon inside. He takes it, pressing his lips against it as he reads the words from your hand.

Carissamus General. I know that as you read this you will think me a villain, but I promise that my words were true and my body forever yours. Please understand why I could not possibly allow another to touch me. Freedom is for those who take it. I leave you a piece of me in exchange for the piece of you I will carry in my heart. I owe you everything and perhaps in the next life we will have the future you dream of. Until then I wish you the same joy and pleasure you gave me. With all my love, and all that I am.

Marcus reads the beautiful words over and over. They spin around his skull as he dresses, pulling on his toga and cloak. But instead of anger in his expression he smiles serenely.

He's always enjoys a good chase.

#marcus acacius aesthetic #marcus acacius x you #marcus acacius x reader #marcus acacius #gladiator2 #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal #pedro pascal character #pedro pascal fanfiction #smut #pedro pascal smut

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gghostwriter · 3 months ago

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Hi, love your writing. If you’re open to requests, maybe Prison!Spencer x fem!reader where she’s in his apartment and finds an engagement ring ? Maybe she goes to visit him? Maybe she says yes?

Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader Trope: Established relationship; Angst & Fluff (?) w.c: 0.8k A/N: I found myself rambling throughout this and i dunno if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. Nevertheless, thank you for requesting and I hope you like it! 💗 Main masterlist

Cocoa Powder. // Spencer Reid

A philosopher once said that a gem cannot be polished without friction, nor a man perfected with trials. If that was the case, these past few weeks can be viewed as the trial of your and your boyfriend’s lifetime. With him being wrongfully arrested for murder and with you attempting your best to be a stable pillar for him and his mother to lean on.

With tears brimming in your eyes, that was how you found yourself elbow deep trying to bake chocolate muffins at three am in the morning, hoping to chase the nightmares away. It had been a routine almost—pitifully sleeping for only a few hours, waking up before dawn breaks, baking or cooking depending on your feeling, putting a smile on your face, getting ready for work, going to the office, coming back home, and repeating again. And again. And again and again.

Routines that once brought you comfort, now seemed to be the only barrier keeping away well-deserved nervous breakdown. Your hands begged for a distraction and your mind whirled, wanting to help find a solution to this trial. An act that you have no say on. The rest of the team was doing their best, you trusted them, but being a civilian did not make you privy to the ins and outs and red tape that came with Spencer’s arrest. All you knew was there was a female serial killer hyper-fixated on your boyfriend—and in extension, you and his mother.

The cocoa powder was missing. The cocoa powder that you knew you shelved away before catastrophe struck. The most important ingredient nowhere to be found. You sighed, aggressively wiping away errant tears. This, this might be the breaking point that would send you to a spiral—a breakdown caused by cocoa powder. A giggle escaped your chapped lips. There could be worst triggers, really.

You steeled yourself for another search that would no doubt end up with a failure. Maybe Spencer moved it? Maye he moved it out of your reach? You tilted your head to the side, loose strands falling out of your bun. Maybe it was up high on the cupboard?

Looking back, The idea made no sense but in that moment when lack of sleep and terrors plagued the crevices of your mind, you found yourself scaling up to your knees onto the kitchen counter—no doubts or second guessing.

You stretched out your fingers, further motivated when the tips felt a foreign object just within your reach. A triumphant sigh escaping your lips when the item was finally wiggled within your palm. The very same sigh that turned into a sharp intake of breath as the warm kitchen light gave away the mystery.

A black velvet box. A ring size velvet box.

“Oh my god,” you repeated under your breath. “Oh my god.”

The temptation to sneak a peek was overwhelming, to know if your hunch was correct. A peek wouldn’t hurt anybody, would it? No, it wouldn’t but this wasn’t how you wanted to find out about his intentions. Pretty sure this also wasn’t how he planned to ask. Clambering back up the counter, you pushed it back to where it was found—wanting to save your reaction for his eyes to see and for his lithe fingers to slide the ring into yours.

Out of sight, out of mind as they would often say. So there must be some truth to it, right?

———

Wrong. The box never left your mind. In fact, it had created it’s own quarters within your brain—whispering temptations for just a small glimpse. It was all too much, really. The stress, anticipation, and secrecy made you spoil it for Spencer, an act that you’re not at all proud of.

“It’s a yes,” you blurted out as you sat down for a visit.

He raked through his unkept curly hair. “Yes? Yes to what, sweetheart?”

“I love you. Don’t be mad.”

“Now, why would I be mad?” his voice coated with sweetness, coaxing the truth out. You never did have the will to deny him anything.

“Top most shelf on the left kitchen cupboard.”

His body stiffened before slouching into his seat. A breathy laugh escaping him. “You saw?”

You nodded.

“And after all this, that’s still your answer?”

“Yes.”

A smile broke through. The type of smile that showed warmth in his hazel eyes and the same type that had your heart melting like a puddle of goo.

“I love you, Y/N.”

“I love you too, Spence, till death do us part.”

Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

#spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfiction #reid fic #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid #spencer reid angst #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #pau’s request inbox 💌

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seresinhangmanjake · 13 days ago

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Fluff for Feyd, reader tells him that she’s proud of him and it’s the first time someone’s said that to him genuinely 🩵

Feyd-Rautha x reader

All He Knew

Summary: Feyd deals with the emotional aftermath of protecting you from his uncle.

Notes/Warnings: mention of past abuse, mention of death, and vulnerability. It's fluffy-ish and angsty-ish, and slightly different, but I still kept in the main idea. Hopefully you still like it :)

Words: 1150

Feyd-Rautha Masterlist / Main Masterlist / Tag list

You knew the second your husband’s blade went through the Baron’s neck that his whole world would change. Everything inside of him would disconnect. The pieces of his inner self would scatter chaotically, and he would no longer know who to be. You knew because of the power his uncle held over him for the majority of his life.

After Feyd killed his mother, the Baron was all he had. And how do you go from having the fullness of an overbearing presence on your shoulders—miserable as it was—to nothing? By killing the Baron, Feyd excised a part of himself, as if some creature had sauntered up to his side and taken a big bite out of his body. And now there’s a chunk missing that you fear cannot be filled, even by you.

He cries when he thinks you’re asleep. And though you continue to feign unconsciousness as you roll over and drape your arm over his waist, it’s not always enough to stop the tears. Part of you knew it wouldn’t be, but you still hoped. You hoped that having you beside him would remind him why he did what he did.

The Baron had ordered your execution because you were taking too long to provide an heir, and as you were dragged in front of the old man to answer for your ‘crime’, Feyd was nowhere near to protect you. The Baron was smart—he took you from the comfort of your bed in the early morning as your husband was training for another fight in the arena. The plan was simple, and Feyd wouldn’t know about your fate until it was too late. He wouldn’t be able to save you.

But he did, somehow. Your best guess is that Feyd has a mole, or many, throughout the Harkonnen fortress to relay everyone’s movements, because Feyd was rushing into the room and thrusting his blade into squishy flesh just as the order to end your life was leaving the Baron’s lips. And in those quick seconds, your husband was changed.

You don’t know how to bring him back to you. At least, you didn’t. You wrestled with it for days until it dawned on you that what he might need is not necessarily your touch or the reminder that he still has a wife, but instead, the words he deserves to hear.

—

“Feyd, I’m proud of you.”

You’ve been watching him all morning, standing aside, not wanting to interrupt his process of slowly nipping away at a training dummy with his knife. There are holes of all sorts in the torso, both deep and shallow, and slashes across the inanimate face. It has lost both its legs. One arm hangs on by what would be a thin cord of skin were it human. When your words reach him from the other side of the room, he pauses mid-swing.

“You did a hard thing,” you continue as his arm drops to his side and he straightens his stance from a fighters position. “You did a painful thing.”

His adam’s apple bobs. He sighs and stares down at the blade, the sharp point digging into his index finger as he twirls it. He has yet to look at you in the hour you’ve been here, and with the unpredictability of your husband, you don’t know what he’s going to do next. But you wait, patiently, because that is what you can do for him.

“I wouldn’t let him take you from me,” he finally says. The blade stabs into the gut of the dummy. “He’s damaged me enough.”

That’s all he gives you. Your heart shatters for him and for the walls he’s been building between you since he killed his uncle; walls that took you ages to tear down after you married him. You’d done so well at getting him to trust and love you, and you hate to watch the bricks stacking as the minutes pass.

“Since when are you proud when I kill?” he asks.

And it’s a fair question. You’ve never been a fan of the death that wreaks through the halls of the Harkonnen fortress. You’ve never enjoyed his triumphs in the arena. But this is different, and so you must handle it differently, with a gentle hand and well-chosen words, despite what those words may bring.

He hasn’t often handled well certain topics that you’ve tried to bring up in the past. Risky topics, you learned. Topics that have usually left him drawing away from you until the next morning comes and he can pretend as if you never brought them up.

When you’ve asked about his parents, he gets fidgety; can’t stand still, can’t stop messing with his hands, can’t look you in the eye for more than a quarter of a second. He’s unlike the husband you know. When you’ve asked about his uncle, he’s worse. He’s more than just unlike your husband, he detaches himself from the moment completely. He becomes stiff as a board; a statue with a faraway gaze in his eyes. He offers few words. But those reactions are enough for you to assume the truth of his past without him giving you more than the little he has.

“Feyd, he was abusive,” you say, closing the distance between you. “You ended someone who had power over you for years. Of course I’m proud of you.”

“It’s not as if I did it for me; I did it to save you.”

“You did it,” you tell him. “You did it when you needed to protect us most. You didn’t let him hurt me and force you to accept his justifications for doing so. That's what matters.”

Long beats pass that grow longer with each one. Your heartbeat pounds in your ears so violently that they feel stuffed with cotton. You fear his reaction; a further pulling away from you—something you’re not sure you’ll be able to take. But then he drops the knife to the floor, turns to you, and tucks his head into the space where your neck meets your shoulder.

His arms slowly snake around your waist and squeeze you tight, and you’re struggling to breathe properly, but you don’t care because the half-built brick wall just tumbled down. He needs you.

His exhales shakily graze over your collarbone. A droplet forges a path down your chest, disappearing into your cleavage and leaving a chilled trail in its wake. You raise your hand to the back of his head and hold him against you, letting more droplets trickle down your body, letting your skin muffle sobs.

“I’m sorry it had to be like this,” you whisper.

He inhales, breathing you in, and then says, “There’s not a life where I wouldn’t have done it for you.”

“I know,” you tell him.

“It shouldn’t hurt.”

“It’s allowed to hurt,” you say. “He’s all you knew.”

#feyd rautha x reader #feyd rautha x you #feyd rautha fic #austin butler #dune 2

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futurewriter2000 · 11 months ago

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My astrology observations:

Every person with Aquarius placement in their big three pisses me off for poofing away when they're sad. LET ME TAKE CARE OF YOU!

Gemini placements talk a lot but nobody knows about what. They are also so funny

Capricorns stare into my soul... They also move SO slow

Leos need a compliment, either from people or themselves.

Sagittarius just don't give a fuck.

Leo women are always late.

Aries rather moves on than fights for you.

Gemini placements can't stand still. LIKE JUST STOP FOR 5 MINUTES! Goddamn, they can be walking from their room to the bathroom 15 times to do what they could have done in one trip.

Scorpios.... There's something about Scorpios that just wants me to make out with them. So hot... And sexy... Plus the eye contact they give...

Aquarius and Pisces are real toxic together. I had witnessed too much of that.

Every Pisces man I met is a coward and a real dick.

Leos could have one friend and still be the bussiest of the Zodiac signs

Scorpios and just being attracted to them

Fire moons usually "overexaggerate" and talk too much during sports games.

Every Virgo I know has stomach issues. They feel through their stomach. They are also one of the most ambitious zodiac signs I know.

Leos are actually quite sentimental. Yes, they want all expensive but bring them a flower and they will put it in their special box of all most important things. Their attitude may be eh but their heart is gold and soft af.

Libra Venus start to become the person they like and they always like somebody so they always change their personalities.

Sagittarius Sun or Risings (not all but most) are usually tall with a dirty blonde and green eyes complex... and nice hips... and ass...

Taurus are so pissed at you and then they will just love you forever and ever and ever and you are their baby.

Pisces? Are you here or did you float away into another galaxy again?

Libra Sun and Risings want to be presented as ��perfect✨ in society.

I’m afraid of cancers because they are so nice and sweet and all the most wonderful things but I know they can be evil and mean too so I have trust issues with them.

Aquarius are so unbothered and bothered at the same time… like how do you function?

Aquarius Moons are my favourite because they are so fun and so playful and they THINK SO FCKING MUCH.

Virgos are the most stressed out of the zodiac signs because everything has to go their way and when it doesn't they die a bit inside.

Aries moon are explosive af. Like shhhh, use your quiet voice.

Sagittarious moons are so funny to me because they are actually so self-observed but it's the cute kind, you know. I just want to be with them all the time and give them an ego boost because they are so sweet.

Capricorns will never, ever, EVER tell you their next move. They keep their plans to themselves. They keep themselves to themselves. They are here and they are gone.

Gemini placements... cannot relie on them (I have a lot of Gemini placements and I agree. I am unreliable because I think I can manage everything but then I realise I can't and have to cancel 5 plans).

Scorpios are so sharp and hardworking. Nobody realises that but Scorpios will do things AS IT SHOULD BE DONE and they will run you over if they have to. Nothing comes between them and their success.

When leos are comfortable around you, they will never shut up.

Taurus are evil af. They're cute and cuddly on the outside but they have one of the meanest characters. You gotta love them though.

Pisces will not study for an exam but will go in depth to knowing one random thing.

Cancers CAN DRINK! THEY CAN DRINK LIKE NO OTHER! Like damn... how is your liver? They are also a social butterfly and busy all the time. I don't know who said they are emotional and senstitive- they can be such a bad ass.

Sagittarious people are one of the luckiest signs but one thing goes wrong in their life and they will cry for three months about it.

Capricorn women have that alpha female power. I don't care what you say, they will go from the bottom to the top with a snap of fingers and they will be the biggest boss in town.

Virgos are the only of the zodiac signs that will see the gratest potential in you or anything really and they will force you to thrive towards that but if you don't believe in it, they will stop trying.

Scoripios and Leos are the realest friends because they will tell you everything in your face and protect you behind you back. Unless, you did them wrong... then they will tell shit about your back. They're petty that way, so choose wisely.

Taurus live a simple life. They don't complicate their lives too much.

Pisces throw great parties. They are also good cuddlers.

(That's it for now. It has been in my drafts for about two years but like if you want more or not.)

#astrology #astrology observations #aries #taurus #gemini #cancer #leo #virgo #libra #scorpio #sagittarius #capricorn #aquarius #pisces

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thedreamlessnights · 11 months ago

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Distraction

Gale x F!Reader - NSFW

Summary: Gale is working in his study. You have half a mind to distract him.

Warnings: 18+ (and I cannot stress this enough). Established relationship, blowjob, oral sex (male receiving). Sappy Gale. Mystra hate. Takes place post-game and includes mild spoilers.

Word Count: 2.1k

Gale Dekarios is easily distracted.

It’s something you’d noticed not long after meeting him: his long, informative tangents, excited bursts of information, trails of thought that faded away when he saw you. Anything that came to mind was bound to pull him away from the current time and setting.

Now, after knowing him as long as you have, you’re more than familiar with that tendency for distraction. It’s endearing, in fact. You don't like to be complacent, but you have noticed that his distraction always seems to be most prominent when he’s around you. His sharp wit dulls, and his clean train of thoughts turns into slips of the tongue.

Your mother had given you plenty of advice when you were young, but one strain sticks with you the most: that there is nothing more attractive than a man who wants you, and has no qualms with showing it.

Given your relationship with Gale, you’ll have to agree. Long after the two of you have settled into his tower in Waterdeep, it’s the thing you like to play with most. A stroke of your ego, perhaps, but you never grow tired seeing just how much Gale desires you. Physically, emotionally. Spiritually.

That want isn't always in your head, but it often plays through your thoughts, especially when Mystra comes to mind. How many different ways has he professed his love for you? Moreover, how many times has he internally not felt enough for you - and as the result of a goddess who used him then discarded him like he was nothing?

Time and time again, it’s the subject that irks you: that he has no idea how much you want him. You’re married, yet he still has no clue how much you mean to him. You can never say it enough. Lately, you’ve taken to trying to show him.

He’s never told you specifically, but you know that Mystra had made him feel unworthy, and that he still feels that way now and then. You can practically see the scars she’d left on him, written into his anxious words. Little by little, those scars are fading - but if you have anything to say about it, Gale will never feel unwanted again.

Which is what brings you to the study, looking for your husband. You find him sitting at his desk, scribbling away at a loose paper like he usually does. Something important, judging by the look of it.

His shoulders are scrunched together, his brows are pinched, and the back of his hand is black with smudged ink when he bats a stray strand of hair out of his eyes. It’s perhaps cruel to interrupt him, but something tells you he won’t mind.

You step further in, settling at his side and placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.

He gives you a smile when he sees you, some of his tension bleeding out of him. “My love,” he says brightly, taking your free hand in his. “I trust your day’s been well?”

“It’s been alright,” you say. Mostly, you’ve been missing him - he often coops himself down here for his research, and you and Tara are the only ones able to pull him away. You trail your fingers further down his arm, locking at the elbow, and his breath audibly hitches.

Oh, you think. You know very, very well what that means.

You lean in a little closer, giving him a soft smile. “What about yours?”

“Good,” he says, suddenly breathless. “Very good. Just wait until you see the research I’m doing. It’s astounding.”

You love listening to him talk. The way he delivers information is charming, to say the least. The way his eyes light up. The way his tangents can spin on for hours, and yet only seem like a few moments. The passion that tinges his voice, his gestures, his words. It’s one of your favorite things about him.

And yet.

You keep your eyes fixed on his as you lift his palm to your lips, and pink dusts over his cheeks. “By the weave,” he mutters, swallowing hard. “You’ll be the end of me - do you know that?”

His hand brushes over his papers, and you glance over at them - the ones he had just been so aptly working on before you interrupted.

You’ve known Gale enough to know the difference between work that’s important, and work that can wait. The eagerness in his eyes, the airiness to his voice, and the way his pupils dilate all spell out one thing: this work can wait.

You experimentally trail your fingers over his thigh. He squirms a little, his breath catching again. Warmth starts to simmer under your skin, and you can't help chasing after the feeling.

“Gods,” Gale murmurs, swallowing hard.

You lean in until your lips are next to his ear. The scent of him is warm and tempting on his skin: something woodsy and sharp, mixed with the smell of old books.

“I’ve missed you,” you tell him, moving your fingers just a little bit upward. Enough to have his breathing jagged and strained, but not high enough to be where you know he’d like them to be.

“If I wasn't working…” he says. And yet, he’s completely dropped his quill. His eyes are on you, not his papers.

Your mind forms a plan.

“By all means, don’t stop on my account,” you tease, nipping at his ear. When you pull away, his pupils are blown out - brown irises nearly drowned out by black - and his eyes only dilate further when you get on your knees in front of him.

For a moment, you simply sit, waiting for a protest. He gives none. In fact, when you start unlacing his trousers, he leans back, giving you more access to touch him.

The heaviness of his breath makes him impossible not to tease. Gale is always incredibly obvious in the things he wants, and you love to see the way he wants you. You want to hear it. Physical proof of it, tangible in the air.

“Go on,” you urge. “Keep working.”

Gale murmurs something under his breath, and your ears only catch the faintest breath of it: your name, said as a plea.

You start by taking him into your hand, belly fluttering at the sight of him. He’s already half-hard, silky and warm in your grip. He inhales sharply when you touch him and shudders when you stroke along his length, placing a kiss to his still-clothed thigh. You halt, and after a moment, you hear a curse. Then, what you’re listening for.

The scribble of his quill.

It halts ever so briefly when you trail your tongue along the head of his cock, teasing at the sensitive skin the way you know he likes. Then it resumes - albeit, erratically - and you take him further into your mouth.

The taste of him is subtle, but you know it like the back of your hand. Something salty, vaguely sweet. You moan around him, planting a hand on his thigh, and enjoy the way his hips unconsciously buck toward you.

He lets out a soft groan, and the quill pauses again. Are his hands shaking, you wonder? Are his sentences coherent? When this is all over, you’ll glance at his paper and find out. If you’ve ruined it enough, you might even keep it.

You want this to last, so your rhythm starts off slow. You want to please him. To pleasure him beyond belief. The goddess of magic may be his old lover, but can she hold a candle to your fervor? You doubt it.

With you I forget my goddess, he’d said. Just the memory of that has arousal simmering under your skin.

Once he’s writing at a normal pace again, you continue, drawing out the drag of your tongue along his length. Then you take him into your mouth once more, gently sucking down the shaft.

In response to your actions, Gale makes an assortment of sounds you’d like to bottle up and keep forever - a soft, seeking noise when you suck a little harder, a long groan when you take him down to the base. His quill is almost certainly shaking by now.

You pull away, and glance up at him - and gods, the sight of him. His cheeks flushed, his brows pinched in pleasure. His attempts to keep his breathing even, and his concentration somewhat on his paper. He’s clearly failing.

You’re suddenly all too aware of how clothed he is. How clothed you are. Arousal floods down your back, hot, wanting more. Wanting to take him back into your mouth and finish him.

Instead, you pull his shirt away from his abdomen and tug it up his torso. Kneeling, you aren’t able to pull it up very far. Gale, ever perceptive, finishes the job for you.

“It seems distracting me wasn’t enough?” he asks lightly, his tone teasing but airy. “Now you want me to remove my clothes as well?”

You let out a soft laugh and work the rest of his clothes off of him, admiring the view.

Gods, he’s handsome. Miles of warm skin under your touch. Soft, dark hair under your fingers. A shudder that you follow down his abdomen. You look over him - the clear desire in his face, his lips parted - and heat floods between your legs. “Well,” you reply, playing coy, “I can stop if you’d like. Let you get back to your work.

He lets out a shaky exhale. “Don’t,” he requests softly.

You press your lips to his navel, trailing feather-light kisses downward, and your name crosses his lips again, half-pleading.

You pause to look up at him, and he gives you a brief smile when you meet his eyes.

“Darling,” he says, his voice strained. “Not that I’m not enjoying what you’re doing, but - surely, you don't mean for me to be the only one this… scantily clad?”

As a matter of fact, you do. Or, at least, you had. You’re impatient. You want him close. Shuddering to his climax, coming on your tongue, groaning your name as his hand fixes tightly in your hair.

But you know he wants to see you, and you’re eager to give him what he wants. After a moment of internal debate, your hands begrudgingly part from him to undo the buttons of your top, exposing yourself to him as his eyes drink you in like the finest wine.

His thumb comes down to brush over your cheek. “I could live a thousand lifetimes,” he says, suddenly tender, “and never find anything as beautiful as you are.”

In response, you lift his palm from your cheek and place a kiss to it - a kiss which you can only hope gets across the thousands of words you’d like to say to him. Then, you gently move that hand into your hair.

Gale hesitates for a moment, then flexes his fingers, grip loose and careful.

When you put your tongue on him again, that grip tightens - not painful, but firm. You let out a soft moan around him and he curses, clearly trying to restrain himself from rolling his hips into your warm, waiting mouth.

In response, you plant a hand on his waist and take him further, encouraging him to take what he so clearly wants to. He curses again, breathing heavily, and chases after his climax, following the rhythm you’re so diligently setting.

If it weren't for the distant ache in your jaw, you’d be content to stay like this forever. Hearing the sinful noises he’s making as he gets closer. Feeling the muscles of his thigh flex under your hand. Listening to his panting, and the sound of your name uttered in warning as his pleasure builds ever higher.

He jerks his hips into you, once, twice - and then the taste of him is filling your mouth, hot and sweet, and he’s groaning your name like the sound has been punched out of him.

You keep sucking at him long after he’s come, until he’s jerking in sensitivity. He gently eases your head away from him with the hand that’s still in your hair.

“You really will be the end of me,” he says breathlessly. “You're wonderful. Now, come here, will you?”

You rise from your sore knees and meet him in a messy, wanting kiss, his lips soft and warm, his hand cradling your jaw.

He nudges his nose against yours, and as his hands tug at your waistband, you realize that you’re positively soaked. His pleasure had come first when he was in your mouth, but now, it’s white-hot and will not be ignored any longer.

“You’ve taken care of me. Allow me to return the favor?” he asks, eagerness spilling into his words.

And how could you ever say no to him?

#gale x reader #gale x tav #gale x you #gale dekarios #baldurs gate 3 x reader #gale dekarios x you #mywriting

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pearl-tarotist · 1 year ago

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-‘❥’- PAC: What does your crush think of you? -‘❥’-

“Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up.” (Neil Gaiman - The Sandman)

P1 ➣P2➣ P3

PILE 1

(5oS – knight of Swords – 3oP -The hanged man – 9 of Cups)

First of all, I feel that this is a distant crush. It feels as if you both just see each other in determined circumstances that are surrounded by an intellectual status…so your crush could be a co-worker, someone you hold debates with, maybe he’s in another department/class from yours… You could even just see each other in reunions or meetings… and this affects the way your crush sees you.

They think you are someone with a sharp and direct intellect, not scared of confrontation. You are focused on your ideas and taking them into term, witty-minded. Focused energy, someone that would defend their ideas to the death but that’s also able to work in cooperation to carry a project forward. So, you could be a really good worker/student.

One thing that stand here, it’s a confrontation, not directly towards them but they see you as someone really different from them. You may show new perspectives, new ideas and new energies. Intuitively, they have an interest in these new ideas and proposals you may do to other, but in their presence. Even if your ideas do not coincide, they must enjoy this new fresh air that you bring. You keep them on their toes and they like that.

Somehow, they are also able to see, in your interactions with others a more candid you. A bit childish, happier, creative…They see you as good person even if you are a bit stubborn. They are still able to see a sweeter energy, emotionally satisfied. Stability, a matured, even if young, woman.

I do not see a romantic liking but an interested for your ideas and progress.

PILE 2

(Ace and knight of wands – The High Priest – 2oC – 7oP) (W: A bit +18).

Pile 2, I gasped when I saw the cards. It was so amazing to see this.

With the ace and knight of wands, your crush may feel a strong magnetic and sexual pull towards you. They do feel sparks when they see you, you may inspire their creativity and thoughts torward a certain region. They could dream about offering themselves to you.

They see you as someone with a lot of creativity and with a strong will to pursue your aspirations. They may be working on their approach to you yet, they see you as mystery…They must have not had the chance yet to approach you.

With the High Priest, they think you are clever, intelligent, wise and with inner wisdom, you are in a period of a high attractive for them…they could even enjoy mental communication such as being able to communicate with you just by looks, eyes, touches…

They think both of you could be a nice match for each other, there’s an opportunity for a good and stable connection. They feel they could trust you to guide them and advise them, if they could, they would choose you for a long-term relationship, friendship or romance, they are interested in having someone like you in their life.

They could see you as a reward for their hard-work, it’s as if they were thankful that finally after so many times or relationships, they have finally found someone like you.

A perfect match.

PILE 3

(8oW – The Moon – 6oC – 9oS – The Lovers)

Hard-working, feminine, a mystery.

You arrived at their lives as a mere instant, a memory that was not supposed to stay for a long time… but I think they cannot keep you like that; they need more. They think constantly about you, unconsciously.

They don’t even know why but you stay in their minds, sometimes, because you remember them of good memories of their childhood, you have a warmness and a quickness that’s childish but soft and sweet.

They could be attracted to you because of your feminine nature, you have a personality and aura that makes some of you feel comfortable, like home.

Somehow, they think you also worry a lot, about things that maybe do not need worry. You could feel anxious about a lot of things due to your past experiences, but you do not share them, so they are unaware that your fears have an explanation.

Still, lovely in your social interactions, they would like to speak to you more often and discover a tremendous amount of things about you. A superficial opinion for maybe a small period of time you both shared?

#tarot #pac #tarot reading #astrology #pick a pile #free tarot #love tarot #pick a card #crush #platonic love #love tarot reading

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vetteltea · 11 months ago

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Love Will Always Show | CL16 & CS55

Summary: The choice of a lifetime is yours to make, your husband and lover both longing for your heart. They face conflict, choices and most importantly, one another.

Word Count: 8.4K [& a bit more]

Warnings: angst, mentions of cheating and dishonesty, manipulation, hospital talk.

Note: The fact I was a newbie to F1Blr when this started and now...here we are. I want to thank each and EVERY person who has ever read this series. It's changed everything for me, it is truly my love letter to you all and I hope you enjoy the finale. You are all forever in my heart and I cannot thank you all enough.

PART 1: A House, A Home | PART 2: Where Do We Go? | PART 3: ‘You Think, You Know’ | PART 4: 'Love Will Always Show'

Love is a gentle hand cradling your back.

Time had suspended when your body had collapsed onto the rough floor outside of the Scuderia Ferrari hospitality. Immediately, several scarlet-clad personnel were running over, shouts echoing across the open space, somebody mumbling that they needed to get you somewhere safe and warm before your body temperature dropped dangerously.

There’s a question of who to call; your father wasn’t in the country, ever since your mother’s funeral, he’s become silent, your siblings having been lovingly sent to stay with a close aunt. He had been absent from the previous Ferrari meeting, his assistant having sent a message to say he would be absent for a little longer. Clearly, the death of your mother was taking a toll.

The next obvious choice of course, was your husband. However, with the win that he had been craving for oh-so-long, he was currently wrapped up in press, endless ‘congratulations’ messages from celebrities and presenters alike. Nobody would know where to find the monegasqué right now, let alone how to tell him of his wife’s status whilst surrounded by endless television cameras and sly reporters.

There’s no need for him, anyway. Leaving the media pen after vigorous questioning of his loyalty to the team and his current emotions on a premature end to the race, Carlos’ dark eyes quirk to the side, registering the crowd of bodies circling the hospitality area. They only widen when the realization dawns on his clouded mind that it’s you, your body is the one thing they are all crowding around.

His steps break into a run, no signal being given to his media manager nor his cousin. He speaks a few sharp, spanish words, creating a break in the circle, able to insert his toned body into the sea of red, immediately squatting, one hand coming out to elevate the back of your head. He knows how particular you could be with your hair, how you insisted on now sleeping on silk pillowcases to keep it healthy. Asphalt ground was not comfortable nor hygienic.

There’s talk; talk about whether to take you to the hospital, whether to wait for your husband to return and make the decision. Carlos feels his blood curdle at the use of marital status. His teammate, the man who had treated you no better than the way he had treated bonds of trust, was the one to make a choice of your health and wellbeing.

He simply cannot stand for that.

“We need to take her to the hospital.” He interrupts the commotion, the strong tone settling over the panicked employees. “Surely that is the best place for her if she is unconscious, no?” The whispers and mumbles which echo the surrounding members of the team signify agreement.

There’s a discussion of how to bring you in without drawing attention to the media. Surely, if a giant ambulance or even a medical car was to storm through the paddock, no doubt endless media outlets would be creating headlines before even bothering to speak to anybody present. The Spaniard is already making his own choice, using his arms to gently adjust your body.

He shouldn’t; he really shouldn’t be moving you, not when you haven’t been checked for broken bones or concussion. Yet, the idea of the most beautiful girl, Mariposa, lying on a hard floor with no form of comfort or safety sickens him to his stomach. Carlos is still gentle with the movements, letting your head lean into his stomach, one hand is supporting your back, tanned fingers digging gentle patterns into the curve of your skin. The other one traces once, twice, three times around your cheekbone, dark eyes transfixed on your features.

You must have hit your skin when falling to the ground; there’s a graze dancing across your cheekbone, specks of dirt resting in between each knock. The man cradling you is gentle, moving his shirt just enough up his body that he’s able to take the hemmed end, feather it across your cheek in an attempt to remove the offending chunks.

Someone nudges Carlos’s shoulder, more in an attempt to tell him somebody was just outside the Paddock; that they could drive you to the hospital right now. He…he can’t bring himself to leave you. A strong grasp lifts you from the ground, holding you close to his chest, murmuring that he would get you there, and he supposed somebody would have to find Charles.

The area grows quiet; Carlos’ pace draws away from the Paddock and to the back entry. He was thankful that the entirety of the drivers were still either trapped in the media or with their own teams, celebrating or commiserating. He had enough of that for one day; an entire six laps was barely worth speaking about.

You’re still unconscious, still limp in his arms. However, there’s a rise and fall of your chest, you’re still breathing. That’s all he could ask for at this present time. He silently promises himself there and then that when you wake up, he’s making his final move. Where Charles has been playing chequers, he is playing chess; he had proven that even whilst you were stuck with your estranged husband, he would love you regardless.

There’s a people carrier in the car park, he’s certain he’s seen various drivers use it before; a built-in stretcher lies in the back, it’s ideally a discreet ambulance. The media could be brutal with gossiping when any driver had to leave the track. It would look worse if Charles Leclerc’s wife was seen leaving the paddock with his teammate. The driver of the vehicle nods when seeing the two get closer, stepping to sit in the driver’s seat whilst Carlos adjusted his grasp.

He lays you down onto the stretcher; it’s secured, you’ll be safe for the drive. The man can’t help but feel a draw of protectiveness over you. What on earth had caused it to collapse? Had he done something? Blood boiled, if your husband had done anything to cause this, he could personally guarantee that Charles would not be finishing any races for the remainder of the season. He would make sure of that.

His attention is caught by the glimmer of silver on your left hand; your wedding band. When he reaches the car, tucks you into the seat carefully and makes sure the seatbelt is secure around your frame, his fingers glide over your hand, removing the band and putting it in his own pocket.

‘It’s for your own good,’ he tells himself. ‘If your fingers swell up, they may need to cut it off.’ He could tell himself this story a thousand times; it doesn't hide the fact that his true intention in this moment is simple; for once, he could be the devoted husband, taking his wife to be nursed back to health.

The Spainard leans down, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your forehead, murmuring that you were going to be okay, that he would stay with you the entire time. The driver shouts, telling him to take a seat so they could get there before the press figured out something was wrong. He kisses your skin once more, before closing the doors, sprinting to the backseat, throwing his body in carelessly.

Angst overtakes his senses, shouting at the driver to start the car, he doesn't care about being strapped in. This way, he’s able to lean over the backseat, one hand reaching out to clasp at your own. You need to know that somebody is there, that he is there for you. He’s always been there for you. The car pivots out of the parking space, beeling for the main road and to the hospital.

Love is a scream for your name.

“Charles, tu dois ralenir!” Joris is insisting he needs to slow down the car; turning the current Leclerc in hospital into a duo would not be a satisfying outcome.

Ever since he’s been told, all your husband can see is red mist. One Ferrari employee had sprinted up to him whilst he was in the midst of cameras, the grin on his face as he’s finally able to seek his wife out, wanting nothing more than to skip on the Scuderia celebrations and take you instead, your beaming smile radiating the energy he had been bathed in.

It’s funny how life can change in the matter of a few moments; one second, he’s on top of the world, the next, Charles is pushing through every media outlet, fan and celebrity, barging himself into his driver’s room. He doesn't have time to remove his fireproofs, to pick up any of his belongings apart from his car keys. He isn’t communicating, french profanities fall from his lips, shaking his head in rage that nobody could find him to tell him. Tell him that his wife had been taken to hospital.

Joris had been the one to sprint after him; he knew better than most, when Charles saw nothing but mist, there was no getting to him, not whilst he was determined to do something. The driver knew in his heart his best friend was not to blame; after all, he had no idea of your disappearance, he had been with Charles almost the entire time. And yet…he can’t bring himself to even speak to Joris. Not until the duo make it to his rented car, Charles is adamant he is driving.

He only starts speaking when his best friend tells him to slow down. The driver barely does, only drawing to a slower pace when he sees the traffic lights start to build in front of him. Even in a panic, he respects road rulings. Drawing to a stop, the man finally has a second to take a shaky, unbalanced breath, angry tears pooling at the bottom of his eyes.

“Why did nobody tell me my wife was at the hospital?” His voice is strained, he’s clearly holding back tears, whether they’re angry or fearful is a different question. “She’s my- she’s my wife!” He can’t stop repeating it, as if it’s a prayer. His wife. His wife.

“She’ll be okay.” Joris knows that’s quite possibly the worst thing he could say to his best friend, but it’s the only thing he can bring himself to say. “She will be. C’est juste par précaution.”

“Putain!” Charles’ words are sharp, immediately pressing on the acceleration as the light switches to green, overtaking three cars in a matter of moments. He’s a man of regret, he has been ever since he realized how much he adores you. In that moment, he can’t help but think of everything he could have done differently that afternoon. He could have come and found you right after the podium, could have given you his jacket and told you to stay in his driver’s room, he would come and get you after. He could- he could of-

He could of waited with you after the funeral. He could have come and picked you up from Milan when you went to spend time with Carlos. He could have deleted his mistress’ number, and told her he was married.

“Tourner à gauche.” Joris tells his best friend to turn left, the Hospital Car Park coming into view. Charles turns the car, immediately eyes are roaming for any space, anywhere he could put the car. A sharp whistle and point from his best friend shows him a space right by the Emergency Department, parking the vehicle in possibly the worst way he ever has done. Within three seconds, the engine is switched off, seatbelts are unbuckled, and he’s shouting to Joris to pay for the parking, he needs to get inside.

For a driver, his sense of direction is becoming worse. It takes him a solid minute to read a sign, before his legs break into a sprint, skidding into a bustling Emergency Room. There’s old men, leant over in pain, convinced they’re dying. A child snuffling, masses of paper towels on her head. A woman with a twisted ankle, her attention engrossed by the magazine in her grasp. It smells of hand sanitiser and bleach, the yellow walls are hurting his eyes.

A woman behind the desk taps the counter, drawing his attention. “Hey- Sir!” She snaps. You can’t blame her; it’s hour thirteen of her fifteen hour shift. “You can’t be in here unless you’re hurt-”

He shouts your name. It’s as if he completely forgets he’s in a building. Charles is embedded in a maze, even if a lady in front of him can pull up your immediate location, he needs to find you himself, and he needs to find you now.

It isn’t until Joris comes in, having heard his best friend scream your name, that he overtakes Charles so overcome that he’s now hiding his head in his hands, unable to say anything that wasn’t your name. His ears prick up when the second man starts speaking, giving the woman your first name, your last name- Leclerc- and when you had been bought in. There’s a light tapping of the keyboard, she tells Joris you are in the department round the corner, room ten-

Charles is gone before she can finish her sentence, catapulting down the hallway, dodging round endless people, frantically searching for doors with numbers, not names. He sees the number four. Six. Eight.

Number Ten rolls into view. Without a single word, his hand latches around the door handle, pushing so violently the door smacks onto the inside wall. His eyes immediately fly to the bed, you’re lying there, so unconscious, still so beautiful, some strips over the graze on your cheek. Still, arms to either side, one hand connected to an IV, clearly in an attempt to rehydrate you. His first question is the location of your wedding ring, where on earth was it? Has it been taken away? It’s a question he completely forgets about when his gaze travels further.

The other hand is being held by a Spanish man he knows all too much about.

Love is notes left on a coffee cup.

Both men stood, silently hovering over your body whilst the nurse came in to run a course of tests, check your blood pressure, the IV line, make sure you were being cared for in the best capacity. Each held a coffee cup, Charles’ still primarily full, he couldn’t stomach anything; he felt sick from seeing you lie here, not laughing, smiling, speaking. Carlos had downed the drink bought in by Joris in a matter of moments; to him, it was fuel. Something to keep him awake until you woke up.

Whilst Charles was the one to ask questions; ‘Do you know what caused this? Is she going to have any long-term issues? Does she need any assistance when she wakes up?’ Carlos has captured the marker which has rested alongside the clipboard of your notes, his tongue poked out in concentration. The marker grazes along the cup, leaving a note, drawing a tiny picture of a butterfly- Mariposa- and placing the cup on your table, a silent message for if you woke up and god forbid- he wasn’t there.

The nurse draws away from your body, diverting her next task to the two men.

“I need to continue the examination but…” She looks to the door. “I cannot have you both in here. You need to wait outside, the Doctor will come in for further tests-”

“Can one of us wait here?” Carlos is the first to interrupt, the look on the woman’s face tells him he’s made a mistake.

“Both.” She clarifies, pointing at himself, then at his teammate. “One and two. You need to wait outside. If she wakes up or there’s any…issues, we will let you know.”

It turns out, both men are hesitant to leave you; Charles moves first, crouching by your side, running a gentle hand over your hairline, pressing his lips carefully to your temple. He’s murmuring, french words of adoration and comfort, that he will be right there when you need him.

When one steps away, the other comes forward. Carlos doesn't say anything, instead tracing a gentle finger across your cheek. His touch tells you everything, it speaks volumes. He loves you, he’ll be outside, don’t be afraid to come running into his arms like you had done once before. The nurse begins to lose her patience, ushering both men out into the corridor, telling them to sit in the plastic chairs provided or go somewhere else; she really didn’t care.

The scene is reminiscent of two boys sitting outside of the principal’s office; Charles’ head hides in his hands, leaning forward, still dressed in his fireproofs. He’s tied the sleeves around his waist, the dark undershirt now drenched in sweat from the driving, both on track and to the hospital.

He feels movement next to him, Carlos’ hand dips into his pocket, pulling out something small, silvery. Her wedding ring. He supposes Carlos means it as a sign of goodwill, that he kept it safe. In the Monégasques mind, it’s the fuel to light the fire. Scoffing, he snatches the jewelry off of his teammate, placing the band onto his pinky finger, it’s the only one it would fit on, the only way he could keep it safe.

“Funny. You took it off her.” He’s growing mad, aggravated that Carlos wouldn’t just go away and leave him and his wife alone. Hadn’t he done enough already? “Why don’t you go back to Natasha?” The blonde ex-media woman for their team is referenced. Carlos opens his mouth, ready to snap back, it was a low blow for Charles to reference his history with the woman.

“I know what you did.” He huffs. There’s something…different. Different in the way he speaks to Carlos now compared to every other day. The polite, civil conversation is gone, the fact he couldn’t pass judgment because of his own actions has evaporated. “I know you invited her to Madrid just to make a move.” He remembers seeing the instagram stories, how your eyes were wide, full of life. He made you remember life is beautiful. “You kept her close. You wanted her and didn’t like that she was mine.”

“Yours?” He scoffs. “She’s not your property, Charles.”

“No. But she’s my wife. I’m the one she lies next to every night, I’m the one who will care for her in sickness and health, who’s shoulder was leant on through every bad time.” He pauses. “Who picked her up after you coaxed her into your bed.” He laughs. Actually, laughs. The memory replayed in his head, how sleepy you looked as he guided you back into the SUV, how your heart sank when seeing the blonde approach his front door. In that moment, you had convinced yourself you meant nothing to Carlos apart from lust.

Charles was a jealous man; he had taken pride in stripping off his teammates' clothing, wrapping you in his own, soft hoodie. You were his. Carlos wouldn’t care for you the way he did, he was a man too full of lust. He was convinced the Spainard didn’t make you laugh, didn’t make you smile, didn’t make you come-

“You corrupted her, Carlos.” He finishes. “I know what you did-”

“-And I know what you did.” Carlos snarls. He doesn't care about anything more; he knows all too well that his teammate could go crying to the Ferrari bosses, have him removed from the team in a blink of an eye, throwing some false information out which he would have to comply with. But he doesn't care. His affection has grown too strong for that.

“I know everything, Charles.” He’s monotone, he’s stating facts. “I know how she waited at home for you on her birthday, whilst you were in your mistress’ bed.” Carlos remembers asking you about your plans the previous week, how you had brushed them off. “I know how she made you dinner every night, how you refused to eat it.” Charles feels his stomach drop, the endless leftovers stacked neatly in the fridge, the meals he had never bothered to try. “I know on your wedding night, you came into the hotel room drunk, covered in bites and she slept on the sofa-”

“Enough!” Charles’ voice shouts, standing up from the plastic chair in the corridor. He doesn't have to hear this, he can’t bear to hear this. One mistake a day was something he was always able to brush off. Hearing each and every one of his infidelities laid out in front of him sent his mind into overdrive. “You have no right to comment on-”

“On what?” The Spainard is standing up now, chest out and arms folded. “On your marriage?” He laughs, he smirks. “Can you call it that? A marriage is a bond between two people who love one another-”

“I love her!” Charles cuts him off, stepping closer. “I love her.” He repeats himself. Carlos looks gobsmacked, shaking his head in denial.

“You have a really weird way of showing her you love her.” He continues to poke, to prod. “Sharing a bed with another woman is not how you show love-”

“I admitted to my mistakes!” He’s quick to defend himself, how the restraining order was placed and a lawsuit filed, how he promised if you wanted to know anything, see anything, he would let you. How he would spend the rest of his days always feeling dread and regret. “I fixed them-”

“Who says she still loves you?” Carlos has snapped.

Charles hates to admit that he may be right. Is it really fair for him to expect your love after everything that has happened in the past year? It didn’t matter how many times he begged, he pleaded or promised. The man you had married had spent the better part of 365 days in the arms of another woman, a woman that as he stood here, clinging onto any hope of his marriage, meant absolutely nothing to him.

His slim fingers trail down, circling the cool band which rested on his left finger. He had decided there and then, he would keep it on, always. There would be no more reasoning, none. If Lewis could wear his earrings, Charles would wear his wedding ring. He looks back up, Carlos still boring into him with dark eyes, the anger he radiated almost entirely visible.

“Do you love her?” He presses. He needs to know; he doesn't bring himself to care that you had spent a night in his arms, not when he had done it to you a thousand times over. The idea makes him sick, but nothing compared to the idea that you are in love with somebody that isn’t him, not when he needs nothing but for you to come home, back to your home with him.

Charles swears he feels vomit rise into his mouth when Carlos nods. He’s not stupid, not really. He knows how he fell for you properly in the past few weeks, how for Carlos who has been in awe of your affection and attention, the center of every race weekend you had reluctantly attended. It may have been to support him, but you could still enjoy the fact that Carlos would be there, too.

Your husband isn’t sure what he wants to do anymore. If there wasn’t an examination happening, he would have run into your private room and locked the door. Instead, his glassy eyes gaze up, catching Carlos’ dark ones. It hits him at once; his teammate, somebody who he once considered a close- no, best friend, was the one who had taken his wife away from him. His brain can’t catch up with his body movements, the red mist clouds over once more.

Charles Leclerc punches Carlos Sainz in the nose.

He doesn't intend for it to be a strong punch; Formula One drivers are a lot stronger than they realize, and the contact not only causes the Spaniard to knock back, shouting out in pain, but a sharp sensation rockets through Charles’ clenched fist, wiggling his fingers as they relax. Carlos’ nose is immediately red, becoming scarlet by the moment, though no blood has fallen. Your husband’s immediate reaction is ‘Should have punched him harder.’

He doesn't have time to think about anything else, not before he has two strong hands on his chest, shoving him harshly. The sudden sensation causes him to lose balance, falling to the floor and landing on his back. A shock radiates through his body, Carlos looming over him, clearly ready for a second punch.

That thought is drawn away when the door to your room opens, both men immediately staring at the nurse, her hair worn and eyes tired. Before either man can throw a question at her, she speaks.

“She’s still not awake, we’re going to bring her around in an hour, but she’s going to have to stay overnight for observation. If one of you could get her some overnight things-”

“I can.” Charles immediately cuts off the nurse, pulling himself to sit up and stand from the floor. “I’m her husband. I will get them.” It’s a subtle jab to the man in front of him, Carlos still holding his nose, convinced it was about to start bleeding any moment. He would have gone and sought out attention for himself, if he hadn’t felt a sharp vibration in his back pocket, a phone call. In any other time, he would have ignored it. But he knows who it is, he knows how important it is.

Without a word, Carlos answers the call, rapidly speaking in Spanish as he walks down the hall.

Love is a pocket square at the bottom of a suitcase.

The contrast of Charles leaving the hospital was night and day to him arriving. He hadn’t spoken a word to Joris, apart from expressing that he needed to go back to the hotel to get your overnight items. Although it was barely a ten minute drive away, every minute felt like a century; he wanted nothing more than to go back to the hotel, sit by your side and hold your hand until you woke up.

He could have sent Joris back, given him the room key and told him to grab some things, but it didn’t seem right. The idea of his best friend going through your suitcase didn’t sit comfortably with him. Moreover, he didn’t know. Charles knew; he knew what pajamas you found the most comfortable, what outfit would be easiest for you to travel back in, how you wanted your panties and socks paired together and how your phone charger had to loop clockwise.

The ornate hotel room looks dull without you; your suitcase still rests in the bottom of the wardrobe; you had hung up evening wear, dresses for the inevitable after-parties. Folded in your suitcase remained your other clothing. Charles is quick to select his items; the tropical cotton pajamas. You had bought him a pair in the same fabric, telling him that they would be the comfiest thing to sleep in. Your stitched jumper and comfiest jeans. You had worn those jeans when you had tagged along to his photoshoot for the Ferrari livery, holding his water and the APM Monaco jewelry he couldn’t wear. Your outrageously expensive hairbrush. You had brushed his hair through after a particularly bad race, whispering promises that it would get better, that the car was going to evolve for him, the best driver on the grid.

Bile rises to Charles’ stomach and with no warning, he sprints to the bathroom, dropping to his knees by the toilet and throwing up the barely-there contents of his stomach. He had barely eaten, barely drank any water, but couldn’t help the sickness in his tummy.

He pulls away from the toilet basin, eyes watery, breath trying to catch up with the speed and cries.

Charles doesn't realize it’s happening at first, he hasn’t cried like this in so long; the kind of crying where you can’t fathom words, you don’t make a sound because you’re crying so deeply. The kind where your chest is exploding and your heart feels like it’s going to explode. The kind where all he wants is for his mother to cradle him like she did when he was five, run her hands through his hair and whisper him words of comfort.

This time, he doesn't want his mother, he wants you.

It’s selfish, it’s so incredibly selfish and it hurts to know that it’s taken him until now to realize what you mean to him. It would never happen, but his wound-up head can only close his eyes and visualize you running in, pulling his head into your chest and running your hands through his dark tufts, pressing cool lips to his forehead and promising him over and over that it was going to be okay. You were going to be okay.

He lets himself cry for five minutes; he times it because he wants to collect your things and make his way back, Joris was waiting in the car. When the five minutes are over, he pinches his nose, taking short, ugly gasps until his eyes remain bloodshot but not blurred. The sound of the toilet flushing echoes through the hotel room, making his way out of the bathroom and to the items he had hurriedly dropped atop of your suitcase.

Nimble fingers cradle each item, carefully rolling and tucking them into a pillowcase; he didn’t have a bag big enough to suffice each item and couldn’t bring himself to bring your entire suitcase along, it almost seemed as if once you had it, you could disappear from his life. At least this way, he could have one final farewell if you chose to leave. The items are almost secure, until his grip on the pillowcase folds, glassed eyes catching a glimmer of blue hidden at the bottom of the case. With no hesitation, he pulls on the fabric. His heart drops on the realization of the item.

It’s a pocket square. More specifically, it’s his pocket square from your wedding.

You don’t know when you had started packing it, but you supposed it was from your mother’s own doings. After her wedding to your father, she had always carried around her ‘something blue,’ as a gesture of good luck, of safety. After the first time you had found out about Charles’ mistress, you had discreetly tucked the fabric into your bag, carrying it around, a silent hope your husband would return to you.

It hadn’t worked in Jeddah. In Imola. In Spa. In Monaco. You had reluctantly taken it from your bag one evening, on the plane home from consoling your family, using your pen to doodle in the very corner ‘Mr and Mrs Leclerc,’ a silent fantasy of the loving marriage you had dreamed of.

That night was the first time you and Charles ever shared a bed.

The fabric lingers between his fingers, the blue contrasting against the silver of your ring, still resting on his pinky finger. Now changed into his own clothes, he slides the ring off, wrapping it gently in the pocket square and sliding it into his trouser pocket. As he does, he recognises your handwriting, the titles printed in the bottom of the fabric.

He can’t help the tears rolling down his cheeks once again.

Love is a desperate telephone call.

Carlos is still pacing around the outside courtyard of the hospital, having been on hold for a grand total of seventeen minutes. He is not a man of patience, he is not a man of quiet.

The phone buzzing in the corridor had been a welcome call, despite the situation. His lawyer, finally ringing him back after what felt like days of apprehension. He had dipped from the public eye to try and grab hold of some privacy, slipping in his wireless headphone so as not to hold the device to his ear for hours upon hours.

Almost thirty minutes ago, his lawyer had called him, confirming his thoughts of the previous days.

"You're not wrong." His lawyer has already clarified it once, twice, three times. "If there is evidence beyond a shadow of a doubt, then it is the correct term for a divorce.

Carlos feels his blood run cold. He loves her, he's as certain as that as he is of the fact that the sky is blue and his win in Silverstone. The man wants nothing more than to make her feel cherished, adored. Taking a bite out of his teammate was just a bonus feature.

That had been a few days ago, when the anger had surpassed him after Natasha’s return, how that made him look as bad, if not worse than Charles. He’d immediately sent her packing, blocked her on every form of media, gone as far as to insist if she ever came for a visit, he wouldn’t be present.

The second part, the evidence, had been laid out all too perfectly.

The line suddenly clicks, signaling his lawyer had returned. Carlos doesn't wait for a verbal queue, the audible sign of his return is more than enough.

“Do you have it?” He asks, barely any time to let the man on the other end of the phone respond. “You must have it, no? It should have been sent. I made sure it was sent.”

“I have it.” He clarifies. “I have them right here.” A rustle of paper is heard from the other end of the telephone, content of an envelope being spilled onto his desk. “Are you sure you want me to send these to be confirmed as evidence? That the women in the photographs will not retaliate?”

Carlos had not been entirely honest with you. Not about his knowledge of Charles’ situation. Ever since the confession all those months ago, the understanding that you knew of Charles’ affair, he had been playing a long, patient game. He had photographs, evidence of the mistress’ appearance at each paddock, her arms snaking around Charles’ body, kisses between the duo. How he could continue to do so, whilst you, the epitome of beauty, sat in his drivers’ room, playing the doting wife. At one point, he had considered going directly to the press, directly to Ferrari themselves to out their ‘Golden Boy.’

And then…he had seen you with him in the Paddock that one race, looking through the window of his driver’s room. How your fingers latched onto one another, how genuinely shattered you looked when she had shown up yet again, lingering outside of the hospitality area. The guilt snuck through him, how he had seen her arrive, and yet failed to mention to you, give you any warning of her presence.

Even if he had been the one to invite her. Even if he had been the one to press her about sending the photographs to Charles, not blackmail. Merely a reminder of his actions, how much he supposedly missed his mistress.

“She wouldn’t.” He’s quick to respond. “She wouldn’t care.” He’s not wrong, his mistress being in the limelight would only elevate her status, with the way his teammates’ brain worked, it would more than likely draw them back to one another.

“And Mrs. Leclerc?”

It’s the first time Carlos has hesitated. Even if he couldn’t admit it to himself, he knew that your relationship with Charles had grown, that ambient it was made paper-thin, the trust was slowly beginning to come back. He thinks about how your eyes blinked widely, in awe of your husband on the podium earlier that day, how it supposedly didn’t matter he had spent most of your marriage wrapped in her arms, you still looked at him like that. Did you look at him like that? Like the way he looked at you.

This action could draw out a multiverse of reactions but at the end of the day, he had settled with two. The first was that you understood, that you would see the evidence, and understand the case. Divorce Charles and marry him, even if it meant he would give up everything.

The second is that you would see the chaos he caused and you would never speak to him again.

“Mr. Sainz?” The voice at the end of the telephone draws him from his questioning, running a hand across his red, swollen nose. It wasn’t broken, but god it was hurting. Bruised, most likely. “I need an answer.”

He needed to speak to you.

“Can you just-” He huffs, running a hand through his dark hair, his fingers almost getting caught in the strands. Of course his hair was tangled, he’d been doing nothing but pulling on it ever since he arrived at the hospital. “Let me speak to her. Hold it for 24 hours. You can do that, yes?” It’s not even a question now, nor a request. It’s a demand. He can’t do this, he can’t openly destroy your marriage for his own sake without speaking to you, without knowing for a fact that you love him.

Your name is carved onto his soul, onto his skin. The first thing he thinks about in the morning, and the last thing he would think about at night. There is no life he wishes to live in if you’re not there. Even as his friend.

There’s suddenly a light tap against glass, snapping the man’s attention from his device. He mumbles something in Spanish, telling his lawyer he would call him back, dreading who was coming out into the private courtyard.

He visibly relaxes when he sees it’s just a man, sneaking out whilst tears pool on his lower lashline, giving Carlos a warming nod.

“You don’t mind if I join you, do I?” The Spainard shakes his head. “My wife- she’s just being induced and wanted some space. She’s…” He gestures, trying to explain to a complete stranger how a few minutes ago, his wife wanted to cry and shake her head, but wanted nothing to do with him. It was all his fault.

Carlos offers a warm hand on his back, patting him firmly. “Congratulations. Do you know what you're having?” He’s invested, anything to distract him from his previous phone call, the weight of a decision on his shoulders.

The stranger grins. “A girl.” He smiles harder. “I don’t mind, as long as they arrive happy and healthy. But god- a girl, just like her.” He thinks. Carlos thinks. In an alternative universe, he’s sat by your side, pressing kisses and praises to your skin, holding you tighter as your daughter enters the world, ready to meet her mother and father. She would be like you; your eyes, hair, smile. It would be another you to love, to adore.

“Your first?” Carlos presses his question. The man sighs, shaking his head, shoving his hands into his pockets as he looks into the polished corridor.

“No. She’s…” He pauses. “We got together after hiding how we felt for so long, how we wanted to be with one another.” He looks to Carlos, clearly ashamed and embarrassed of the situation. “I know how it sounds, but sometimes you can’t help it. I- I love her.”

A band snaps in Carlos’ stomach; love knows no bounds.

Love is waking up to think of your person.

The first thing you register when you come around is brightness. You’re not in the soft glow of the luxurious hotel room you and your husband had been given, nor the candle-lit bedroom of Carlos’ apartment. No, the light is bright, blinding. An off-white which made your eyes squint.

Your senses are heightened; the only scent which flares through your nostrils is hand sanitiser and overpowering lilies. Nose scrunched, you attempt to wiggle your body upwards, aware of the IV line pinned into your hand. Panic immediately settled through your tummy, until your eyes flickered to the bag, realizing it was just water, they just wanted to rehydrate you.

Hesitantly, you wiggle each part of your body. Arms, hands, fingers. You’re able to move, though you couldn’t…you couldn’t remember why you got here. Memories are hazy, you remember Charles’ podium, the way he kissed you so deeply, so lovingly. Carlos’ hand on your waist, pulling you back to stop you from the champagne trickling over your body. You were overwhelmed, overworked and…you guessed it just all became too much.

You just about manage to turn your body, the first thing you’re aware of is that your cushion smells familiar. Warm nodes, sandalwood and seasalt. It’s a smell you’ve grown all too accustomed to, burying your face into their chest whilst you took refuge in his arms, in a hotel room. Charles had been there, already. His celebrations had clearly been cut short, whether or not it was for show or because he cared.

The second thing is the coffee cup. Cardboard, the contents clearly already drained, but handwriting etched onto the side in a thick, black marker. The handwriting, the doodle of a tiny butterfly. Carlos had been there, too.

There’s a sharp pinch on your cheek, fingers reach up to your skin and feel the butterfly strips against you. Immediately, a thousand questions come back to your mind, none of them being answered through your own memory. Instead, the door opens, a nurse in clean, bright uniform walking in, closing the door behind her. She beams at the realization you’re awake, shoulders relaxing.

“You’re awake!” Her tone is incredibly warm, seemingly very happy you’ve decided to wake up on your own terms. She’s quick to move to your bedside, pressing the back of her hand to your forehead. “How are you feeling? Have you warmed up?” You’re not sure what she’s referencing, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. She takes the look on your face as unknowingness, able to fill in the gaps.

“You collapsed on the track.” She’s trying to get through everything she needs to tell you. “We did some tests, you’re incredibly dehydrated for a start, you need to try and get some rest.” She pauses. “It’s nothing to be concerned about, we have collapses from dehydration every so often, more than you would realize.” Her eyes flicker down, finding it hard on how to phrase the next part of the question. “You also seem…incredibly worried.” You’re not sure how she could tell that from simply examining you, but you nod in confirmation. “Your blood pressure, it’s incredibly low. That’s why you fainted.”

“Yes.” You pause. How on earth were you about to explain the past twelve months to a nurse, a complete stranger? “There’s been some…reasons. You know, for the stress.” Her eyes soften, but the questioning continues.

“Are you trying for a baby?” You shake your head. “Moving house?” A shake. “Have you…lost somebody recently.”

You freeze, memory flickering to your mother, how in the midst of fixing your marriage, discovering your affection towards another, she had disappeared from the world. This time, you nod your head, drawing your knees up to your body, shivering. The nurse is quick to wrap a blanket over your shoulders, closer to the answer.

“I lost my mother.” You breathe out, shaking your head. “I lost my mother, and she’s the only one I can go to.” Now you’ve started speaking, you can’t finish. “I want to make them happy. I want to make him happy.” There’s tears glassing over your eyes.

You want him. You want him right now.

She sympathizes, she understands. “Sometimes, all you need is for them to tell you it’s going to be okay, right?” She lets her words trail off, turning to the door of your room. “He’s outside. He’s been waiting to see you.”

Your blood freezes.

“Would you like me to get him?”

You nod before you’ve even realized, your body clearly knows better than your mind. The nurse stands up straight, pacing towards the door as you feel your heart begin to race harder, frantically. She steps out of the room, a minute mumble on the other side, clearly a warning to be incredibly careful. It’s barely a minute before the door swings back open, dark hair and frantic panting.

You glance up, your heart softens at those eyes.

The eyes that you, the reader, wanted to see as you glanced to the door.

GREEN EYES [CL16 Ending]

BROWN EYES [CS55 Ending]

This is everyone who asked to be tagged! @Mac-daddy-210 @aundercover@barnestatic@omgsuperstarg@chimchimjiminie16@caelum-the-part-time-nihilist @magicalcowboyarbiter @gaslasysblog@junetto @beatrizmel-472 @motorsp0rt@crowdthena@screemqueen@lewislvr@styles-sunflower@itspaddockprincess@adeptustemptations @amalialeclerc @meetmyblondemuffins@formulanando@lorarri@christianpulisic10@gaypoetsblog@thisbitxhs-blog@goldsainz@ru-kru@magical-spit@hrlzy@nooshytushie@gaslysainz@marvel-at-stucky@sugarvibez@adeptustemptations@roseseraj@leclercdream@pjofics@hecatesfavoritechild@poseforme@thisbitxhs-blog @adalynneva @meganlikes2purr @sabrinaselina55 @laneyspaulding19@heavenlyiecreature@pink-teddy-bear@nooshytushie@strawberries-and-racing@milasexutoire@ohthemisssery@florkt@obsessedwiththeideaofyou@ru-kru@myhomeworksnotdone@ineedafictionalman@bregarc@allywthsr@summerslike11@wildcupcake@willowpains@marlenamallowan@leclercloml@katzenwahnsinn@be-your-coffee-pot

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aayakashii · 4 months ago

Note

could you feed us lyca simps?

I hope you don't mind the little slice of life fluff I ended up writing for this request, I just think he's too cute for his own good (๑•́ ᎔ ก̀๑) and thanks for the request!!

neapolitan

Warnings: none. Just tooth rotting fluff and slice of life. Lyca knowing nothing about the world, while MC holds his hand to introduce him to the fun things of life.

“You know you don't have to follow me right now, right? I'm just going to the store to restock my first aid kit…” you say, sighing in defeat, as you side-eye the tall boy prancing right beside you, almost attached to your hip.

Lyca puffs his chest, a small pout appearing under his sharp fangs.

“No, I have to! I don't trust that shop man. He is weird… He looks at you weird!”

Well… You couldn't quite deny that fact.

“But don't you have homework from Professor Moby?”

“Who is that again? You know I don't remember their names” Lyca asks, scrunching his brows and scratching his head, as if he was searching his brain for the right face to attach to the name.

“Professor squirmy” you suppress a smile as you use Lyca's nickname for the eldritch teacher.

“Oh! I have already done all my homework from his class, though?”

“Really?” you look at him with widened eyes “That's very responsible of you, Lyca. That's great!” you smile, giving him two thumbs up.

You do wonder how he managed to finish it all so quickly, since he had difficulty reading harder kanjis, but you just chalk it up to Subaru helping him out without your knowledge.

He huffs, cheeks just a little bit rosy.

“Of course! That's nothing for someone like me. I'm gonna be an exemp… exemp… eggs-emm-puh-larry… member of human society!” Lyca says, slapping his own chest with a loud thud.

“An exemplary member of human society, right?” you repeat his words, more fluently than him, so he can hear how it's usually pronounced.

“That's what I said.” he mumbles and pushes the door to Darkwick's local store open, pointing to the inside of the dimly lit shop “You first.”

You widen your eyes once again, and chuckle.

“Wait, when did you learn to be so gentlemanly?” you say, as you walk through the door with him right after you.

“The blonde gigolo has been teaching me some things. He says being a gen-tle-man would make people respect me more.”

You nod at his words right as the door closes loudly behind him, the chime bell slamming against the door frame.

Okay, well. Maybe he still needs a bit of practice.

You wince at the loud sound, but after just a few seconds, you immediately relax, feeling the cool air inside the store hit your body. The fragrant scent of pastries being displayed inside a small shelf and the gentleness of the low lights also lull you into a sense of tranquility.

It seems like the effect is the same on Lyca, because you see the way his shoulders slump a little bit and how his grumpy face gives way to an eased expression.

You decide to browse through the shelves for a bit, absentmindedly, before getting your supplies. Lyca stood close, his nose sniffing every little thing you pointed out.

After a lot of explaining about products (No, Lyca, you cannot eat tide pods, those are for washing clothes. Yes, Lyca, you can actually eat hard candy, they aren't made for biting though. No, Lyca, just because tide pods and hard candy look similar, doesn't mean they're the same thing), you grab all your needed supplies and make your way to the cashier.

Thinking hard about how to keep Lyca from growling at the shopkeeper, you barely notice how the werewolf walks towards a small freezer a few steps to the side of the cash register. You finish paying when you hear his voice calling at you.

“Hey! Hey! What's this?” he points to the inside of the freezer and you walk to his side, his hands instinctively grabbing your bags so he could carry them for you.

“Those are ice cream pots.” you look at the multi colored labels that advertised a small range of different flavors. “Have you ever eaten ice cream, Lyca?”

“What's that?” he looks inquisitively at the small containers.

“It's a type of frozen sweet. It has lots of flavors and it's usually eaten when it's hot outside.”

He hums, still staring at the pots.

“Do you like sweets, Lyca?”

“Hmm, not really…”

“Oh, I see...”

“But! It's, um. It's hot outside, right?” he replies quickly, looking at you expectantly.

You smile to yourself, thinking about how his tail would probably be wagging if it was out right now.

“That's true, it's very hot outside. I think ice cream sounds great right now, what do you think?”

“I- I agree! Of course.” he huffs, as if he wasn't almost hopping with joy at the idea.

You chuckle and open the freezer, grabbing a small pot for the both of you. After paying for the frozen treat and grabbing two spoons, you two go out into the merciless heat of Darkwick's campus.

“Okay, so.” you sit under a huge tree overlooking a lake, hiding from the sun rays under the cool shade, and grab the ice cream pot.

Lyca sits right next to you, back straight as a plank, paying full attention to you and the mysterious treat you bought.

“I bought this one because it has three of the most classic flavors, and since you never ate ice cream, I figured you should taste the most common ones first. It's called neapolitan.” you explain, opening the lid and giving him a spoon “It's vanilla, strawberry and chocolate”

His eyes sparkle, looking at the frozen sweet. Your eyes widen as you see his wolf ears and tail pop out instinctively, but you choose not to mention it.

“Oohh! It looks good! Which one should I try first?” he asks, tail sweeping the grass under him.

“You can try whichever you want. Go crazy!”

You immediately regret your words as he shoves his spoon deep into the ice cream, grabbing more than one flavor, and eating a huge spoonful in one go.

“Ugh!! My head!!” he yells after a little while, clawing at his own forehead.

“Lyca! You can't eat cold things so quickly, you'll get brain freeze” you scold him, rolling your eyes.

“Well, tell me that sooner!” he groans, still holding his head, eyes shut tight.

“You're supposed to know that instinctively!”

He grunts, shaking his head as the sharp pain disappears slowly.

“Grab just one flavor at a time for now, so you can see which one you like more. Then you can mix everything. Like this” you say as you scoop a bit of strawberry ice cream into your spoon and eat it.

He mimics your action, scooping a bit of vanilla ice cream first.

Lyca's face falls as he smacks his lips repeatedly, tasting the ice cream.

“It's not that big of a deal.” he says, visibly disappointed.

“That's okay, now try the pink one.”

He does as you say and immediately scrunches his face.

“Uwah! That's awful! I don't want to eat it!”

You sigh, thinking about how Lyca seems more like a werecat than a werewolf at times.

“That's fine, it's just your personal taste. Now try the brown one. It's chocolate.”

Lyca hesitates, not really trusting your words after the previous experiences, but scoops a bit of chocolate ice cream either way. As soon as he eats the treat, his ears and tail perk up.

“Ohhh!!! This one is good!!” He yells, tail wagging a thousand miles per hour and eyes sparkling as he scoops a huge amount of chocolate ice cream again.

“Careful, or you're gonna get brain freeze again!” You scold him, but immediately give up, sighing and smiling at the sight of him happily smearing chocolate onto his face, like a big baby.

“I like the brown one mixed with the white-ish yellow-ish one! The pink one is gross though!” He says grabbing the ice cream with his hands, spoon immediately forgotten.

“Ah, Lyca! You're not supposed to eat it with your hands! You'll get all dirty…” you fret, afraid he'll get his uniform stained once again.

“But it's better this way, because I can feel how cold it is with my hands. You humans are so weird with all your rules…” he grumbles.

You sigh, as he pouts and licks his hands clean, grumpiness fully back.

“You have to learn these rules to become human though? But…” you trail off and he looks at you as you rummage through your pockets, fishing out a handkerchief.

You hold his cheek, wiping his face clean, ignoring the little blush that tinted his face as you got closer.

“But as long as it's just us, you can eat however you want. Just don't do it in public. And don't tell Rui I said this! He thinks I spoil you way too much. Deal?”

Lyca looks away, clearing his throat that suddenly got parched, despite all the ice cream he had just eaten.

“Hmpft. D-deal.”

#tokyo debunker #tokyo debunker x reader #tokyo debunker lyca colt #lyca colt

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tremendously-crazy · 5 months ago

Text

Ranting about ACD Johnlock because these Victorian husbands need to be happy for me

What the hell happened between Holmes and Watson in 1902 and 1903?

Context: 3GAR is described as happening in July 1902, and ILLU happened in 1902. CREE and BLAN happened in 1903.

In 1902, Holmes and Watson were inseparable.

I don't even need to elaborate when I mention 3GAR. "It was worth a wound" should be enough to remind you of why. I was so touched when I read Holmes seeing his Watson injured and rushing to his side. He is terrified at the thought of losing his friend. It was amazing to read this seemingly cold, distant, and unemotional man threatening to murder the man who almost killed his best friend. There was loyalty, there was love, and it was beautiful.

According to ILLU, in 1902, they're also frequenting Turkish baths together. (which, I might add, was a common place for homosexual men to gather, do with that knowledge what you may) They're lying side by side on two couches with nothing but a blanket on either of them as they dry off. Watson hears Holmes is injured and nearly passes out, and he rushes to Baker Street to see him as soon as possible. He is terrified at the thought of losing his friend. He gingerly sits at his bedside to ensure that Holmes is okay. These are all very intimate things to do between friends. Indeed, this even suggests the possibility of the two being lovers.

IMAGINE that. These two are inseparable. Clearly, these two stories help to build on the idea that they love each other (platonically or romantically. To me, they seem romantically involved, but even as friends, they do love each other. It's all up to personal preference.) Their relationship is so strong, more than anything we have seen before. These stories showcase their love for each other and how passionate they are for each other.

Now, flash forward to 1903, when CREE and BLAN take place, and we are given an entirely different narrative. Watson describes himself as one of Holmes's "habits" in CREE, saying he felt as though he was an accessory to Holmes. Their relationship is "peculiar," and he is only called over to Baker Street as some kind of tool Holmes can talk to or use on a case. Holmes can rely on Watson, and he is, in a way, taking advantage of his reliability. Throughout the entire story, we can feel the tension between these two (remember how Watson had to stress over his practice in order to join Holmes on the case, and Holmes seemingly did not care at all). It seems partially resolved by the end, but there is still a feeling of bitterness that was fully apparent to me while I was reading it. It seemed like their interactions were angsty and passive-aggressive.

In BLAN, Watson does not even live with Holmes anymore, around a year after 3GAR and ILLU. Holmes explains he has "deserted" him for a wife, which he described as "the most selfish action I can recall in our years of association." Holmes was alone. In the story, Holmes cannot stop talking about how much he misses "his" Watson.

These four stories have such a sharp contrast. They have been absolutely terrorizing my brain a lot as of late. I feel like them being so close in ILLU, and *the* moment in 3GAR are some of their strongest moments together. They are both so terrified to lose each other. How is it that a year later, according to the canon, they are barely on speaking terms? My question is, if we are to trust the canon dates, what happened during those months that caused them to drift apart so terribly? How could Watson leave his Holmes for a wife so recently after these frightening events?

Another point about this supposed second wife. I don't think she even existed. (I do think Mary was really Watson's wife, and I might've reblogged a post about it somewhere) But about the second wife. As far as I'm aware, she's mentioned one (1) time in one (1) story by Holmes, and it was likely just a ploy by ACD to separate them (oh well, I'll just give him a wife. That'll separate them good enough.) It's easily enough ignored for that reason. Watson was, in fact, away from Baker Stret, but the idea of a wife was, in all probability, just made up by Holmes as an excuse for his absence.

I'd like to add my personal headcanon because the continuity in Sherlock Holmes is actually so messed up. John is called James in one story (TWIS, if you want to see for yourself.) October 9, 1890, is called a Saturday when it was really a Thursday (REDH) There's a story set in 1892, when Holmes was supposedly dead... etc, etc. Given the known unreliability of dates in these stories, would it be so unreasonable to suggest that the dates of the four I have talked about were swapped? That, in fact, CREE and BLAN were a falling out in their relationship and that ILLU and 3GAR was their healing? That the former were set in 1902 and the latter, in 1903? I can understand that after knowing someone and living with them for so many years, you may start to take them for granted. But after you narrowly lose them, you would not do such a thing again. (Especially not only a year after such a traumatic experience!!) Therefore, I believe CREE and BLAN were examples of how their relationship was beginning to fail and were actually set in 1902 (or some other date in the latter days of their relationship), and ILLU and 3GAR were reminders of how much they meant to each other, and they happened in 1903 (or, more simply, a year after CREE and BLAN).

Thank you for coming to my Ted talk. I know this is completely incorrigible and nobody's gonna read it but I just wanted to get it out there.

TL;DR: Late Sherlock Holmes canon sucks. No way that they had both near death experiences in 3GAR and ILLU, and less than a year latery they can barely stand each other in CREE and BLAN. My personal headcanon says CREE and BLAN were moments of stress in their relationship and that 3GAR and ILLU happened afterward to remind them of how much they appreciated each other and help reconcile them.

#acd holmes #acd canon #sherlock holmes headcanon #headcanons #sherlock holmes #john watson #this is lowkey angsty #ranting #im actually so pressed about this #canon sherlock #acd sherlock holmes #johnlock #the continuity errors help #if you actually read all this congrats #yippee #wowzers

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restinslices · 10 months ago

Note

Ahhhh after some thought I’ll choose the earthrealm men with a lovey dovey s/o 👉🏻👈🏻

back to requests a mere 6 days after saying I was gonna take a break. Was that post a little unnecessary? Yes, but I didn’t want anyone to get mad at me for not posting everyday and not getting to requests immediately. ANYWAY, back like the flu.

Johnny Cage

Johnny “Loves Attention” Cage is having the best time

Do y'all remember how much of a cornball this man was in the game? He has no shame

So a significant other who also has no shame? He's getting on one knee as soon as possible

He tries to out cornball you

He loves it all. The stupid nicknames, the cuddling, the gifts, the giggling, all the adoration, he's just in love

Definitely returns the favor. If you buy him smth, he's buying you smth (let's ignore that debt), you give him a nickname so he gives you one. It goes on and on

All this lovey dovey shit might exhaust some people. Johnny is not some people.

The nicknames are probably his favorite part. He makes the most atrocious nicknames up because you won't be upset

Some real dumb shit like Oogy Boogy Sweetie Weetie Cutie Patootie Kissy Face- yeah all that shit is one nickname. Why? Because it's funny to him and you'll laugh

The type to get y'all dumbass matching shirts

“If found return to stupid” “I'm stupid”

Those type of shirts

Everyone hates you because it becomes a competition of who can be the most corny. It's tortuous for anyone near you

Cannot express enough how much this man enjoys the attention you give him. If one day you decided to ignore him as a joke, he'd actually be so sad and notice immediately

He just adores having a corny lovey dovey partner. The best thing to happen to him.

Kenshi Takahashi

He doesn't hate it but he definitely needs a breather sometimes

Having a lovey dovey partner isn't terrible to him. All the touching and nicknames and being spoiled is definitely cute to him, but being lovey dovey also means you're on him a lot. Kenshi doesn't give me huge extrovert vibes so I think because you're so extreme(?) that there's times when he needs a break

He thinks it's adorable though. He likes feeling wanted so he likes how outwardly you are with your love

Idk if he likes all the nicknames though. I can see him easily cringing if you go overboard

Idk how he'd feel about you spoiling him. He doesn't hate it but he feels like everytime you give him a gift, he has to give you one and he ain't got that shit on him. His own thoughts are running him dry

When his social battery is recharged I think he'd like how physical and sweet you are

He enjoys how loved you make him feel. He's just not sure how to respond sometimes. I can see you saying something really corny and although he thinks it's cute, his brain doesn't move fast enough and he ends up just staring at you

He rolls his eyes a lot too so it can give the appearance that he's annoyed by you but it's definitely not that

You want some corny shit he'll definitely like? Matching jewelry. He'll eat it up like it's a cookie

Also draw over his tattoos. He loves it

Loves the corny shit his brain just legit shuts off sometimes

Kung Lao

Like Johnny, he enjoys the attention

Idk if he necessarily enjoys all the corny things. I don't get a strong feeling from him. Maybe it depends on the day

Likes the attention and spoiling but all the corny nicknames and shirts and just being a total sap makes him a little uncomfortable at times

Once again, it depends on the day. Sometimes he's all for it and sometimes he's like “let's calm down for today”

Gets you a matching hat but without all the sharp shit because he doesn't trust you with sharp objects

He's a mix of Johnny and Kenshi tbh

He refuses to wear those corny matching shirts. You'll have to kill him

That applies to other things too

Those corny nicknames Johnny would make up? He'd prefer a beating from a serious Spiderman

“Aw my Snookie Wookie-” “I'm gonna shoot myself right here right now. Please stop”

It's cute and he acknowledges that it's how you show love but certain things just ain't gonna work with him

Especially in public certain things just won't work with him because he has an ego and thinks certain things will make him look weird. It's giving insecure teen

Don't doubt his love for you though. He loves his little sap. Just take it a bit slow

At some point a switch would flip and he'd go from being embarrassed to thinking “wow, I'm so great my partner is willing to look silly in front of others!”

Now he feeds into your corny bullshit

A win is a win

Raiden

I fully believe him and Liu Kang are romantics, therefore he loves it

He gets flustered easily so tons of affection makes his face go red and all that cute shit

His brain also short circuits like Kenshi's. He's so bad at pretending he's not flustered

“Are you blushing?” “...” “...” “...” “Raiden?” “Of course not”

Likes the consistent physical contact

Spoiling him also makes him short circuit. He's trying to think of how to thank you but all that comes out is “oh!”

Adores you just as much as you adore him

He likes gift giving. And idk mean just jewelry, I mean “you got me all these gifts so I'm gonna bring you a bunch of produce and hey, maybe we can cook later”

We saw him collecting cabbages like Cabbage Man from ATLA in the beginning of the game, he gotta still have the hook up

Loves receiving cheek kisses

Man is so weak in the knees. Kung Lao can yell “STAND UP!” all he wants. That shit is not happening

Play with his hair. Once again, weak in the knees

He's having a great time. Sure he's easily embarrassed but it's not like “omg, you're being weird. Stop”. It's more of a “I love this but I feel like everyone's looking”

You two are super lovey dovey but not as obnoxious as you and Johnny. Johnny is like “you can't out corny me” and Raiden is just tryna vibe and love on you since you love on him

All the embarrassment he feels is so worth it to him

Liu Kang

A romantic so all that lovey dovey shit? Heaven to him

Liu Kang has so much love to give and he's never allowed to share it because his life is ass in every timeline

So a partner that adores him and shows him how much they adore him? Did the Elder Gods hand craft you for him?

He's honestly a mix of everyone. He wants to love you all the time like Johnny, he loves how much you love him like Kenshi, he loves how much you outwardly adore him like Kung Lao and he's a huge romantic that loves how much time you spend together like Raiden

He's so love deprived so he loves everything you wanna do

Matching shirts, jewelry, socks, whatever the fuck? Absolutely.

Spoiling him with random shit? He'll take it all

Telling him how much you love him all the time? Yes.

Giving him the dumbest and corniest nicknames? He'll take that too

He's also lovey dovey so the feeling is very much mutual

Enjoys quality time so you wanting to be on his hip is very much welcomed

You're a breath of fresh air since you're so kind and loving to him. Remember he has all the memories of the past timeline, then this timeline gets fucked up. He's used to constant smoke and destruction so someone being so nice and sweet to him and relaxing with him is heavenly to him

Doesn't matter how corny it is. It's all he wants

Real quick, two things. Firstly I wanna make more MK1 intros so y’all should give me ideas. Secondly I think it would be fun if we as a unit made an MK1 oc. I’d make polls, you’d vote on certain things and then we use the same results but tinker it to our individual liking. For example maybe we know they’re Edenian but their gender is up to you. It’d be like a bunch of variants. A Multiverse of Madness if you will.

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illubean · 6 months ago

Note

Lmao crack request: How much/What kind of stupid shit would it take for hxh bois to divorce/kill their spouse or come close to it

Like a spouse that meets all their other requirements, But is just an absolute moron in the most mundane ways (confusing salt with sugar, forgoting their birthday/dates, cannot be trusted around open flame, will eat thing they're not supposed to if left alone, tripping in pulic and embarrassing them.)

Chrollo, Illumi, and Machi(Plus anyone else you want honestly)

What Would Make HXH Characters Kill/Divorce You

Characters: Illumi Zoldyck, Chrollo Lucilfer, Machi Komacine

IM BACK!! or am i (smirk emoji)

Warnings: killing and divorce duh

Illumi Zoldyck

it already takes a lot for Illumi to even consider being with someone so I'd imagine it would take a lot for him to kill you

divorce is not and never will be an option for this man

its either you are married forever or he is killing you

the only way I can see him killing you is if you cheat or pose some sort of threat to the family

and even if you did cheat he's more likely to kill the other person than you...

honestly if you act up he'd probably just lock you in a basement or something

you must have some crazy redeeming qualities for this guy to be with you because why the hell are you so dumb

he probably uses your idiocy against you

as in he manipulates you..

you don't pick up on it obviously but you're generally happy so i guess it doesn't matter

ignorance is bliss i guess

Chrollo Lucilfer

poor Chrollo

he already has a whole troupe to run and has to hide from the cops and whatnot

but now he has a dumb ditzy s/o? lord help him

a part of him lwky likes that you're so stupid but the other part of him...not so much

like aww you depend on him but also Oh my god you can't be left alone.

you stress this man OUT

i don't think he could ever get to the point of considering marrying you stupid or not

his live is too busy to be tied down like that

also since he likes you in the first place I don't think he'd ever have it in him to kill you

unless you were like a serious threat or something

he lightly pokes fun at you for your lack of spatial awareness like when you walk into poles or trip over something that was easily avoidable

but it does get tiring having to yank you out of the way of oncoming traffic or trying to stop you from wandering off

Machi Komacine

Machi is very level headed so I doubt she'd kill you over anything dumb

and she has sharp intuition so I doubt she'd marry you in the first place if she felt there was room for divorce

but she's very loyal to the Troupe and Chrollo so that being said, if you pose a threat to them she might kill you

but if somehow you guys get married and she doesn't realize how stupid you are before she's definitely realizing it now

it takes a long time of little things for her to actually divorce you

like wtf do you mean you ate her wax melts because they looked like chocolate? WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU DIDN'T KNOW YOU HAVE TO CHECK EXPIRATION DATES???

she's surprised you haven't accidentally killed yourself yet

her breaking point is when you tried making instant ramen in the microwave

With no water.

You ended up setting it on fire.

she stares blankly into the flaming appliance and says flatly "I want a divorce"

#hxh 2011 #hxh x reader #hunter x hunter #hxh #hxh illumi #illumi zoldyck #chrollo hunter x hunter #chrollo lucilfer #chrollo x reader #chrollo #hxh chrollo #phantom troupe #illumi x reader #illumi #illumi hxh #machi komacine #machi hxh #machi #machi x reader

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the-iceni-bitch · 4 months ago

Text

Trust Me, I Can Handle Me a Dangerous Man…

Summary: Some things never change…

Relationship: Mr. Freezy (Bobby) x hitwoman!fem reader (kitten)

Words: ~2.7k

Warnings: explicit language, explicit sexual content (unprotected p in v, rough sex, edging, cock warming), murder, drug use, part of a dark-ish AU, NO MINORS 🔞

A/N: I FINALLY FUCKING FINISHED A FIC AFTER SEVEN GODDAMN MONTHS!!! Now that the screaming is out of the way, hi y’all! I cannot guarantee that I’m going to be posting fics on a regular basis but I will say that I have a couple in the works that I actually feel are close to being finished soooooo, fingers crossed!

I am no longer doing taglists so if you want to stay up to date on my writing, follow @the-iceni-library and turn on notifications!

You smiled to yourself as the light caught the ring on your finger, turning your hand back and forth and humming softly at the way it sparkled in the sunlight.

Then his hand tightened around your throat and he moved inside you and all you could do was whine.

“Jesus fucking Christ, kitten,” Bobby snarled in your ear when he felt you flutter around his cock as he cut off your air, slapping your tits and then your face a few times with his free hand until he was satisfied your were focused again. “Pay attention. Never would’ve put that fucking thing on your finger if I knew you were gonna get so damn distracted.”

“Shut the fuck up,” you purred when he pulled you even closer, grinding your ass in his lap while he fucked up into you. “‘Scuse me for enjoying being a newlywed.”

He just snorted before sinking his teeth into the side of your neck while his body kept rolling underneath yours. It’s not like he could deny there wasn’t something special about finally being able to call you his wife, to enjoy knowing that you belonged to him completely and there was nothing anyone could do about it. Not that anyone would ever try. He would fucking kill them if they did. Hell, he almost killed anyone who would even look at you, now. Nothing got him more worked up than growling at some idiot for looking at his wife and then fucking you like he owned you. God, he actually fucking loved you, in his fucked up, psychotic way.

You sighed when he licked the mark he had left on your neck, rocking your body against his and holding the rifle in your hands tightly as he kept his grip just firm enough for you to take shallow breaths. It was true, you were having a little trouble focusing, but you still got your fucking job done. You had to, since he had wanted to be inside you since pretty much right after you left City Hall two days go. Of course, you couldn’t really complain about that, not when his cock was throbbing inside you and his breath was hot against your neck. When he started sucking on your ear you grinned, turning your face so you could rub your cheek against his over your shoulder.

“Ah shit,” you saw movement through the scope out of the corner of your eye and huffed out a sharp breath, “That’s him. Keep your mouth to yourself for a damn minute.”

“Fine,” Bobby leaned back with a groan, watching you raise the gun to aim and fighting the urge to keep thrusting his hips, “Just hurry the fuck up.”

You ignored the brush of his fingers as he pushed up your skirt so he could grope your ass, taking deep breaths and doing your best to remain focused when he let out a grunt at the way your pussy looked when it was stretched wide around his dick. The idiot you had to kill was finally in your sights. He hadn’t stepped outside in two days and his blinds were always closed, paranoid bastard. But one call from his little girlfriend and he threw all that caution to the wind. What a fucking moron.

Two more breaths and you squeezed the trigger, the silenced gunshot swallowed by the noise of the city. The dumbass in your scope had barely hit the ground before Bobby grabbed the back of your neck and threw you to the floor. He didn’t waste any time before shoving his cock back inside you, grinning to himself when you moaned and spread your legs for him.

“That’s it, such a good fucking whore my wife is,” he grunted as he started to fuck you like an animal, his hips smacking against your ass lewdly, “Fuck, I’ll never get sick of this snatch of yours, so damn tight.”

“Such a sweet talker you are,” you arched your back so he could hit you even deeper, your eyes fluttering when he spread your cheeks and spat on your asshole, “Knew you just married me for my body.”

“Just keep talking, bitch,” Bobby started rubbing your rim with his thumb while he fucked you and almost lost it when it made you clench tighter around him, “Married you for that cunt mouth too.”

“Yes… oh fuck,” you dug your fingers into the carpet underneath you and bit your lip when he slid his thumb inside your ass, every muscle in your body starting to grow tight, “Fuck me harder, you stupid fucking bastard. Make me come.”

“Yeah, I’ll make you come, you dumb little slut,” he groaned and leaned over you so he could sink his teeth into your shoulder, growling against your skin when he felt both of your holes flutter around him, “Do it fast. I want to come inside your pretty little gash before the pigs show up.”

Even as you rolled your eyes you still whined when his balls rubbed against your clit, your legs trembling and your breath leaving you in sharp huffs as you came on his cock. As soon as he felt you squirt he drove into you to the hilt. His breath was hot against your skin while he grunted in his release, his dick pulsing inside you as he pumped you full of his thick cum. He kissed the mark he left on your neck and then he was gone, standing up and grinning at the sight of you sprawled out on the floor and leaking his seed.

You thought about sassing him for leaving you to clean yourself up, but then you heard sirens and you knew it was time to go. Bobby took care of disassembling the rifle once he got his jeans pulled back up. At least all you had to do was pull your dress back into place, admiring the bites and bruises he’d left all over your tits as you slid your arms back into your sleeves. Hopefully you looked appropriately love drunk and giddy, making sure the ring on your finger was prominent and beaming at him when he wound his arm around your waist and hefted the suitcase holding your rifle.

The lobby was full of cops, but you two looked like the happy newlyweds you were, so they had no reason to bother you. Or, you looked like a happy newlywed, Bobby looked like he was thinking about stabbing some of those cops until you stood on your tiptoes and kissed his cheek.

“Fucking pigs,” Bobby practically spat the words as he shoved the suitcase into the trunk before climbing into the driver’s seat, “Make my goddamn skin crawl.”

“Well if you hadn’t insisted on fucking me we could’ve been out of there before they showed up,” you caught his hand by the wrist after he slapped you and bit his knuckle with a playful growl, “Don’t be so cranky, Bobby. I’ll let you finger fuck me while we drive back to the club.”

By the time you had made it back to the club you were a mess and he looked annoyingly pleased with himself. All you could do when he gave your sloppy cunt a few final smacks was whine and feebly try to push his hand away while he just chuckled at you. The only thing that brought you back to yourself was when he backhanded you across the face. As much as it made you want to stab him, you needed to maintain some semblance of professionalism when you were about to meet with the bosses. That didn’t stop you from ramming your fist into his gut once you had finally pulled yourself out of the car, his low snarl when you just started walking away while he stood there doubled over making your pussy start to clench all over again.

The club was empty except for staff since the sun was still up, all of whom chuckled under their breath when they saw Bobby stalking after you with pure murder etched on his face. Curtis grinned when he saw you approaching, shaking his head when Bobby caught up to you and grabbed you by the throat so he could whisper threats in your ear. You just rolled your eyes at your husband and gave Curtis a wink when he held the door to the bosses’ office open for you. Bobby shook a few times for good measure before he finally let you go, shoving you into the office and just barely resisting the urge to fling one of your knees over his elbow and hold you wide open while he took his annoyance out on your pretty little cunt.

“Holy fucking shit, you weren’t lying when you said you got hitched?!” Lloyd looked positively giddy with amusement when you pranced up and held out your hand to show him the ring. “I don’t know if I should be insulted you didn’t invite me or not.”

“Please, you wanted to come to city hall?” You ignored Bobby’s grumbling while you conversed with Lloyd, watching your husband sink into one of the office chairs then turning your attention back to your favorite boss. “It’s not like Bobby was going to throw a party.”

“That’s true. You have married a stick in the mud, my dear. Nick, Auggie!” Lloyd grinned at the other bosses when they strode into the office. “Congratulate our favorite psychos, they tied the knot!”

“Did they finish the job?” August grunted while Nick actually congratulated the two of you, ignoring Lloyd’s melodramatic eye roll.

“Sure fucking did,” You gave August a wink when he just shrugged at you. “Dropped that fucker right in the middle of Manhattan.”

“That’s why you’re the best,” Lloyd bent under the desk to grab the hefty envelope of cash, taking a little longer then usual and beaming even more when he also came up with a kilo of coke. “And a nice little bonus as congratulations on your nuptials. You know my little lady is going to want to actually throw you a party though?”

“Wouldn’t expect anything less,” you thumbed through the cash and turned back to your husband, sighing when he gave you a sour look. “Don’t worry, grumpy, you can stay home.”

He just huffed before the two of you started to head back out to the car, ignoring the well wishes of your bosses and choosing to let his eyes rake over your body. You had gotten significantly more social ever since the two of you joined the new organization, and he wasn’t quite sure how he felt about it. Granted, the money was enough to make up for any chit chat he had to put up with, and he did get to fuck you in public a lot more. Plus, the drugs…

“Lemme taste that,” Bobby grabbed the brick and jabbed his knife into it, rubbing some of the powder onto his gums and sucking in a breath when he got a buzz right away. “Fuck, that’s good shit.”

“Gimme,” you giggled when he scooped some onto his pinky and offered it to you, humming after you took a bump and looking up at him with wide eyes. “Shit.”

“Yeah. Fuck it,” he shoved you into one of the VIP booths in the club and bent you over the table, flipping up your skirt and giving your ass a good smack before scooping more coke onto his blade. “We can have a quick party. Fucking hold still.”

You moaned when he started to tap out lines on the upper curve of your ass. It was so hard not to start trembling when he pulled shit like this, his warm breath on your skin and the fact that anyone could walk by and see you making your pussy start to get slick and hot right away. Bobby growled and dragged his stubborn cheek along the curve of your ass before giving you a firm bite, licking and kissing the mark he made on your skin before turning his focus to the lines of white powder and inhaling them greedily.

“Bobby…” you moaned and then froze when you felt him parting your cheeks with his calloused fingers. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?!”

“Calm down… hey!” Bobby rose to his feet and grabbed the back of your neck when you tried to turn around and scratch him, slamming your head against the table twice as he took off his belt with one hand. “You’re the little bitch who cries about being too sensitive when you’re high, kitten. Thought I would help you out.”

“You fucking bastard!” It’s not like you could do anything except hiss and spit at him, kicking your legs when he looped his belt around your wrists and somehow managed to bind you to the legs at the opposite side of the table. “Bull shit you wanna help me!”

“Yeah well,” he chuckled and slapped your ass as hard as he could when you almost kicked him in the knee. “Maybe I just wanna see how wet my little wife’s pussy can get if she can’t come.”

You snarled and tried uselessly to squirm away from him when he started rubbing the cocaine all over your pussy and asshole. Even as high as you were, you wanted to scratch one of his eyes out for this. It wasn’t even enough to make you completely numb, just enough that you were going to be frustrated and right on the edge for the next hour. You could still feel his warm breath and the heavy weight of his tongue when he dragged it over your sex, but the delicious throbbing you typically felt in your clit when he sucked on it was gone, replaced by an annoying little buzz that made you grind your teeth.

“Still so goddamn sweet, you’re dripping, sweetheart,” Bobby pinched your clit and grinned when you rewarded him with a petulant growl. He was probably going to have to tie you up when he needed to sleep for the next week, unless he wanted to wake up to a knife in his leg. But fuck, it was worth it.

“I’m gonna rip your fucking tongue out,” your threats didn’t stop you from grinding back against his face, every muscle in your body tensing as you held your breath and tried to will yourself to come. But it didn’t happen. You could feel it right there but then it was gone. “Fuck!”

Bobby just hushed you and then bent back to work, burying his face in your supple cheeks and grunting as he wrapped his lips around your pussy and sucked. Every time you made one of your little dissatisfied sounds he just pinched your clit again, reminding you that he could and that nothing he might do to you right now would be able to make you come. He swore your pussy tasted even sweeter when he pissed you off like this, that it got even more swollen and hot than it did during his normal games with you. He loved it, so much so that he was seriously considering rubbing more coke all over your cunt once your sensitivity was back just so he could make you even angrier.

Four more times he brought you right up to the edge then just kept you there, chuckling into the swollen folds of your cunt each time you screamed in impotent rage. After an hour you were a panting, sweat-soaked mess of a woman, your body quivering with frustration and exhaustion. Even when he undid his belt from around your wrists you couldn’t move, snarling at him uselessly when he just gave your temple a condescending kiss. As soon as you could move you were going to stab him.

“I know that look, kitten, and I wouldn’t recommend it.” He gave your ass a hard swat before pulling your skirt back down to cover you. “I know your a hissy kitty right now, but I might have a treat planned for my little wife.”

“Fuck you,” you hissed at him, grumbling under your breath when he helped you stand and left his arm around your waist. “What kind of treat?”

“Oh, I dunno…” Bobby pinched your ass as the two of you made your way towards the club exit. “How do you feel about picking up a toy for the night?”

#natalie writes #poison paradise #bobby and kitten #mr freezy #robert pronge #mr freezy x female reader #female reader #chris evans #chris evans character fanfiction #chris evans character x reader #eighteen plus only

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myhornysaga · 2 months ago

Text

My War Criminal Husband

Established relationship, Graves x fem reader

A/n: idk anything about law, lawyers or courts kindly do NOT come for me. Thank you!

You and Graves are a match made in hell.

You, a criminal lawyer with a sharp tongue.

Philip Graves, a war criminal, CEO of a private military company and your husband, your partner for as long as you could remember.

You two together, are a force to be reckoned with.

Graves knows you, you know Graves. You both are each other's immovable rocks that keep each other grounded. A reminder of both of your roots and how it all started...

You trust Phil and Phil trusts you.

And that is why you are now representing his PMC at the Court.

It is a highly televised affair so all eyes are on you. Phil didn't come because he's currently in the midst of a Contract but thats confidential info besides he knows you're good under pressure and can handle things well in his absence.

The party involved, prosecutor claims "'Commander Philip Graves' and his boy band have committed war crimes on foreign soil. Killing civilians, children and women with that bomb drop! We need to disband this mercenary group with immediate effect!, your honor". The old man growled as he finished his sentence and glared at you while sitting back down on his seat.

As if! You thought. The Shadows isn't just some pmc in the market or Phil trying his luck in business. It is something that Phil and you created from ground, from dust with extensive planning and research did The shadow company formed. Raising it like a child you both never had. Phil describes it best.... "we're all just one big family!"

And no way in hell would you let some cranky old man Mr Tithabeault, tell you to 'disband' your company! It is like a neighbor asking a mother to maim her child!

"Your honor i object." you stood and started your piece.

All eyes were on you now. Everyone is watching. Heck the entire thing is televised around the globe. So you knew you have to be careful with words and attitude because you weren't in just any court. No, you were representing The Shadow Company at the International Court of Justice in Hague, Netherlands.

------------××××××××××××××××××--------------

After grueling session between the prosecutor and you, the defendent. You delivered your final piece.

"Your honor my client is not just deciding to wake up one day and plan on bombing on foreign soil as Mr Tithabeault here suggests." You took pause and took a look at the prosecutor to deliver the final blow.

You continued, "..No, oh no! The Shadows Company is working under Contract alongside a Country's army. It is a confidential information so my apologies i cannot specify the country. But regardless, your honor, my client's working with the Army which, by default", you knew just few more words and this case's win is yours. You glanced a final smug glance at the prosecutor before continuing..

"..by default my client is considered an extension of his then-contractor. Not some, to quote Mr Tithabeault, rogue 'boyband'!" And with that finishing line you took a sigh as you sat back down in your black robe.

You knew you have won the case beacuse it is a bogus case in the first place! Graves' receives a lot of accusations every now and then and you are too used to fighting the same fight over abd over again.

But the only reason this case became a high profile case is because your husband has quite a list of enemies and 'some' of these people just have 'some' people in high places. Thus this one horse got dragged to the ICJ.

--------------------------------------------------

The verdict came and just as you had predicted, you won.

Same shit, another day. Simple as that.

You smiled as you walked out of the prestigous International Court, to get into your car.

You had two Shadows by your side for your protection.

Just as you stepped outside the building, in a minute you were swarmed by thousands of reporters, protesters yelling screaming hounding you with questions on the trial, cursing you for representing a mercenary group and what not.

But you couldn't care any less. You know you had a job which was to have Phil's back and you did your job well.

The two shadows cleared the way for you to a 3rd shadow opening the car door for you to enter into your black bullet proof SUV.

The moment the door closed you took deep sigh of relaxation.

The 3rd shadow entered the passenger seat and the driver started driving to The Ritz Hotel where you are residing for the duration of the trial.

"Maam", the shadow on the passenger seat called out for you.

Your eyes were getting droopy due to exhaustion but the man's voice woke you up from your daze. "Yes?"

"Maam you have a call from shadow 0-1 ugh", he corrected himself thinking you may not be aware of the field callsign " its Commander Graves", he finished as he handed you the satellite phone.

Your eyes lit up on the mention of Phil's name.

"Phil? We won", you muttered with a hint of past work loads exhaustion still there.

"Y/n? Babe you did great today! I knew you'll get it done..", he said from other side.

You could hear he's happy, "ah it was nothing. Same stuff just different day honestly..", you are tired from all that work load of late night research and stress and it was evident in your tone subconsciously. But you tried to hide it while talking to him. Hell you haven't seen him for a month!

"Saw you on T.V. babe. You looked hot. I'll make my payment to ya for being my lawyer as soon as i come home.."

You chuckled at his suggestive comment, "oh you better!"

He sensed your exhausted tone from miles away.

"...'Kay babe gotta go now. The boys will take care of you till you reach home. Tell em to hit me up as soon as you drop, ya?"

"Yeah, ofcourse.."

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Part 2

M.list

Series masterlist

#phillip graves #philip graves x reader #graves x reader #cod x reader #cod #graves cod #graves x you #task force 141 #cod mw2 #cod modern warfare #x female reader #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #cod x y/n #fem reader #graves x female reader #phillip graves x reader

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screamingcrows · 4 months ago

Text

Start Carvin' Darlin' - Dottore x f!reader

Note: I've never suffered this much anguish just to make a single bad pun. I do want to write their first encounter buuut we'll see if it ever happens. Bear with me, I know it makes little sense. By all that is important- please heed the tags.

~7k words

Tags: dead dove do not eat, nsfw, dark content, fem!reader, cannibalism adjacent thoughts, manipulation, coercion, noncon, drugging, medical malpractice, power imbalance, age gap, somnophilia, sexualised dissection, fingering, needles, blood, gore, dacryphilia?, drowning, no aftercare, thoughts of death, thoughts of murder, brief choking, no pleasure for reader, Il Dottore centric MINORS DNI - I CANNOT STRESS THIS ENOUGH

There were few things, and even fewer people, Dottore would consider faithful companions. The world had made clear that nothing could be trusted and any gesture of kindness was bound to come at a price. The rest were blind to their perils. After all, so long as it was woven tight enough, even a tapestry of lies would be beautiful.

Hunger was different in that regard. Its claws had always nestled deep within his flesh, ripping through muscle and sinew to carve out a space for itself. He'd known every flavor it had to offer, from light tingles creeping down his spine to the dagger that had been lodged and twisted between his ribs, unbearable when he'd dragged himself through the scorching dunes that refused to be a home.

His eyes flickered to the scalpel held loosely in his gloved hand, the light reflected in the metal devoid of warmth. There was no real reason to wear them, the broken husk atop his table served no threat, and contamination from himself was a wholly irrelevant concern to the present analysis.

Force of habit was what he reasoned, the motion of putting them on coming almost as naturally as shushing the commotion in his, their, mind. There had been quite enough of that lately, only worsened by his own souring mood. Cutting the link off for the day would be best for them all.

That torment and the hunger accompanying it was but a faint memory now. Much more vivid were the tendrils that had coiled around his gut so long ago and punctured the fragile organ, leaving holes that would never be filled no matter the knowledge he devoured.

Every form of craving was a base need that Dottore had long since catalogued and archived in the back of his mind, giving him control whenever they surfaced. Desires were a potent tool when wielded right, something to use and then push away, a drive he'd discovered far more difficult to replicate mechanically.

What good was fear of decay to something that had never truly been alive?

It wasn't before you entered his life that Dottore understood what it meant to be truly starved. Four weeks. That was how long you'd been gone, a speck of dust compared to his solitary existence. It would likely be another two before you returned. Living as a famished man had been all too easy before the taste of sunsettia lingered on his tongue in the dead of night, the sweet fragrance in the air cloying despite every window letting in the frigid Snezhnayan air.

Ichor poured forth from the incision, rich in color as it stained everything in its path. Light reflected across the surface of the syrupy liquid, creating millions of constellations one second and replacing them the next. How would it feel on his tongue? Look running down your throat? It enveloped his fingers in a welcoming embrace, spilling over the edges as it made way for curious probing.

Crimson eyes refocused under the mask, shattered remnants of crystalline mimicry laying separated from the sharp casing. Rarely did a delusion crack. Even in death, the poor thing still clutched it with fervor. Each delusion was a testament to progress, every shard a strict reminder to never grow complacent. In time, he'd examine the shards for impurities, but for now, the cold flesh bearing the consequences was his priority.

Selfishness ingrained after hatred burning too brightly, his recklessness had long since settled into carefully calculated moves. Still, the temptation of your flesh had been too much. By no means were he a weak man, yet the promise of warmth in the otherwise cold halls had caught him unaware.

It's lungs were expanding almost desperately to accommodate the growing pressure of death upon the air. That was another faithful companion, silent and ever watchful, no doubt waiting for the most opportune moment to strike. The ashen skin was beautiful and had he known no better, it would've seemed obvious to write off the limbs as carved from stone. But there was no reasonable way to make that assumption, not with how the remaining muscle still moved under his touch. How it stretched when tugged. As tenderly as a lover, the sharp metal severed a piece to call it's own.

It hung from his palm, no longer part of anything that could have held importance, the tempting pink that was so familiar tainted by a vulgar discoloration, no doubt caused by the elemental energies it had been forced to absorb.

It bordered on obsession with how his thoughts would always circle back to you. He'd seen that color in the bruises he left on your body, in the plums you so enjoyed, pearly whites ripping through the skin and piercing the soft flesh underneath. You were always messy, with juices running down your chin while you perched so prettily on the cold metal tables of his workshop, nodding along to anything that left his lips. His eyes focused on a single drop running down his arm, deceptively anonymous in origin if seen in isolation, it might be a believable substitute for licking sweet nectar from your lips. He wondered if you were still as sweet as your favorite fruit. If it would sate the longing that gnawed at his insides the same as your presence did.

"Lord Harbinger? I- please excuse my intrusion, I'd been led to believe you weren't otherwise occupied."

You'd come to him as a wide eyed recruit, having had the misfortune of being made a cog in their machine. Such had become the fate of most, ironic that all they would see accomplished in their lifetime was trading who held the reins of their suffering. His wooden doors had creaked on their hinges as you tried to be discreet, trembling and clumsy with the salute, clearly still trying to come to terms with this new fate. You were everything he'd despised; weak, helpless, naïve, and so willing to throw yourself at whatever would have you and keep you safe. It fed something selfish.

"I am always busy. Quit wasting my time and state your purpose."

"I'm supposed to report for a health examination before they finalize the recruitment…"

Under normal circumstances, he'd have punished a disturbance like that, especially when paired with such ignorance. A medical exam. That was what you inquired about, and while he knew it to be true that every acquired asset must be examined, it was laughable that you'd fallen victim to some superiors directing you to his space.

Dottore had been in a good mood, finding himself willing to entertain the misunderstanding, if nothing else, it had provided a good distraction from the failures that had haunted him. Not even an hour after you'd left had he requested your transfer to his command, deeming you suitable for a few impending projects.

There was nothing sentimental left in him, all that had been forsaken, turned to dust when he broke himself into pieces. That was the truth as he willed it.

Another chunk of red left the body on his table, nimble fingers peeling back a layer of epithelia to trace the vessels that permeated it. They too had been contaminated, their walls glittering preciously in the sharp light. Steady hands held a syringe filled with water, letting it perfuse the artery before he gingerly collected it. A sample of blood for purification would be necessary as well. A pity the body had been left long enough that tracking the spread of energy would be useless through the crimson liquid, tissue damage would be the most reliant evidence.

Nothing remained of his past self, the parts that still clung to a desire for belonging, not satisfied by only the unity of ambition. It had been your eyes that revived it, looking upon him as if he held the sun in his palm and brought forth the dawn. As if he held all the secrets that would bring salvation.

Undoubtedly, you were one of the healthiest subjects to find themselves on his tables. And that was the justification he'd used that first time his hands had roamed the expanse of your skin, checking for any deformities and writing down scribbles on a sheet of parchment. It was both to placate your nervous mind, betrayed by the wobble in your lips and fidgeting hands, and to record your initial state, in case an opportunity to bring you back regularly and monitor any changes presented itself.

His fingers pushed inside, pliant flesh parting around his digits and swallowing them whole. It was a mesmerizing sight, his free hand twitching briefly before mindlessly wandering to unclasp his mask, as if the removal of it somehow made the wetness now coating his fingers glisten all the more. A shuddering breath passed his lips, forced out by the growing pressure in his chest as he remained unable to pry away his eyes. How utterly beautiful a sight it was. Unable to hold back, his fingers spread out to better stretch the opening, viscous liquid slowly oozing out as he engaged his other hand.

"a-ah I don't think that-"

"Good, keep it that way, there's no need for you to think. The more you squirm around, the longer this will take. Although, from the sounds you're making, it almost seems as though you are enjoying yourself?"

"No I'm.. Hurts.."

"Relax for me then."

Dottore had wondered since that day whether you were truly that clueless, or if you'd excuse yourself with the anxiety he'd seen choke your thoughts so often since. While he could grant you the benefit of doubt concerning the implications of his title, surely you'd know that a Harbinger had far more important obligations?

Entertaining whims had a habit of bringing more trouble than the brief euphoria indulgence could ever warrant. That had been his first mistake pertaining to you.

A flick of his wrist and the liver was easily removed, threads of adipose tissue clinging to the engorged mass as if unity would somehow save it. How tragically still it all was, the clockwork driving it forward had long since ceased operating, leaving only obsolete parts in the wake. The liver had been discolored, electro particles having seeped into the matter, it was made even more noticeable by the crisp white fabric it came to lay on. One of the segments could prepare biopsies from it, check if the energies had disrupted or otherwise changed the structures.

They already had an understanding of elemental overloading in organic matter, but it was a rare chance to observe internal damages caused by high loads over a short time rather than the prolonged use cases of their regular agents. Dottore had come to understand that no matter his insistence and want for knowledge, the soldiers wouldn't carry their dead with them, and he hardly had time to waste collecting material himself, no version of him did. Not with how close they were to their objective.

You had understood his desires and promised to try. The distaste had been palpable in the slight twitch of your eyes and wrinkled nose. It was the desire to try that fed his hunger. The silent promise of wanting not to understand, for how could you ever, but believing when he said the benefits were worth the hassle.

That he was worth the hassle.

Ah, how lovely you were. Keening moans and gasps of his name feeding into his budding obsession. The sounds had been enough to distract him from the churning feeling in his gut, barely able to handle how warm your insides had been, how tightly you squeezed his fingers. The feeling reminded him of reaching into a bed of roses, thorns puncturing his being and forcing his breath heavier.

It had been nothing but slow, languid movements, meant to explore and not fulfil, the sweet pleas that left your lips were simply a tacked on bonus. Dottore could only hope that you were left aching and wanting far more than him and that you hadn't seen how his cock had strained against the front of his pants, throbbing in tandem with your mewls. It was unbefitting.

"Two doors down the hall, on your right. You should fix your attire, it wouldn't do for a recruit to look as disheveled as that on their first day."

"I will, Lord Harbinger, and thank you… Did you fill out a form or something I should bring?"

"Consider this a preliminary inspection, the actual one will be done by a physician two doors down the hall."

How unfortunate that those The Mayor promised a better future were also the ones who would never see it come to fruition. They gave their lives, some more willingly than others, for a reward they could never reap. It had already caused a disease to run through Snezhnaya's people, unrest and distrust filling the veins of their nation instead of the wealth and prosperity they'd been assured would come. Dottore had found it most useful in handling you, a little taste of false certainty accompanied by the promise of power to protect yourself. Your gaze had rested upon him with nothing but devotion.

Another chunk left the body on his table, almost tossed aside without the faintest hint of grandeur, the heart was of no use to them This was far from his preferred medium, more durable constructions would always be at the forefront of his interest, yet there was still appreciation behind his mask at the delicacy. It had stopped the moment a flash of electro singed the nerves. He briefly wondered how its now blighted lifeblood would feel atop his tongue, would it prickle? Burn the roof of his mouth?

How he longed to taste yours again, feeling the tension in his jaw at the memory of biting a little too hard, that's what he'd called it anyway, an accident. In truth, he would not hesitate to drain your blood in seconds, the thought of your reliance on something apart from him made a feeling better left unidentified carve a path through his lungs, leaving the structures to collapse without air.

Every time his hands had touched you, tears had been rolling down your cheeks. How long before you learned that compliance was the logical path, that he wanted to gag every time his hands were forced to harm you?

Threats of missions far above your qualifications kept you in line for the most part, pliant enough that the restraints kept for livelier subjects rarely saw use.

Despite his best efforts to keep everything under wraps, Tartaglia had grinned brightly, not a care in the world when he'd approached, having the gall to simply barge in, to inquire about what promising new people he'd taken on. 'It had barely been a week' was what he argued, commenting how surely you must be something special to rouse The Doctor's interest so. Any reaction to his taunts would simply play into the ginger's hands, a game he was always surprised the young man knew how to play.

Something wet slid down his wrist, immediately drawing his attention back as he pulled his hands from the bloody mess. His lips curved downward, observing exactly where the edge of his glove had been pushed down, leaving the marred skin beneath vulnerable. With a huff, Dottore stepped away and discarded the gloves, letting cool water rinse away the icky feeling now writhing under his skin.

"Come now, Doc, why won't you let me have a friendly spar with you newest acquisition? It's so rare for you to take a special interest in anyone, surely you can understand why I'm curious?"

"That is exactly why. She shows promise, and I cannot have you breaking her prematurely."

"That's a promise then! When the time is right!"

"Get out, Tartaglia."

"I heard she's been coming in for regular 'inspections', you have to admit, that sounds a little unsavory. Does she actually think you're a real physician? Oh I know, tell her you studied medi-sin."

"That was an order. Out, now."

The water in Snezhnaya had an edge to it, as if pieces of glass were contained within. It left one feeling raw and aching despite no physical proof persisting. If it did, his hands would've been torn open days ago. There had been too many small mishaps lately, too many times he'd needed to cleanse himself after his mind had wandered. Despite how clearly the words echoed in his mind, no part of him would admit to their truth.

You'd done this to him. You'd instilled in him a weakness, a beast that wouldn't let him rest when you were gone.

A soft knock followed by the click of a lock behind him cleared his head in a flash, clean gloves swiftly tugged into place with newfound anticipation bubbling under his ribs. None of his segments knocked. No one else had a key. His body remained still, awaiting an announcement from the intruder, willing patience to persist even if the idea of feeling your skin under his uncovered palm was clawing at his muscles to move them.

"Doctor, I don't feel so good," weak and pitiful was the voice that reached his ears, it should've made him recoil.

Instead, Dottore found himself struggling to keep his movements languid, the image of a predator barely conserved in the slow turn of his head. He had no doubt you'd be scared if you could see how his eyes lingered upon your silhouette.

"You're making a bad habit of returning in a state of disrepair, there is only so much I can do to keep you patched together. Disrobe while I clear a table."

It would be a shame to discard the rest of the opened body already, there were still so many secrets to be pried from its cold grasp. Perhaps he could get you to-

No.

You would adamantly refuse, already he could sense the unease rolling off of you in waves at the putrid stench of death. Instead, the remains were wrapped tightly and brought to an adjacent room, the air misty from the cryo applicator installed inside, ensuring it could rest unaffected by decay while he tended the living.

A chuckle passed his lips upon seeing the way you were eyeing the metal surface as if it'd dissolve skin and bone. The sound alone was enough to stir your body, movements stiff as you sat on the edge. Such obedience was an admirable trait, one that would make the investment well worth it when he would one day enhance your form. He would. That's what he had to tell himself, even if the thought of peeling back your skin and rewiring everything inside was tied so intimately with an odd sense of loss.

"Finally…" his words had no real bite, only mild impatience.

Still, you hid yourself from his gaze, shoulders slumped and arms wrapped around your chest. As if he hadn't seen it all already. Dottore let himself take a moment to simply rake his eyes down the shapes constituting your body, careful to let none of the flames eating away at his insides show. Would you be able to discern it in his eyes should he discard the mask? Light fingers traced down the mock beak, briefly contemplating if he should let you try, it would be nothing but torture no matter what.

Being able to put a monstrous form to everything you'd heard about him, everything he'd done to you, it coiled in the pit of his stomach and upheaved anything on its way. He would never admit to being afraid, but the thought of being regarded with repulsion by you sent a shiver down his spine.

The injuries you'd sustained were minor, shallow and located at safe distances from anything vital. Even so, it wouldn't hurt to play a little, the table had already been cleared and he might as well take the break. Lips set in a scowl, his hands found your shoulders and pushed you back, already relishing in how perfectly the curvature fit against him, how little resistance there was in the movement. Made for him. That's what he would make of you. Scarlet lines had been drawn along your skin, urging his fingers to trail along the wetness.

"Do explain what, precisely, led to you looking like this," he kept his voice frigid for now, knowing how much more responsive the thought of having upset him made you.

"We were on our way back from taking care of-"

"I'm aware of your assignment, do not forget who signs off on your outings, give me the specifics."

A curious finger brushed over your hardened nipple, hearing the words catching in your throat.

"Treasure hoarders. I failed to block a strike and-" your body tensed as it wrung out the words.

"You failed to block a strike from such vermin?" He tutted, hand squeezing a little tighter around the soft flesh of your chest, seeing it spill out between his fingers, "That hardly warrants returning all cut and bruised, clearly, you lack the perseverance I thought I'd observed in you. Soon enough, you'll be nothing but nutrients for the wayside flora, is that what you'd like?"

Dottore wanted to laugh at your pitiful expression, a kicked puppy laying at his feet and wordlessly pleading for forgiveness, unknowing that it had already been granted. It was deliberate that you were never sent away far or for long, but there was no reason for you to know. Fear fostered obedience and your obedience was always pleasant, speeding up the process of cleaning the wounds you'd sustained with minimal squirming.

That didn't mean one hand wasn't constantly splayed over your sternum, pressing down to keep your body pinned. Already, a faint buzz was crawling along his bloodstream, months of conditioning catching up in the most frustrating manner as the front of his pants tightened. He had to swallow hard, forcing his fingers to relax before he left bruises. How would it look, he mused, if his nails could dig into your flesh? At the mere thought of those red crescent, a wave of heat washed over his body, accompanied by images of what other marks he could leave upon the canvas of your body.

Could he replicate and improve how pliant your thighs were under his grasp, would new vocal cords make sweeter sounds, added nerve endings would no doubt make for interesting results, if your muscles were synthetic the force they could exert would be greater meaning-

Not yet.

Dottore willed his focus to return, threading a needle as his disinterested voice rang out in the otherwise silent room.

"Do I need to strap you down?"

There was no need to look, knowing you were already oh so bravely shaking your head. An amused smile graced his lips upon seeing your teeth sink into the dirty uniform. Such foresight deserved praise, a small nod of his head accompanied by a finger rubbing along your collarbone in an almost soothing motion.

Having done it countless times before, the needle went effortlessly through your skin, thread pulling the flesh tightly together whenever he tugged. A hand kept returning to your no doubt soft locks of hair, carding through it and pushing back the urge to give a tug. The few tears that had fallen were swiftly brushed away by his fingers, the taste almost cloying upon his tongue.

Dottore sighed softly, tapping your side to get your attention back to the present, seeing your glassy eyes and the small shivers that ran down your body. He could already smell your arousal in the air, the scent growing in strength every time your hips shifted.

"That's it for now," his hand skimmed along your bare stomach, ending atop your sternum and keeping you down, "however, some of the lacerations appear to be in early stages of infection."

How he'd missed the little hitch of your breath, the stutter of your heart underneath his hand. Unceremoniously, Dottore put more weight into the hand, feeling your pulse echo throughout his own body and letting every beat slowly fill the gaping pit beneath his ribs with hollow promises.

There was no infection, of course, but he needed something to placate you before an injection. And the sedative would be invaluable. After weeks of being famished, there was no guarantee your comfort would be at the front of his mind, and it was so much more pleasant when you didn't struggle. Last time had bitterly taught him as much.

"But you can make me okay, right?" There was a sweet tremble to your voice, always so scared of death.

"The mere question is an insult to my abilities," he practically purred, excitement bubbling as his chosen objective for the day moved closer, "it'll just be a little prick and then you're safe. Now, sit up for me."

He'd already turned around, hands aching to return as he rummaged through a few drawers, eventually pulling out both a vial and syringe. Your body came into view reflected in the clear liquid, barely having sat up and already exploring the stitches.

All it for your eyes to lock on the syringe was two taps to the glass, unease so plainly written across your face while he pressed the plunger to clear excess air trapped inside.

His hand encircled your arm, tugging upwards and tutting at the grime that clung to you. With the syringe between his teeth, he wiped the area down, satisfaction flooding his system when goosebumps spread. It had been so long since he'd had you properly.

"There. Now, you need to stay here a little so I can ensure that there are no immediate adverse effects. The blanket is in the usual spot."

It would have been far more practical for you to put the uniform back on, but Dottore trusted that you'd follow his directions regardless and without fuss. When he caught the rattling of metal buckles, he wanted to laugh at your naivety, were you truly not accustomed enough by now to know what he wanted?

"I said; the blanket is in its usual spot," the icy sneer left his lips without a second thought, and oh how beautiful your widening eyes were.

"Well, I know, but it was just-" your voice was already a pitch higher, the irrational fear further irking him.

"Should I consider this insubordination?"

Already, Dottore had crossed the distance and wrapped a large hand around your jaw. It was no secret what happened to cross subordinates. He was well aware that your little slip hardly warranted this reaction, but it was difficult to hold back when the urge to sink his nails into your skin screamed and begged, fighting to drown out every other thought.

"N-no, please…"

It would be all too easy to squeeze a little tighter, hear the crack of your mandible as it would threaten to give out. His fingers stretched to move further up, pressing against the condylar processes, feeling around the joint as images of you with your jaw agape crashed over him.

Dottore knew how little force it took to break. And how a replacement could be crafted and implanted in less than a day, stronger and sturdier than what occupied the space now.

"Remember your place, and be thankful I don't leave you to wilt," the words were spat out with more disdain than anticipated, his fingers giving a last wanton squeeze before releasing your jaw.

With a small scoff, Dottore returned to one of the workbenches that lined the walls, feigning disinterest as his hands automatically began tinkering with the closest contraption, barely willing to divide enough attention to ensure it wasn't something that required further protective equipment for handling. Of course you'd know there were proper medics within the ranks, the most accessible ones located a few rooms away, but they couldn't offer what he did, and the reassurance that you always came back for him to lick your wounds with his barbed tongue, it was enough to pacify any frustrations with your brief moments of hesitation.

Five minutes of pretending to be distracted and Dottore found himself a little impatient.

Ten minutes and it had built to irritation, glassware scraping along the surfaces as he pushed it around, mindlessly 'reorganizing'.

By fifteen something would have been thrown were he a lesser being.

Sweet relief came at the quiet sound of your voice shattering the thick air, the words slurred as if you couldn't quite make out the correct shapes with your lips.

"Am I s'posed to feel tired?"

A small chuckle wormed it's way from his lungs, nonchalance fully restored now that he could turn to gaze upon your slumped body, fingers tightly clutching the fuzzy blanket that enveloped you in a flimsy haven.

"You've just returned after weeks in the field, having sustained injuries and all," Dottore spoke calmly, betraying none of his greed as he gestured to the trace remnants of blood on the table, "it is no wonder that exhaustion would begin to take hold now that you are safe."

The question was plainly written in your eyes, making Dottore incline his head in silent motion to continue, preemptively stepping closer to catch what would no doubt be a whisper.

"Should I go back to the barracks?"

"Would you prefer to go?"

You wouldn't be given the opportunity to go, of course not, but there was no need to be forceful when he could already see how valiantly you fought to keep your eyes open, how your body seemed drawn downwards. It couldn't be more than a few minutes now.

Irritation briefly sparked in Dottore's chest at the little shake of your head, it would've been far more fulfilling to hear you say it.

No attempt was made to make your way through the laboratory to reach the modest cot that stood tucked away in a corner, crates of supplies and projects on hold usually hiding it from view. How ethereal you looked, head lolled to the side and the blanket slowly slipping from your shoulders as a false slumber curled its gnarled limbs around you.

Whatever conclusions you mind would reach were of little consequence, the sedative would take care of that, countless tests indicating that it always left the recipient's memory riddled with inconsistencies, making it easy to dismiss any unpleasantries as imagined.

Dreams.

The risks associated with using the modified Akasha were still too great, even if the possibility of directly rewriting the barrier between truth and fantasy was a tempting one. This way would be more satisfying in the end, having had to put in a little work and flex muscles that had been allowed to atrophy since his days in The Akademiya.

Dottore showed extra care when he hoisted up your unconscious form, grip unyielding as he closed his eyes to revel in the weight against him. In a past that mattered little, others had sworn the ego he carried around was inflated enough to see him ascend in any way but the desired, perhaps this would've been enough of a tether to their reality. For this alone would he allow himself to be held down.

Perhaps things could have been different had that lone island in the sky not decided for his fate to be nothing but misery. Thus logic dictated that you too would be lost. A soft tremor reminded his fingers to relax, gently stroking over the crescents they'd left.

Your breath warmed him far more than it had any right to, coaxing forth memories of a soft summer breeze, rose petals velvety between his fingers as they were plucked from their stem and plummeted to their inevitable demise. And an inviting sound, bubbly and sweet that had, for just a night, filled his veins with the toxin your presence had reignited.

Having you clean would be preferable. The emergency shower would hardly be sufficient, not with how the filth seemed to have embedded itself in your skin. With you unconscious, there was no reason to school his expression, the notion only serving to exacerbate the scowl his face set in.

A soak would be easiest.

There was nothing pompous about the washroom attached to his quarters, and a pang of regret had the idea of bringing you to The Regrator's briefly surfacing. The sentiment didn't linger, an unwillingness to be indebted quickly reigning in the myriad of thoughts cluttering his mind in much the same way towels and clothes were currently strewn around the room.

It made a pretty picture, your body curled up against the side of the tub, a few rays of pale light slithering through the lone window to caress your face. A feeling that had never quite been within his grasp lingered in the rays of light, coaxing something painfully unfamiliar to tug at his shriveled heart.

Just a little longer before the tingling in his fingertips would be sated.

Quick work was made of disrobing himself, a watchful eye making sure your head remained above water. Dottore let a weary sigh hang in the otherwise empty silence, hating the hesitation that riddled his movements as his clothes fell to the floor. There was no reason to be reserved about the results of a life lived, the chances of you regaining consciousness would remain negligible for a while.

Finally settling with your weight in his lap was undoubtedly the closest to rapture Dottore had found himself. Arms securely around your midsection, your back flush against his heaving chest, had every uncertainty draining into the water.

Dutifully, one hand tore itself from your form to reach for a clean cloth, struggling for a moment before muscle memory took over, fingertips gracing the fabric without the need to tear his eyes from your parted lips. It was nothing short of tranquil, letting the cloth scrub away the remnants of your excursion with meticulous care.

Dottore saw how your skin turned red from the continued friction and consciously ignored it, some small voice wanting to rub it off completely and leave you a blank canvas.

He looked instead at his reflection in the water, vermillion stare drawn to its counterpart, noting briefly how it wasn't nearly as comfortable as being under your gaze.

At least his subconscious mind had the decency to have left the few areas he'd stitched together alone, not that they mattered in any practical sense, but you'd be distraught if they were gone when you woke. With time, would you be as broken as him?

Only once you'd been scrubbed clean were thoughts of his own desires acknowledged, cock throbbing against your back as soon as attention was diverted to the feeling. A small hiss mingled with the steam from the water, Dottore easily repositioning you to let his length slide between your thighs.

Already, satisfaction rumbled in his chest, vision engulfed by white for a moment upon repeating the soft motion of his hips. Your thighs easily gave way when tugged apart, body every bit as pliant as previously. Having made peace with his impatience long before, his lips were immediately descended upon the crook of your neck, stifling the groans that spilled forth as he aligned himself.

The water provided additional friction, a slight burn dancing against his sensitive tip upon breaching your tight entrance. Soap met his tongue, disgustingly sterile as it danced along his taste buds, only spurring him on to mouth at you with renewed vigor, desperate to taste the sweetness he knew lay buried underneath.

His hips snapped up as the familiar taste invaded his senses, eyes rolling back at the pleasure of being buried to the hilt. Had his faith been intact, a prayer to the archons for your silence would have tumbled from his lips. Warm droplets carved out paths alongside old scars, gathering at his chin before being caught in the soft locks of your hair. Dottore felt his skin crawl as traces of a pained howl bubbled in his throat, body trembling in time with every squeeze of your insides.

If time would remain forever frozen as the land just outside the walls perhaps everything would be more bearable then. Would it banish both the threat of separation and the burden of remaining what he'd made of himself in spite of reality?

Another sound crawled from his lungs, foreign and intrusive when it met his ears, wanton in a way that caused nothing but dissonance. Dottore curled his body around you, panting heavily against the nape of your neck as he sought out some form of relief, his muscles straining with the increased pace.

Stagnating would be of no use, pleasure was fleeting, worthless without contrast.

Dottore felt euphoria flood his system, spine tingling mercilessly as his sharp teeth tore into the pliant flesh beneath. It was a thoughtless action, driven only by the need to claim and consume, satisfying the desperate desire to be whole. Water sloshed against the edges with every rut of his hips, driving himself deeper into the warmth you so selflessly provided.

How much time had passed felt secondary, the only thing truly worth attention being the rapid tightening in his abdomen, pleasure steadily building with every movement. Seeking more, Dottore found his hands had moved down to grasp the curve of your hip, easily hoisting you up to twist your body around.

With a ferocity that should by all means have been concerning, his lips sought a home against yours, relishing in how they had already parted for him. A hand in your hair was all that was needed to stabilize your head enough that he could delude himself into thinking you awake.

That the little puffs of air that passed into his waiting jaws were instead keens and broken moans spilling forth. His tongue pushed into the waiting heat, wanting if he could to explore deeper, have your throat squeeze around his tongue as your body did his cock. Before he could hesitate, the curve of your nape rested in his calloused palm, the appendage twitching with budding excitement.

A light press was all his mind would allow, knowing all too well how little it would take to snap such a precious thing. As intoxicating as holding the fate of another in his hands were, this was wrong, without reason.

It was the way your thighs quivered around his hips that brought order to all those thoughts, tugging your head away for a breath of fresh air to stifle his burning lungs. Only a single breath afforded, diving back in for more as all else lost meaning. He needed more, needed to hear you beg him, needed your hands to tug at his hair, needed-

Water splashed over the edges as he pushed forward, hands grasping for the back of your knees to push them against your chest. His chest heaved at the sight underneath him, growling like a wounded animal as he reaped what he'd cultivated, one hand keeping a leg pinned while the other covered your nose and mouth.

He was so close.

Close enough that every clench of your slick heat choked his thoughts. Close enough that he threw back his head, willing the image of your eyes briefly opening from his mind, focusing instead on the water soothing his burning skin as he gave a last few thrusts, cursing as the thread snapped and released washed over him.

It would've been no surprise if the tub had cracked from the force, even less if you had cracked, his body still shaking from the force of his release, milky white leaking out into the water and dispersing. Your body was swiftly pulled above the surface as Dottore sat back, once more cradling your head to his chest, trying to ignore the emptiness that wanted to force itself along the clarity that came in the wake of euphoria.

He laid your no doubt exhausted frame onto the cot, hastily tossing the grey blanket over your form. The harsh light of the laboratory did little to hide the marks that littered your body, blooming purple along your thighs, fierce red at your shoulders, already tempting him to reach out and touch again. It was a matter of creating distance, unwilling to let attachment fester and consume more, already now the gnawing had returned, weaker than before but far from sated.

By all means, he should've swung the door shut with more force, knowing at the back of his mind that the lock never clicked. It did nothing to stop his body from collapsing onto his unmade bed, pushing at the covers before crawling further up. He didn't find himself opposed to having you drape yourself against his body, rest in his arms.

Would you seek him out by yourself once the sedative wore off?

Would that finally stave off his hunger?

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