#i have sinned . i have been measured and found wanting

[anghimalaaynasapuso]

HORNY PRIEST JOHN PRICE

breeding kink, sacrilege (?)

john joined the church after leaving the military, though he never spoke much about what led him there. some men left war and found peace in quiet towns, in family, in distance. john, meanwhile, found himself in the shadow of the cross, searching for something he couldn't name.

he knelt, prayed, studied scripture— not because he'd had a sudden divine vision, but because he’d needed something to tether himself to.

he's never been one to talk about faith in absolutes. the young priests, fresh out of seminary, speak with a certainty that makes him envious. they talk of god’s mercy like it’s a thing they’ve held in their hands, like they’ve never doubted it for a second.

john doesn’t have that luxury. his hands have held a rifle, pressed down on wounds, ended lives.

what right does he have to stand in the confessional and tell a man his sins are forgiven when his own are still heavy in his chest?

he doesn’t let it show. not when he stands before his congregation, not when he delivers the homily, and not even when he listens to the confessions of those who kneel before him.

the words come easy. “god is love. god is mercy.” he says them with the confidence of a man who believes them. perhaps if he says them enough, one day it'll drive home.

he's decently well-respected in his parish. john speaks in measured tones, and listens with the kind of patience that makes people trust him. he’s rarely if ever unkind, never raising his voice even when the children at sunday school test his patience or when the older priests debate doctrine with a stubbornness he doesn’t bother entertaining.

the congregation admires him for it.

he keeps a well-worn rosary in his pocket, fingers brushing over the beads when he’s deep in thought. it’s an old habit, one he never lost even when he stopped saying the prayers as often as he should. late at night, when he can’t sleep, he walks the empty church, the only light coming from the red glow of the tabernacle lamp.

he runs his fingers over the smooth wood of the pews, listens to the creak of the floorboards beneath his boots, and exhales smoke into the dim air. it feels like a kind of penance, staying here long after everyone else has gone, keeping watch over something he’s still not sure he belongs to.

the first time you meet, it’s in the courtyard after sunday mass.

you’re new to the church. new to the neighborhood. moved in just a month ago, so he’s heard. he hadn't taken much notice at first— he rarely does. parishioners come and go, faces blending into one another over time.

but then he sees you. all wide eyes and bright smiles, the late-morning sun catching the warmth in your hair, laugh spilling out like a song. you shake hands with mrs. calloway, nod attentively as she chatters on about her garden, and there’s something about the way you tilt your head, the way your lips part in quiet amusement, that makes something ugly and raw twist in his gut.

john shouldn’t be looking. he knows he shouldn’t be looking.

and yet.

you catch sight of him, and your smile brightens, something open and eager in your face as you step forward. “father price.”

your voice is softer than he expects. sweeter. a fact not good for his health.

he nods. “you’ve settled in well, i see.”

“i have. everyone’s been so kind.” your hands clasp in front of you, fingers tangling. “i wanted to introduce myself properly. i should have done it sooner, but-” you shake your head, sheepish. “i guess i was nervous.”

nervous? of who— him?

he watches the way you glance down, the way your teeth catch the plump of your lower lip, the slight shift of your weight from foot to foot, and something slow and molten pools in his stomach.

and then, unbidden—

i want to fuck her mouth.

the thought slams into him. his fingers curl, blunt nails pressing into his palm. john's throat tightens, heat crawling up the back of his neck, shame dragging its claws down his spine.

he schools his expression, keeps his voice level. “there’s nothing to be nervous about.” a beat. his gaze lingers on your lips a second too long. “i hope you find what you’re looking for here.”

your eyes meets his then. for a moment, he swears you see it. the crack in his composure, the way his restraint stretches thin around you like fraying rope.

but then you just smile again— so fucking gentle— and bid him a polite goodbye before slipping back into the crowd.

he exhales, tries to control his breathing, before turning on his heel and heading inside.

it doesn’t get better after that.

oh no. in fact, it only gets worse.

because you linger. you stay. you join the congregation, sit near the front every sunday, your hands folded neatly in your lap, your lips parted slightly in quiet reverence as you listen to the sermon. you bite your lip when you concentrate, tuck your hair behind your ear absentmindedly, shift in your seat just enough to make his mind wander places it has absolutely no right to go.

and it haunts him.

creeps into his thoughts when he thinks he's already run far away from it. slips into his head when he least expects it. a slow, insidious thing, winding around his ribs, sinking its teeth into the softest parts of him.

john finds himself getting lost in his imaginations more and more as the weeks pass by. it starts with something simple. something small.

you, in his kitchen.

the space is yours as much as it is his now— he hardly steps foot in it unless you usher him in, your hands on his arms, guiding him to sit, to rest. the scent of warm bread and roasted meat fills the house, seeping into the wooden beams, the stone walls. the windows are cracked open just enough to let the breeze in, carrying with it the scent of the fields, the distant bells of the church.

you hum as you work, a quiet little tune under your breath, flour dusting your fingers, smudging along the curve of your cheek. you’re barefoot, the hem of your dress skimming your ankles, your apron tied neatly at the back. domestic. wifely. His.

"you’re spoiling me, love."

you laugh, glancing over your shoulder at him where he sits at the table, his elbows braced against the wood, his chin resting on his hand. john hasn’t even touched the sermon notes laid out before him, hasn’t even opened the book he’d planned to read. no, his attention has been on you— watching you move, watching the light catch on your hair, watching the way you fit so perfectly in his home.

"you work too hard," you murmur, turning back to the stove. "someone has to take care of you."

the words sink into him, low and warm, wrapping around something deep in his chest.

you do take care of him.

you set a plate before him, still warm from your hands, and press a kiss to the top of his head, your lips soft against his hair.

you fold his robes neatly after they’ve dried in the sun, pressing your hands over the fabric like a prayer. you pluck a stray thread from his collar before mass, your fingers deft and careful, your brow furrowing in quiet concentration.

you brush his hair back from his forehead when he sits too long at his desk, rubbing slow circles at his temple, your fingers easing away the weight of his work.

and in the evenings, after the dishes have been washed and the fire burns low, you climb into his lap with a soft sigh, tucking yourself against his chest.

"long day?" you ask, your fingers smoothing over the front of his shirt.

"mm." john presses a kiss to your hair, lets his hands settle at your waist, palms warm through the thin fabric of your nightdress. "better now."

and it is better, with you here, with your warmth seeping into his, your breath brushing his throat.

he wants all of it. the soft, easy domesticity. the routine of waking to you curled beside him, of pressing sleepy kisses to your bare shoulder before dragging himself out of bed. of watching you move through his home with the comfort of a woman who belongs there.

and, god help him—

john wants to fuck you too.

until you leaked him, until his seed dripped down your thighs, making a mess of soft, perfect skin. wants to bend you over his desk, press your face into the worn wood, break you open on his cock until you sobbed for him, begged him to fill you. he’d grip your hips hard enough to leave bruises.

he wants to whisper filth into your ear, his breath hot— gonna fill you up, love. gonna fuck you so full of me you’ll be dripping for days. you want that, don’t you? want me to breed you like the needy little thing you are?

he wants to press his fingers into your mouth, make you suck them clean before shoving them between your legs, fucking them into the soft clutch of your pussy until you cried for him.

and when he finally sinks his swollen cock inside you— he’d make you feel it.

john wants to fuck you raw, grind his hips against yours, keep you pinned beneath his weight, stuffed full of his cock. he’d press a hand to your belly, feel himself inside you, make you watch as you take a cock too big for you.

and when he’d spill inside you he wouldn't stop. oh no— he’d fuck it deeper, press his fingers to your swollen clit, make you come with him, make your body take every last drop of his seed.

because he wouldn't just fill you. he’d breed you. over and over, until you couldn't keep yourself up, too boneless to thrust back into him, too full to take any more.

but he was a man of god.

and men of god did not shove their sweet, willing parishioners over their desks, did not drag their teeth down soft skin, did not slap needy little cunts until they were wet and dripping.

they did not fuck desperate little things in church pews, in quiet confessionals, did not fist their hands in soft hair and shove pretty mouths onto their cocks, did not whisper filth between gasped-out prayers.

they did not spend their nights with their heads buried between trembling thighs, devouring the taste of sin, holding squirming bodies still as they licked deep, sucked hard, forced sweet, innocent things to come against their tongues.

they did not rut into them like beasts, gripping soft wrists, pinning them down, owning them with every brutal thrust. they did not press their hands to swollen bellies, fill their women over and over until their bodies were wrecked, too full of come to take another drop.

men of god did not fuck.

but god forgive him, he would.

all those thoughts come to this moment, this night—

john finds himself alone under the dim glow of candlelight, sitting on the pews, head tilted to the cross.

his breathing is uneven, ragged in the dim hush of the empty church. each inhale scrapes against his ribs, sharp and burning, like penance for the filth curdling in his mind. his hands tremble as they move beneath his robes, fingers fumbling at the buckle of his belt. the metal clinks, far too loud in the sacred silence, but he doesn’t stop.

can’t.

his breathing is uneven, ragged in the dim hush of the empty church. each inhale feels like it scrapes against his ribs, sharp and burning, as though the very air is punishing him for the thoughts festering in his mind. his hands tremble as they move beneath his robes, fingers fumbling at the buckle of his belt. the metal clinks softly in the quiet, a sound far too loud in the sanctity of this space.

the leather gives way, and his cassock feels suffocating now, the fabric too heavy against skin flushed with heat. his fingers slip lower, dragging the waistband of his pants down his hips with shaky, desperate movements until he’s free— finally free— from the painful confines of his underwear.

his cock springs forward, already hard in his hand, flushed dark at the tip, the skin tight and aching. a bead of precum glistens there, catching in the flicker of candlelight like something obscene in the house of god. he wraps his hand around the base, his grip firm but not enough to ease the pressure coiled in his gut. the heat of his palm sends a shudder rolling down his spine, breath hitching as his thumb swipes over the sensitive head, smearing the slick wetness down the length.

his cock is long, veins pulsing along the shaft, the kind of thick that demands attention. his foreskin still covers the swollen head, slick with the evidence of his own arousal, precum smearing against the soft skin of his lower stomach. he hisses through his teeth as he wraps his hand around the base, fingers barely closing around the girth, feeling the steady throb of blood pulsing beneath his grip.

his balls hang full and tight, pulled close with need, the skin sensitive to the faintest brush of fabric. every movement is torment, the soft rub of his cassock against his bare thighs sending a shudder through him, making his hips jerk forward, seeking relief.

he strokes himself slowly, dragging his foreskin back to expose the flushed, leaking head, then rolling it forward again, savoring the sensitivity. his thumb swipes through the slick wetness pooling at the tip, smearing it down the length, adding just enough glide to make his fist slip easier over his cock.

his grip tightens, dragging the pleasure out like a prayer he’s too ashamed to speak aloud. the church is silent around him, the air thick with the scent of burning wax and old stone, but all he can think about is you.

on your knees before him.

john sees it so clearly, feels it like it’s already happened. the way you’d sink down, your eyes looking up at him through thick lashes, expectant. your soft lips parted just enough for your tongue to wet them before stretching around his cock. the thought makes his stomach clench, his fingers twitching as he strokes himself tighter, his foreskin gliding over the swollen head before he pulls it back again.

you wouldn’t be able to take all of him at once. he knows that much. He’s too thick, too long— your jaw would ache just trying, your tongue pressing firm against the heavy weight of him, struggling to make space. the first inch would be easy, maybe even the second. but when he pushes deeper, when his tip nudges the back of your throat and you gag, just a little, he knows he’d lose whatever control he has left.

he swears he can see it— your fingers curling against his thighs, the little choked noise you’d make when he holds you there, when his cock throbs against your tongue. your throat would flutter, swallowing around him, trying to adjust to the stretch. and oh, god, the way your lips would look wrapped around him, swollen with abuse and slick with spit and precum. john nearly loses himself at the image alone.

his hips jerk forward into his own grip, chasing the fantasy, breath coming through the vaulted ceilings of the church. he’d guide you through it, hand buried in your hair, tilting your head just the way he likes. gentle, at first. Letting you set the pace. But then when you get too comfortable, when you start to tease, pulling back just to trail soft kisses along his length— he’d snap.

he’d pull you down, bury himself deep in the hot sleeve of your mouth until your throat clenched around him and you whimpered against his balls. his other hand would cup your jaw, feeling the bulge of himself pressing against your cheek, watching as tears bead at the corners of your eyes, shuddering from the effort of taking him.

he wonders if you’d try to pull away, fingers gripping his thighs in a silent plea. would you struggle? would you whine? would you let him break you like this?

john groans, his grip tightening almost painfully. he pumps himself faster now, the obscene slap of skin against skin filling the empty church. his balls are drawn tight, aching with the need to spill, and in his mind, he’s not coming into his own palm.

he’s coming down your throat.

you’d swallow, wouldn’t you? just for him. he can see it— his cum thick on your tongue, your lips parting to show him before you close your mouth and swallow it down. maybe a little would escape, dripping down your chin, and he’d swipe his thumb through it, pressing it back to your lips.

“messy thing,” he’d murmur. “but you took it so well.”

the thought sends him over the edge.

his hips stutter, cock jerking in his grip as his orgasm crashes over him, hot and sudden. cum spills over his knuckles, , dripping onto the cold stone beneath him. his breath comes in harsh, broken gasps, his thighs trembling as he rides out the aftershocks, his vision hazy with the force of his release.

and when it’s over— when he finally stills, his body spent, his mind heavy with guilt— he drags his gaze upward.

The cross looms above him, watching.

if this is damnation, he’ll sin again.

[fursasaida]

This article is from 2022, but it came up in the context of Palestine:

Here are some striking passages, relevant to all colonial aftermaths but certainly also to the forms we see Zionist reaction taking at the moment:

Over the decade I lived in South Africa, I became fascinated by this white minority [i.e. the whole white population post-apartheid as a minority in the country], particularly its members who considered themselves progressive. They reminded me of my liberal peers in America, who had an apparently self-assured enthusiasm about the coming of a so-called majority-minority nation. As with white South Africans who had celebrated the end of apartheid, their enthusiasm often belied, just beneath the surface, a striking degree of fear, bewilderment, disillusionment, and dread.

[...]

Yet these progressives’ response to the end of apartheid was ambivalent. Contemplating South Africa after apartheid, an Economist correspondent observed that “the lives of many whites exude sadness.” The phenomenon perplexed him. In so many ways, white life remained more or less untouched, or had even improved. Despite apartheid’s horrors—and the regime’s violence against those who worked to dismantle it—the ANC encouraged an attitude of forgiveness. It left statues of Afrikaner heroes standing and helped institute the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, which granted amnesty to some perpetrators of apartheid-era political crimes.

But as time wore on, even wealthy white South Africans began to radiate a degree of fear and frustration that did not match any simple economic analysis of their situation. A startling number of formerly anti-apartheid white people began to voice bitter criticisms of post-apartheid society. An Afrikaner poet who did prison time under apartheid for aiding the Black-liberation cause wrote an essay denouncing the new Black-led country as “a sewer of betrayed expectations and thievery, fear and unbridled greed.”

What accounted for this disillusionment? Many white South Africans told me that Black forgiveness felt like a slap on the face. By not acting toward you as you acted toward us, we’re showing you up, white South Africans seemed to hear. You’ll owe us a debt of gratitude forever.

The article goes on to discuss:

"Mau Mau anxiety," or the fear among whites of violent repercussions, and how this shows up in reported vs confirmed crime stats - possibly to the point of false memories of home invasion

A sense of irrelevance and alienation among this white population, leading to another anxiety: "do we still belong here?"

The sublimation of this anxiety into self-identification as a marginalized minority group, featuring such incredible statements as "I wanted to fight for Afrikaners, but I came to think of myself as a ‘liberal internationalist,’ not a white racist...I found such inspiration from the struggles of the Catalonians and the Basques. Even Tibet" and "[Martin Luther] King [Jr.] also fought for a people without much political representation … That’s why I consider him one of my most important forebears and heroes,” from a self-declared liberal environmentalist who also thinks Afrikaaners should take back government control because they are "naturally good" at governance

Some discussion of the dynamics underlying these reactions, particularly the fact that "admitting past sins seem[ed] to become harder even as they receded into history," and US parallels

And finally, in closing:

The Afrikaner journalist Rian Malan, who opposed apartheid, has written that, by most measures, its aftermath went better than almost any white person could have imagined. But, as with most white progressives, his experience of post-1994 South Africa has been complicated. [...]

He just couldn’t forgive Black people for forgiving him. Paradoxically, being left undisturbed served as an ever-present reminder of his guilt, of how wrongly he had treated his maid and other Black people under apartheid. “The Bible was right about a thing or two,” he wrote. “It is infinitely worse to receive than to give, especially if … the gift is mercy.”

[sweemmy]

⋆｡ﾟThe Gregorian era was a time when those with desires outside the social norm lived in the shadow of secrecy, a truth these women knew all too well. ﾟ｡⋆

— Vi, Caitlyn, Sevika, and Jinx.

VI.

Vi has never fit into the molds that society tries to impose on her—always rebellious, always challenging the rules. But this time, the struggle is different. There are no punches or screams, just a battle that burns in silence, fought deep in her heart… and this time, she’s completely alone.

When she sees you at events, draped in the elegance expected of a respectable lady, her gaze turns cold, almost unyielding. But it’s not because of you. It’s because of the oppressive system that binds her hands, even denying her the right to look at you the way she truly wants.

Every word exchanged is a carefully measured move on an invisible board. Vi offers you a wry smile, murmuring, "It’s a pleasure to see you," but behind that strong façade, her hands tremble with the uncontrollable urge to reach for yours. She hates feeling vulnerable, but with you, she allows herself to be human.

She glides silently through the cobbled streets of Piltover, seeking out those hidden corners where her people gather. Here, finally, she feels free… but that freedom always casts a shadow, because you can’t be by her side.

She dreams of you more than she dares admit. She imagines escaping with you to a corner of the world where no one knows them, where names and titles fade into oblivion. But she always wakes, and reality reminds her that such a thing is nothing more than impossible.

When she hears other men speak of you, referring to you as the "gem" of the season, a fury burns in her chest, like poison twisting in her gut. "Why can they claim you with words, while I can’t even have you at all?" she wonders, rage and desire intertwined.

One moonless night, she found you lost in the gardens, surrounded by the stillness of the dark. The conversation that followed was soft, subtle, like a whisper in the breeze. Yet in your eyes, Vi thought she saw something more—a silent longing, a spark that reflected what she herself desired. But did she really see it, or was it just the echo of her own naive hope?

She feels that every word she speaks must be carefully calculated, but her love for you burns with an intensity she cannot contain. "If this is a sin," she reflects, letting out a bitter smile, "then let the flames consume me."

Finally, one day, Vi takes the pen and writes a letter, but she never delivers it. Instead, she watches it burn in the fireplace, letting her words dissolve in the flames, like her dearest dream, consumed to the last ash.

CAITLYN.

For Caitlyn, society has always been a chessboard, where every move is calculated with precision, each play evaluated down to the last detail. But you... you're the only move she knows she can never win.

She looks at the other young women who dream of marriage and can't help but feel a pang of envy. Not for them, but because she knows she will never get to enjoy the luxury of looking at you the way the men around you do, with admiration and desire in their eyes.

She writes letters to you with almost obsessive frequency—letters that never see the light of day. She sits at her desk, motionless and lost in thought until late into the night, trapped in the uncertainty of what everything could be like if the world were different.

At social gatherings, she stands by your side as a loyal friend, an elegant and discreet shadow who glides gracefully beside you. The looks from others are just noise; the only thing that matters is your presence beside her, even if it's in the silent role of "companion."

Once, someone dared to make a disparaging comment about "improper relationships." Caitlyn, with an exterior calm that seemed unshakable, didn't let her anger spill over in public, but inside, her indignation burned as fiercely as a scorching sun. No one, absolutely no one, was going to point fingers at you for something she herself held deep within.

She dreams of escaping, of running toward a future where she is free, but Caitlyn cannot deny the reality. "My duty is to protect my family, to protect you," she repeats over and over, holding onto those words like an anchor, trying to convince her heart that, in the end, that’s all that truly matters.

Sometimes, when your laughter rings out or when you take her arm with that confidence that seems to close the distance between you, her pulse races, as if each beat is a whisper of possibilities. In those moments, she allows herself to think that, if only they were braver, they could find an excuse to escape together, to leave behind everything that holds them back. But Caitlyn doesn't dare to be selfish, to risk everything she has built.

Every time she walks in the rain, she can’t help but think of you. The sense of freedom she feels in those moments is the same she longs for both of them, although, aware of the distance between you, she can only give you an empty smile and a "goodnight" that doesn't reflect all she wishes she could say.

The love she feels for you is like a silent wound. It doesn’t bleed, but it always hurts.

SEVIKA.

Sevika knows she’s not made to fit in. Her stance is unyielding, her presence a powerful force, but when she looks at you, something inside her breaks, as if everything she’s built crumbles in an instant.

At first, she denied it vehemently. She believed it was just a fleeting admiration, a passing desire that would fade with time. But soon, the harsh truth revealed itself: she is deeply in love, and that revelation consumes her with rage, because she knows she can’t have you.

Frustration boils inside her when she sees you talking to men who don’t deserve you. "Why should I stay silent? Why can they, and I can’t?"

Sevika was never one to follow rules; she always moved in her own territory, where the rules were flexible, and the consequences, few. But in this game, the rules are different, and she knows it. Any misstep, any wrong move, could destroy you. And she won’t allow it. She won’t let a mistake, no matter how small, bring an end to you.

She finds herself in the darkest corners of her mind, thinking of you more often than she’d like to admit. She imagines holding your hand in public, as if it were something natural, as others do. The mere thought of it is a delicious torture, a game of desires that slowly consumes her.

In a nearly imperceptible gesture, she once offered you her coat when the night was cold. "A courtesy," she said, but deep down, it was her only way of touching you.

Sevika hates the world she lives in. If she could, she would burn it all down to build a new one, one where no one could judge them.

Sometimes, in those dark, secret bars where she tends to lose herself, the glances from others challenge her, silently daring her. "I am what I am," she mutters under her breath, fiercely. Yet, deep in her mind, she never lets your name be tarnished, guarding it with a silent but unshakable loyalty.

Finally, in the solitude of her own company, Sevika whispers her love in a barely audible murmur. It’s a secret she will never reveal, but one that will burn in her chest, keeping her alive in every corner of her being.

JINX.

For Jinx, the world has always been a cruel and senseless place, but when you're near, for a fleeting moment, everything stops, as if the storm in her mind finds a corner of calm.

She doesn't know how to explain what she feels when she sees you, nor why her heart beats faster in your presence. At first, she thought it was just admiration, maybe a need, but soon she realized that what consumes her goes beyond that. It's something darker, more intense... something forbidden.

Jinx watches you from a distance, hidden in the shadows. She doesn't do it for fun, but because she's aware that getting too close could be a risk, both for you and for her.

In her overwhelmed mind, she imagines a world without rules or boundaries. "If there were no laws or morals, we could be everything, we could be together," she repeats to herself with a mix of rage and desire, as if the words could alter her reality.

Once, in an impulsive outburst, she stole a ribbon you wore in your hair. Now she keeps it as her most prized treasure. It's the closest she has to you.

She hears the rumors circulating, the whispers about how "you should get married soon." Meanwhile, Jinx erupts in anger, screaming and destroying everything in her path, but only when no one can see her. The very thought of losing you forever consumes her from the inside; she can't bear it.

She draws you in her notebooks, sketching little silhouettes hidden among chaotic scribbles and bursts of color. You are her only refuge in a world that burns with flames, her corner of calm amidst the chaos.

She dreams of you discovering her, of seeing through her facade and accepting her for what she truly is. But the fear of rejection holds her back.

In the end, Jinx whispers your name to the wind, as if it were a lost prayer addressed to a god who has never listened to her pleas.

[bettelaboure]

⊹ A Sin in Red and Black ⊹ | Kwon Ji-yong

⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹

⊹ Pairing: Kwon Ji-yong x Reader

⊹ Warnings: After months of separation due to his world tour, Kwon Ji-yong returns home to find you waiting with a new tattoo—his words inked into your skin as a permanent mark of your devotion. What begins as a slow-burning reunion quickly ignites into a night of dominance, passion, and the reclaiming of every touch, every whisper, and every moment lost to distance.

⊹ Summary: explicit language, dominance/submission dynamics, suggestive content, possessive themes, intense emotional and physical intimacy

⊹ requested by anonymous

⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹

The night outside stretched endlessly, city lights flickering like distant stars, casting shadows against the walls of your shared bedroom. It had been months—months of longing, of whispered phone calls at ungodly hours, of pixelated video chats that never felt like enough.

And now, finally, Ji-yong was here. Flesh and blood. Heat and presence.

The weight of him filled the room before he even spoke. The front door had barely clicked shut behind him when he spotted you perched on the edge of the bed, wearing nothing but his oversized shirt, the fabric slipping off your shoulder to reveal just a tease of what lay beneath. You saw it then—the flicker in his dark eyes, the way his lips parted slightly as if he were catching his breath.

But it was when his gaze landed on the faint glimpse of red peeking from under your shirt that something in him changed.

He took slow, measured steps toward you, his presence suffocating in the best way. You could feel the weight of his exhaustion from the tour clinging to him, but layered beneath it was something sharper, something possessive.

“Stand up,” he said, his voice low, commanding.

A shiver ran down your spine at the dominance in his tone, but you obeyed. The second you were on your feet, he reached for the hem of your shirt, fingers grazing your skin as he pushed it up, exposing the fresh ink stretching along your spine.

The air in the room thickened.

Ji-yong stilled, his breathing slow but deep as he took in the sight of your tattoo. The red serpent coiled along your back, its scales dancing with the movement of your body, and beneath it, the delicate black script in his handwriting:

"Loving you in silence, my sweetest sin."

His words.

His mark.

His jaw clenched, and then—so softly it was almost a whisper—he exhaled, "You got this for me."

Not a question. A realization.

His fingers skimmed the ink, tracing the lines as if he needed to commit them to memory. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t empty—it was heavy, filled with unspoken thoughts, filled with everything he hadn’t been able to say in those long months apart.

“You wanted to be marked,” he murmured, his voice rough, his lips hovering just over the inked skin. “Even when I wasn’t here, you wanted something to remind you that you’re mine.”

You swallowed hard, breath catching at the way he said it. Not with doubt. Not with hesitation. But with complete and utter certainty.

“Yes,” you whispered, barely able to get the word out before his lips pressed against your back, kissing along the delicate script.

Ji-yong made a sound—something between a hum and a growl, something deep and approving—and the next moment, his hands were on you, gripping your hips, pulling you back against him. The warmth of his body pressed into you, solid, real.

"You don't know what it did to me," he murmured, voice thick with something raw, "being away from you for that long."

You did. You felt it too. The distance, the ache, the way no amount of phone calls or late-night whispers could ever truly fill the void of not having him.

"Show me," you whispered, barely more than a breath.

Ji-yong didn’t need to be told twice.

He turned you in his arms, his hands moving to cup your jaw, tilting your face up toward him. His eyes—dark, unreadable—searched yours, and whatever he found there had him pulling you into a kiss that was nothing like the soft, hesitant ones you had shared over video calls.

This was desperate.

This was months of longing, of nights spent touching yourself to the sound of his voice, of him waking up in foreign hotel rooms wishing he could bury himself in you instead of cold sheets.

His hands roamed, sliding down the curve of your waist, gripping your hips, pressing you closer, as if he needed to feel you, to make sure you were real.

“Do you have any idea how much I’ve thought about this?” he murmured between kisses, his breath hot against your lips. “How many times I’ve imagined having you under me again?”

Your breath hitched as his lips moved down your neck, nipping at the sensitive skin just below your ear.

"You wanted me to take my time with you, didn’t you?" he mused, voice dripping with dark amusement. "You wanted me to ruin you, slowly."

A soft whimper left your lips as his hands slid lower, gripping your thighs, parting them just slightly. He chuckled, the sound deep and knowing. "That’s right, baby. And I’m not going to stop until you beg for it."

And then, the slow burn turned to fire.

Ji-yong took his time, unraveling you inch by inch, whispering sinful confessions into your skin as he relearned every part of you. His touch was both rough and reverent, like he was worshiping and claiming you all at once. His lips followed the path of the tattoo again and again, pressing soft kisses before dragging his teeth over the ink, watching the way you shivered at the sensation.

"You feel that?" he murmured, his fingers teasing, torturing, as he kept you on the edge of madness. "This is what you did to me for months."

You moaned his name, breathless, pleading, but he wasn’t satisfied yet. He wanted to hear it—the desperation, the need.

"Say it," he commanded, his voice dark, dominant. "Tell me how much you missed me."

"I—I missed you," you gasped, back arching under his touch. "So much."

"How much?" He bit down on your shoulder, soothing it immediately with his tongue. "Enough to let me take my time? To let me hear every sound you make?"

"Yes," you breathed, voice trembling. "I want all of it. I want you."

"Good girl."

And then, the tension snapped, and the fire consumed you both.

The room filled with the sound of whispered confessions and ragged breaths, of sheets twisting under the weight of bodies finally reunited. He never stopped speaking, never stopped reminding you with every touch, every kiss, that this was what you had both craved for so long.

"You’re mine," he murmured against your skin, his voice raw, possessive. "This body, this skin, this sin—all mine."

And you let him take you, let him erase the months of loneliness, let him rewrite the silence with every slow, deliberate movement.

By the time the first light of dawn crept through the curtains, your bodies were tangled, skin damp, the faint scent of sandalwood and sweat lingering in the air. Ji-yong’s fingers traced over the tattoo once more, slower this time, his touch softer.

"You don’t ever have to be silent about loving me," he murmured, voice laced with something dangerously tender. "Because I’ll always be here to remind you."

And as he pulled you closer, his lips pressing one last kiss to your shoulder, you knew—without a doubt—that neither time nor distance could ever take this from you.

This love.

This passion.

This sin in red and black.

⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹ ⊹

Taglist: @janie-osuih @szonyix6277 @chrypir @redhoodedtoad @sherrayyyyy @mirahyun @sherxoo @dilfismz @forevervibezzzz1

[scapinoz]

MY MAD DOG (ALL MINE).

yandere male oc x male reader

mob boss x guard dog reader

— chapter one.

to start things off, it’s been like three months since I posted the prologue and I have no way to defend my actions. I simply forgot. like the story kept running through my head all day and night, and I did write; the later parts of the story, lol. i really didn’t want to write the starting parts. i was just lazy, nothing else.

warnings: illarion, illarion’s dad, Y/N, mentions of blackmail and violence. nothing much, really. tame compared to what I’ve planned.

previous chapter - prologue

series master list - my mad dog (all mine)

Y/N arrived like a storm—unwelcome, unasked for, and impossible to ignore.

He did not come with a wagging tail or soft eyes full of devotion. He was not the obedient, noble creature Ilarion had longed for, the one he had begged his father to give him. No, Y/N was something else entirely. A stray, all sharp edges and untamed wildness, the kind of animal that bit the hand that tried to feed it.

But he was Ilarion’s now. That much was clear.

At first, they danced around each other like two creatures who did not yet know if they were predator or prey. Ilarion, raised in silk and shadow, did not know what to do with this boy who walked into their mansion with his hands in his pockets and a scowl carved deep into his face. Y/N was nothing like the children Ilarion had grown up with—those glass-fragile boys in ironed uniforms who spoke softly and moved like ghosts, always careful, always cautious, as if the wrong step might shatter them into pieces.

Y/N was fire where they were mist, solid where they were air.

And at school, he was a disaster (his father had enrolled Y/N into his school soon after their next meeting).

He never sat up straight in class. He never raised his hand or took notes. The teachers despised him for his indifference, for the way he lounged in his seat like he had better places to be. The students feared him, though they never said it aloud. He did not belong in their world of wealth and whispered politics, where power was measured in quiet cruelty and the sharp cut of words. No, Y/N fought with his fists, with blood on his knuckles and a scowl on his lips.

And yet, he never strayed far from Ilarion.

At first, Ilarion did not question it. He did not acknowledge the way Y/N’s presence had become something of a constant, like the low hum of an approaching storm. He did not ask why Y/N always seemed to be near, lingering just close enough to catch the words others whispered behind Ilarion’s back—the jealousy, the envy, the resentment.

He did not ask why those whispers always stopped so suddenly, why the boys who spoke too loudly found themselves with bruised jaws and swollen lips.

He did not ask, because he already knew.

And he never told Y/N to stop.

By the time they were thirteen, an unspoken understanding had settled between them: Ilarion was the golden boy, the untouchable heir to a legacy written in blood and empire, while Y/N was his shadow, the mad dog at his heels.

It was inevitable, then, that when Ilarion spoke, Y/N listened.

And when Ilarion needed something done, Y/N was the one who did it.

Time did not soften Y/N. If anything, it sharpened him.

By sixteen, he had become something fierce, something untamed. He was taller now, broader, his face no longer round with childhood but carved with something sharper, something crueler. The fire in his eyes had not dulled, but it had learned patience. His rage no longer burned bright and reckless—it simmered, waiting, coiled beneath his skin like a beast ready to strike.

He was still the same boy, the same stray Ilarion had been given all those years ago. But now, he was something else too. Something dangerous.

And Ilarion—perfect, golden, untouchable Ilarion—had grown into the role his father had carved for him. He was flawless, the kind of boy people whispered about in admiration and envy alike. He had the world at his feet, the teachers singing his praises, the students bending beneath his presence. He was the sun around which their little kingdom revolved, and he played the part beautifully.

But the sun has shadows, and Ilarion’s shadow had a name.

Y/N.

The school called him a delinquent, a lost cause. He skipped classes, smoked behind the gym, walked into rooms like he owned them and stared down teachers like they were beneath him. He broke rules like they were made for him, and he did not care.

Or rather, he only cared when Ilarion did.

“I swear to God, Y/N,” Ilarion muttered one afternoon, arms crossed as he leaned against the old brick wall behind the school, where they always met when no one else was watching. “Could you at least pretend to be a functioning member of society?”

Y/N, perched on the ledge with a cigarette dangling lazily from his lips, barely spared him a glance. “And why the fuck would I do that?”

Ilarion scoffed, his irritation as sharp as the autumn wind. “Because you look like a damn criminal.”

“I am a damn criminal,” Y/N shot back. “Your criminal.”

Ilarion exhaled, long and slow, tilting his head back to look at the sky. He hated that Y/N was right. Hated that, despite his exasperation, despite the lectures and the sighs and the sharp-edged glares, he still found himself here. Still found himself asking.

Because there were always people who needed to be put in their place.

Boys who thought power came from their fathers’ wallets. Men who thought they could speak without consequence. People who thought that just because Ilarion wore his power with silk and smiles, he would not use it.

Ilarion never laid a hand on them himself. He didn’t have to.

Not when he had Y/N.

And Y/N—his mad dog, his stray, his shadow—never needed to be told twice.

“You’re impossible,” Ilarion muttered, shaking his head.

Y/N exhaled smoke into the air, grinning. “And yet, you keep me around.”

And Ilarion, despite himself, did not argue.

The afternoon sun filtered through the academy’s courtyard, golden and soft, casting long shadows against the pristine marble floors. It was a quiet hour—one where only the desperate or the foolish found themselves loitering with trembling hands and fragile hopes.

Ilarion had not been searching for anything. He had been making his way toward the student council room, mind preoccupied with the endless obligations of a golden boy, when he saw it.

A girl.

Standing before his dog.

She was pretty, delicate in the way all high-society daughters were raised to be, with neatly pressed ribbons in her hair and the scent of expensive roses lingering in her wake. The picture of polished elegance. And yet, there was something almost pitiful about the way she stood there—wringing her hands, voice unsteady as she whispered the words.

“I like you, Y/N. Please go out with me.”

Ilarion stopped.

Y/N stood before her, detached and distant, the very image of disinterest. His uniform was, as always, a mess—tie loose, shirt half-untucked, a cigarette tucked behind his ear like an afterthought. He had not bothered to meet her eyes, his gaze instead fixed somewhere past her, as if she were nothing more than background noise, a dull murmur in a world he had long since stopped caring for.

Ilarion knew that look.

Knew it because Y/N never looked at him that way.

The girl swallowed, gathering what little courage she had left. “Y/N?”

Silence stretched.

And then—finally—Y/N tilted his head, as if acknowledging her presence for the first time.

“You like me?” he echoed, voice flat.

The girl nodded quickly, a spark of hope igniting in her gaze.

Y/N exhaled sharply through his nose, something close to amusement but far colder. “What is it that you like, exactly?”

The girl hesitated. “I—I think you’re… cool.”

A pause.

Then, slow, deliberate, Y/N smirked.

It was not a kind expression.

“You ever wonder why I don’t have a girlfriend?” he asked, voice dripping with something unreadable.

The girl stiffened. “…No?”

Y/N yawned, stretching lazily. “It’s because I get bored easily.”

The spark of hope in her eyes flickered.

Ilarion, still watching from the shadows, clenched his jaw.

“I might still say yes, though,” Y/N added, tone mocking. “Could be entertaining for a little while.”

Ilarion turned on his heel and walked away before he could hear the rest.

He found her in the library.

She was seated by the window, absentmindedly flipping through a book she clearly wasn’t reading. Her expression was distant, her mind likely still lingering on the conversation from earlier.

Ilarion did not bother with pleasantries.

“You will stay away from him.”

The girl startled, looking up at him with wide, doe-like eyes. “What?”

Ilarion stepped closer, looming over her. His expression remained polite, refined—unshakable—but there was an undeniable edge beneath it.

“Y/N,” he said, as if explaining something very simple to a very slow child. “You will stay away from him.”

She blinked, confusion flashing across her face before something like realization took root.

“I—I’m not trying to—”

“You don’t understand,” Ilarion cut in smoothly, tone unwavering. “He is not what you think he is.”

Her lips parted, a protest half-formed, but Ilarion did not let her speak.

“You think you want him,” he continued, voice calm, “but you don’t. He isn’t kind. He isn’t gentle. He will not love you, nor will he pretend to. He is cold, detached, and endlessly cruel when he grows tired of things.”

The girl paled.

“He would ruin you,” Ilarion said, smiling faintly. “And he wouldn’t even care.”

A beat of silence.

Then—quiet, barely above a whisper—she asked, “Then why do you want him?”

Ilarion stilled.

The question was simple. Innocuous, even. And yet, it lodged itself into his throat like a blade, sharp and unrelenting.

Because Y/N was his.

Because Y/N listened to him.

Because Y/N—who cared for nothing, who met the world with disinterest and apathy—only ever looked at him.

Ilarion exhaled slowly.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Leave him alone.”

The girl said nothing.

She did not need to.

By the next morning, the girl was gone.

Oh, she was still at school, still walking the halls with her pristine uniform and perfectly tied ribbon. But she no longer looked Y/N’s way.

No more stolen glances. No more waiting outside his classroom. No more confessions in the courtyard.

Y/N noticed. Of course he did.

He caught Ilarion’s eye across the cafeteria, something unreadable flickering across his face.

Then, ever so slowly, he smirked.

And Ilarion—golden, untouchable, innocent Ilarion—simply picked up his fork and took another bite of his meal.

Y/N was smoking behind the school when Ilarion found him.

The sky was overcast, the air thick with the scent of rain and tobacco. Y/N was seated on the ledge, one leg hanging lazily over the side, the other bent at the knee. His blazer was discarded beside him, and his cigarette burned low between his fingers.

Ilarion did not say anything as he approached.

Y/N exhaled a slow curl of smoke before flicking the cigarette away. “That was fast.”

Ilarion’s brows furrowed. “What?”

Y/N turned his head slightly, gaze sharp, unreadable. “The girl.”

Ilarion froze.

“She’s scared of me now,” Y/N mused, tilting his head. “She wasn’t, before.”

Ilarion’s jaw tensed.

“Did you do something?” Y/N asked, voice void of curiosity.

Ilarion scoffed. “I should be asking you that.”

Y/N smirked. “I didn’t do anything.”

A pause.

Then—slowly, deliberately—Y/N turned to fully face him, expression unreadable.

“But you did.”

Ilarion said nothing.

Y/N exhaled sharply through his nose, something almost resembling amusement flickering across his face. “You’re ridiculous.”

Ilarion scowled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you don’t,” Y/N muttered, standing. He stepped closer, movements slow and deliberate, the scent of smoke and something faintly metallic clinging to his skin.

Ilarion held his ground.

Y/N’s gaze flickered over him, detached but keen, like he was seeing something Ilarion had yet to recognize.

Then, without another word, he turned and walked away.

Ilarion exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

That evening, Ilarion sat in his father’s study, the scent of aged whiskey and old books lingering in the air.

Across from him, Rylan stood beside Y/N, his expression a mixture of irritation and exhaustion.

“I hear you’ve been getting into fights,” Ilarion’s father murmured, swirling his glass.

Y/N did not react. He merely sat there, blank-eyed and silent, detached from the world in a way that made it impossible to tell if he even heard the words.

Y/N’s mouth curled in an unflattering way. “You say that like it’s a problem.”

Rylan sighed, rubbing his temples. “He doesn’t listen.”

“I never do,” Y/N agreed.

His father exhaled, long-suffering. “And you,” he said, glancing at Ilarion. “You’re supposed to keep him in line.”

Ilarion met his gaze, expression impassive. “I don’t control him.”

“No,” his father mused. “But he listens to you.”

Y/N finally moved, tilting his head slightly, gaze flickering toward Ilarion.

The room was silent.

Then—quiet, unbothered—Y/N said, “Only when I feel like it.”

Ilarion’s father sighed.

Rylan pinched the bridge of his nose.

And Ilarion—who had spent his entire life untouched by want—realized, with a slow, sinking certainty, that he was no longer as immune to desire as he once thought.

unedited. unrevised. y’all get it raw and fresh. just finished writing. posted it as soon as I was done, really. took more time to add the pics and align everything and paragraph everything really. anyways, here’s chapter one.

i feel like the next chapter will actually start picking up the pace. i just wanted to set the scene a bit and like just cause. anywhore, stan illarion for better skin (even if he’s a lil shit).

also recommend some names for illarion’s dad 🧍🏽‍♀️

[r0ugesun]

Hi I was wondering if i could request (pure smut) of Aemond going to the brothel to meet Sylvie and instead finding reader and continuously going back just to see the reader instead and then maybe when Aegon finds out and starts mocking him, reader defends Aemond and Aemond just walks away as if reader meant nothing to him even though he was inlove with reader?

Pls and thank you 🥺

Thank you so much for requesting forgive the delay I kept re writing to make sure it was what you wanted I hope you enjoy it <3

Aemond Targaryen x Brothel! Reader

Synopsis: Prince Aemond Targaryen seeks solace at the House of Kisses and encounters you, a captivating courtesan. A night of intense passion reveals his hidden vulnerabilities, leaving both of you grappling with unspoken desires and the lasting impact of your brief, powerful connection.

Aemond strode through the Silk Streets, his boots thudding rhythmically against the cobblestones, a steady thump echoing in the narrow alleys, his destination clear in his mind. The brothel was not a place he frequented often, but tonight was different. He had arranged to meet Sylvie, the madam, for an escape from the burdens that weighed heavily on his shoulders.

He entered the dimly lit corridors of the House of Kisses, his long cloak trailing behind him. The upscale brothel was a place of sinful indulgences and hidden desires, a sanctuary for those seeking pleasure in the arms of another. He had come to see Sylvie, the madam, for reasons he barely understood himself.

"Prince aemond" Sylvie purred as she approached him, her hips swaying provocatively.

“Come, I have something….special prepared for you."

as he entered the private chambers, he found not himself and the sultry proprietress alone, but you a young woman draped in silk, your eyes gleaming with a mixture of curiosity and confidence.

"Prince Aemond," you purred, reclining on the plush cushions with a grace that spoke of practiced allure. "Sylvie told me you might be in need of something… different. I know it’s not to your usual likings but I assure you, I can be of great service to you."

Aemond paused, his icy gaze sweeping over you. There was something different about you, something that stirred a flicker of interest within him. He had meant to leave, to dismiss you with a curt word, but found himself rooted to the spot.

"You are not what I expected" he said, his voice cold and measured. Sylvie only smirked and looked between you two.

"Disappointed?" you asked, a sensual smile playing on your lips as you rose to your feet, the silks clinging to your curves in a tantalizing display.

"Intrigued" he admitted, the word slipping out before he could stop it.

“I’ll leave leave him in your care then y/n, do tend to him properly”

You moved closer, your steps deliberate and confident. "Then stay a while, My Prince. Let me show you that there's more to life than duty and discipline."

"And what might that be?" he inquired, a skeptical eyebrow arching.

"Pleasure" you replied simply, your voice a seductive whisper. "A man like you needs more than just sex, I can do so much more."

Aemond's gaze lingered on you, the warmth of your proximity sending an unexpected shiver down his spine. "You speak as if you know me."

"I know enough" you said, your fingers lightly brushing against his arm. "Enough to see a prince burdened by expectations, hiding behind a mask of indifference."

"And you think you can see through that mask?" he asked, his tone both challenging and curious.

"I can see the man beneath it" you replied confidently, your eyes meeting his with unwavering intensity. "A man who craves more than what‘s been given to him, what he thinks he’s been denied."

"You're bold" he remarked, though there was no disdain in his voice.

"You appreciate boldness" you countered, your lips curving into a playful smile. "Otherwise, you wouldn't be here."

Aemond couldn't help the small smirk that tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Perhaps you're right."

"Let me show you how right I am," you said, stepping even closer, your breath warm against his skin. "Trust me, My prince. I can show you exactly what you need."

He hesitated, a war of thoughts playing out behind his eyes. But the allure of your confidence and the promise of something more something he had denied himself for so long proved too enticing to resist.

"Very well" he agreed, his voice softening.

You took his hand, guiding him to the plush seating area. "Tell me, Aemond," you began, your fingers deftly unfastening his cloak, "when was the last time you let yourself lose control?"

He watched you, captivated by your every movement. "It has been... a long time."

"Then let tonight be different" you whispered, your lips grazing his ear. "Let go of all your burdens and lets lose ourselves, together."

"And what makes you think I can do that?" he asked, his voice low, almost teasing.

"Because, deep down, you know you want to" you replied, a mischievous glint in your eyes. "Why else would you be here? So, tell me, my prince, what do you fear more: losing power or never gaining it?"

He regarded you with a mixture of admiration and wariness. "You play a dangerous game."

"Mm I do love to play" you said biting your lower lip. "And I believe you are a more than willing participant."

"You presume much," he said, though his tone lacked any real reproach.

"Do I?" you challenged, running a finger down his chest. "Or perhaps I'm just giving voice to what you already know to be true."

"indeed?" Aemond, catching your hand and holding it gently. "But there is more to me than you might think."

"And more to me than meets the eye." you replied with a smile. “Let’s unveil those layers together.”

You guided him to the bed, sitting him down, the silken sheets cool against his skin. As you began to unbutton his shirt, he caught your wrist, holding it firmly but gently. “Sylvie brought you for me….but you’re unlike all the others around here…” he murmured, his gaze intense.

"And you are unlike any man I usually service" you replied, leaning closer, your lips a breath away from his. “Let’s find out what occurs when two contrasting worlds collide.”

Aemond's breath hitched as you kissed him, the sensation a mix of softness and fire. He responded in kind, his hands moving to your hips, pulling you to straddle his lap. The kiss deepened, becoming a dance of tongues and lips, each trying to outdo the other in passion and intensity.

You pulled back slightly, your lips brushing his ear as you whispered softly, "Tell me, my prince, what can I give you? What do you desire?."

"You," he breathed, the word escaping his lips before he could stop it. "All of you."

"Then take me" you urged, your voice low and enticing. "Take what you think you deserve."

He needed no further encouragement, his hands moving to your bare back, peeling away what little cloth covered you to reveal the smooth, warm skin beneath. You moaned softly as his lips found your neck, his hands exploring every inch of you.

Aemond groaned when his lithe fingers found his way to your cunt, feeling your warmth and wetness. His touch was both gentle and demanding, sending shivers through your body. You gasped, arching into his hand, your own fingers digging into his shoulders as he teased and caressed you.

His breath was hot against your ear as he whispered, "such a wet cunt"

You rolled your hips on his fingers gasping, most men never bothered with your pleasure and if they did they were clumsy and left you unsatisfied, this was different, he was different.

A smile curled on your lips as you gazed darkly into his eye, “your fingers are skilled” you whispered teasingly. “But it’s not your fingers I truly ache for”

You shifted, pushing him back against the bed, stripping him of his clothes, your movements slow and deliberate. Aemonds eye widened and his lips parting slightly at the sight of you, he watched with a mix of lust and fascination as you undid the laces of his small clothes, freeing his throbbing cock.

Your hands caressed his chest soothingly, your nails scraping lightly over his skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake. “Look at you...you resemble a marble statue come to life, like a god in human flesh” you said in awe.

Aemond’s breath caught in his throat, and for a moment he looked almost vulnerable.

“They say Targaryens are closer to gods than men” you whispered.

“And what do you think?” His voice coming out more gentle than he intended.

“I think-” you guided his hands to your hips, you spread your knees further apart until your entrance was right above his cock. “If the gods truly look as divine as you, I’d spend my life begging for a glimpse of their glory”

Aemond groaned when you slowly lowered yourself onto him, moaning as you did, inch by inch, savoring his length and girth until you finally reached the base, you both sighed in pleasure.

You leaned forward until your lips almost grazed his “Tell me My Prince, are you going to take what’s rightfully yours?”

He groaned, gripping your hips tightly “yes, that and so much more”

Your lips curved into a smile, leaning back once again, you sat on the heels of your feet and began bouncing on his cock “A-ah fuck” he rasped out, the pleasure of your tight cunt overwhelming him. “Fuck just like that” he hissed.

You couldn’t help the moans that escaped your lips at the feeling of his throbbing cock inside of you, unlike the rehearsed moans you usually make for gold, this was no act. The thick head of his cock dragged deliciously against that sweet spot inside you.

“so big, feels so good inside of me my prince” you whimpered.

Aemonds moans grew louder, his hands gripping your hips even tighter as he tried to match your rhythm, the lewd sound of wet skin slapping against each other echoed around the room.

“You and this little wet cunt” he hissed, his voice dripping with lust. Catching you by surprise In one swift motion, flipped you over on your back, he lifted your thighs up and positioned you into a mating press.

His hips pistoning his cock into your cunt with a fervent urgency, each thrust stretching you to the fullest.

Aemonds breathes where heavy and ragged, his eye locked onto yours as if looking for a sign of feigned satisfaction. “Tell me” he demanded in between labored breaths, “tell me how much you want this”

You arched your back, meeting his thrusts with just as much desperation, with a wicked smile you moaned out “I want to feel your cock inside me all night, my prince, I’d even beg if it wasn’t so beneath me”

He growled, your little act of defiance sending pleasure straight to his cock head “what if I told you I could make you beg?” He teased.

“It’s usually the other way around for me, my prince” biting your lips as his thrusts grew harder. “But i would be more than happy to let you believe I would if you keep this up”

Aemonds eyes darkened with pure desire “you need not say anything your body is all the praise i need”

Your moans grew louder, you could feel your cunt clenching around his cock “I’m so fucking close” he said voice rough, all you could do is moan in response.

With a final, breathless cry, you reached your climax, the intense waves of pleasure crashing over you and pulling Aemond with you. His release followed moments later, his body shuddering as he came inside you, his grip loosening as he surrendered to the overwhelming sensation.

You both lay there, your labored breaths and chests heaving in unison. The room was filled with the afterglow of your passion, the once frantic rhythm now replaced by the slow, steady cadence of both your breaths.

Aemond's hand gently stroked your side, his touch tender and reassuring.

You turned your head to meet his gaze, a satisfied smile on your lips.

"That was quite the experience," you said softly, your voice carrying a hint of playful satisfaction.

Aemond's eye, still heavy with the remnants of his desire, softened as he looked at you.

his voice was low and filled with admiration. "I don't think I've ever felt like this before."

You traced a finger along his jawline, your touch light and teasing.

"You’re not what I was expecting when the madam told me about you" you replied with a smirk "but I’m not complaining."

He chuckled, his breath still uneven but his expression relaxed, pulling you closer. “I suppose I should take that as a compliment.”

“You’d be wise to,” you said, tracing your fingers lightly over his chest. “I’m usually not this generous.”

Aemond’s gaze softened, and he regarded you with a mix of amusement and admiration. “And here I thought I’d be lucky to impress you.”

“Oh, you’ve definitely impressed me,” you said, leaning in to kiss him softly. “Just remember, next time you might have to work a little harder to keep up.”

He smiled, his hand gently caressing your back. “That’s a challenge I’m looking forward to” he said with a grin.

Each night after that was a blur of passion and desire, each touch and kiss pushing you both to the edge and beyond. Aemond had never felt so alive, so free from the constraints of royal duty and expectation. With you, he could be himself, and that was a gift beyond measure.

As dawn approached, you lay entwined in each other's arms, the room filled with the scent of sex and sweat. Aemond traced patterns on your back with his fingertips, his mind awhirl with thoughts and emotions he had long suppressed.

"Why do you do this?" he asked suddenly, his voice breaking the comfortable silence.

"Do what?" you asked, your head resting on his chest.

"Live this life," he clarified. "A life where you give so much of yourself to others."

You sighed softly, your breath warm against his skin. "It’s not a life I chose for myself willingly. It’s hard But in giving, I also receive. I have bread and a roof over my head and I even have my fill of baubles and trinkets, that’s more than a women like me deserves.

"I think you are deserving of more than you realize" he remarked, a hint of tenderness in his tone.

"And you are kinder than you appear," you replied, lifting your head to meet his gaze. "There is much more to you, Aemond. More than you let on"

"And you think you understand me?" Aemond finished, his voice tinged with curiosity and vulnerability.

"I understand enough," you replied, your fingers tracing the scar over his sapphire eye. "Enough to see the man behind the mask."

From that night onward, Aemond found himself returning to the House of Kisses more often than he cared to admit. Each time, it was you who greeted him, your witty banter and sensual touch breaking through the walls he had built around his heart.

One evening, as you lay tangled in the sheets, your fingers tracing the lines of his face, Aegon burst into the room startling you both, he was reeking of wine. "Little brother," he slurred, a wicked grin spreading across his face. "You've become quite the regular here. ‘S unusual for you to indulge in another whore." He laughed crudely

“Did you tire of the hags old cunt, is that it??

Aemond's jaw tightened, but before he could respond, you sat up, your eyes flashing with defiance. "Prince Aegon," you said voice steady,

“If you’ve come to belittle and provoke, you’re not going to find what you’re looking for”

Aegon laughed, a harsh, mocking sound. "Defending him, are you? How sweet. But tell me, does he care for you as much as you care for him?"

Aemond stood, his expression a mask of indifference.

Aegon chuckled, his eyes filled with malice. "Don’t tell me that my dear brother has fallen for a common whore" he doubled over laughing.

Your temper flared, and you sprang from the bed, standing between the two brothers

“Aemond doesn’t come here to entertain your drunken taunts.”

Aegon raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. "Touchy, aren't we? Tell me, how much coin does he pay you for your loyalty?"

You stepped closer to Aegon

"Enough, Now, leave this is a place of business." You said through gritted teeth.

“You’re right brother I shouldn’t keep coming….ive strayed far from my duties”

Aegon looked between you and Aemond, his amusement gone and replaced with boredom, he sighed and walked out.

the room fell silent. You turned to Aemond, who had remained silent throughout the exchange. His face was now a icy mask of stoicism

“Aemond…” you began.

Aemond’s gaze was unwavering, his voice as cold as ever.

“This is not the place for personal entanglements. My position… they come first.”

The hurt in your chest was sharp and immediate, but you fought to maintain your composure. “I see,” you said, forcing yourself to sound calm. “I understand Prince Aemond.”

the sting of his rejection burning deeply. But you didn’t let it show. You took a deep breath, steeling yourself against the pain.

You’ve been at the mercy of men with fragile egos in the past. Never again. Not with him.

you saw Aegon’s squires entering the room, their eyes full of youthful curiosity and a hint of mischief.

With a practiced sultry smile, you approached them. “Gentlemen, I see you’ve come to visit, is it your first time? I’m more than willing to accommodate your needs.”

The squires, clearly taken by your beauty, looked at each other with a mix of nervousness and eagerness. You offered them your services with a grace that belied the pain you felt inside, focusing on your work and pushing the hurt to the back of your mind.

“Prince Aemond, if our business is concluded could you make your way out please?”

Aemond watched the interaction helplessly, the tension between you palpable. Then, without a word, Aemond walked away, his footsteps echoing down the corridor, leaving you with the bitter taste of unspoken and unresolved longing.

You had defended him, shown him your heart, and yet he had walked away, as if you meant nothing. But in your heart, you knew the truth. You had touched a part of him that he kept hidden from the world, and no matter how much he tried to deny it, he loved you.

[youwerenevermeanttofeelalone]

Frustrating | Steve Harrington

✦ pairing — Steve Harrington x female!Plus Size Reader

✦ word count — 2.8k

✦ request — What about slight enemies to lovers with Steve Harrington x reader where they are the designated mom and dad of the group but Steve can hardly stand her even though she’s super sweet. It’s during Christmas and they both are trying to set up a nice dinner for everyone and the kids. And then they kiss in the end 💕

✦ warnings — mentions of food, fluff.

✦ author’s note i — I queued this and thought it had been posted, but turns out I queued it for next year. Sorry for the delay!

✦ author’s note ii — winter themed fics are next and the first one should be out on Saturday.

════════════════════════ You found Steve obnoxious, there was no way around it. He was always too loud, too eager to command attention, and incapable of not making things about himself. For example, when he suggested his house for Christmas dinner because it was bigger,

It was sweet that he wanted to do this, that he took the kids seriously, that giving them a memorable Christmas was so important to him.

Even so, you weren't sure you would pull it off. 

The kitchen —his kitchen— was a mess of flour, bowls, spoons, and the thawing turkey you didn’t want to think about.

Okay, no, you needed to think about it. Forgetting to thaw the turkey was one thing, but being such a bad cook and not following instructions properly? That bordered on sinful.

And he found it oh so funny, cheeks flushed and white teeth bare for everyone, in this case just you, to see.

You had to stand close to him as you called your house, hoping your mom would give you good news regarding the still-frozen turkey. He lowered the volume of the Christmas music he insisted needed to be playing throughout the day, and leaned against the counter, looking at you.

For a moment you wondered if he’d finally follow your instructions, if perhaps he was looking at you expecting some kind of guidance. Such a notion left your mind as soon as it arrived when he reached over and sprinkled flour on top of your hair.

As you hung up the phone, you sighed deeply and glared at him. “Why don’t you finish with the decorations, hm?”

Steve narrowed his eyes. “Are you kicking me out of my kitchen?”

“No, not at all, but the decorations are halfway done,” you said, trying not to grit your teeth, “and everyone will be here sooner than we need them to be.”

His eyes were barely slits as you finished your explanation, but then, miraculously, he shrugged. “Won’t take long!” he announced as he left the kitchen.

You let out a relieved breath and put yourself to work, cleaning up the mess so you would have a blank slate. In no time, you had made the big kitchen your own, setting the timer for 30 minutes so you could change the cold water on the turkey while measuring flour for the cookies.

Steve turned the music up as you mixed the cookie dough, but you didn’t have it in you to complain. It was his house.

Now, Steve couldn’t stand you himself. Eternally sweet and kind, seemingly so innocent, always the favorite of the kids even though he was the one who drove them around, the one who gave them advice. But no, you, with your cooking, and your smile, and your stupid sense of self-preservation, were the favorite.

He puffed air through his mouth, trying to get a strand of hair off his forehead as he gauged the order he would hang the stockings in. 

There was almost no sound apart from the music and the occasional sound of a bowl hitting the sink or the pouring of liquid as you changed the water to thaw the turkey. 

As he finished decorating, he stood in the middle of the living room, admiring his work. His house had never looked so inviting, so warm.

Silently, he approached the kitchen. 

You were washing a whisk and he watched as you meticulously dried it, wire by wire. Once seemingly happy, you grabbed a bowl against your body and started whisking something.

Every few seconds, you changed the direction in which you whisked, checking the mixture by lifting the whisk and inspecting it. Unlike his, your hair remained away from your face, letting him see every detail of your expression.

You set the bowl down, dropped the whisk onto the sink, and washed your hands. Once you turned around, wiping your palms on your red apron, you became aware of his presence.

Steve stood at the doorway, leaning against the frame. “Should I leave the tree for the kids?”

You considered the question. “Maybe just set up the lights and we’ll let them arrange the ornaments?”

He nodded at your suggestion but made no move to leave. You looked away. You heard him sigh, and he lingered, but he eventually went back to the living room.

When the turkey was finally in the oven, you stuck your head out of the kitchen, wondering what he was doing.

Steve was sitting on the living room floor, using the coffee table as a gift-wrapping station. His brow was furrowed in concentration as he folded the paper.

As to not startle him, you cleared your throat. “I told you I could do it.”

“You kicked me out of my kitchen,” he defended himself, as if you had it out for him, “I needed to do something!”

You picked up a gift, wrapped in blue paper with Santa Claus images. You didn’t find anything wrong as you turned the gift in your hold to inspect. “Wow.”

“Give me some credit, will you?”

Perhaps for the first time that evening, you truly looked at him. His cheeks were flushed, hair disheveled which was so unlike him you stared for a little too long. “You, uh, you did a good job with these.”

He blinked up at you. The bitterness from his voice was gone as he mumbled, “Thanks.”

You scurried off back to the kitchen, busying yourself with mashed potatoes. As you heated the milk and cream, you decided that Steve was frustrating on top of his obnoxiousness.

No matter how much you tried to be cordial with him, he always glared at you and made stupid comments about how he should be everyone's favorite. Something he already was. 

Opening cupboards, you searched for something to serve appetizers on. You found trinkets you'd never seen before, enough molds to fill up a small house, and three different incomplete collections of knives, but never a serving platter.

You hesitated for a moment. Then, in a few steps, you stood at the doorway and called out, “Steve?” 

He whirled around, a silver bow in hand.

“Where are the serving platters?” 

“Uhmm.” He scratched the back of his head with his bow-less hand. “I dunno.”

“Well,” you said, giving him a reassuring smile. “I'll find something.”

Steve only stared at you, and didn't even attempt to say something. 

You tried your best not to scowl at him and went back to searching 

You didn't understand what you did to him. He was the only person from the group who disliked you this much — he was also the one you spent most time with. Because of the kids.

And because of the kids, you put that aside as soon as they arrived. They immediately invaded the kitchen, demanding snacks and looking around at everything you had cooked.

You might have become the actual favorite the moment you pulled out cookies to decorate. However, the inevitable happened and they invited Steve to take part.

He was bad at it. Disastrously bad. And the kids loved it. They laughed at him and with him as he decorated cookies with 5-year-old-like skills.

Steve smiled triumphantly when you announced the icing needed to dry up and the kids groaned. Ever the savior, he suggested they should finish putting up the tree with him.

Dustin was the first to follow, as expected, but none of them showed any resistance. 

You wasted time decorating a few cookies and cleaning. Steve and you had agreed that homemade appetizers would be unnecessary, so now you were just waiting for the turkey to be done.

With a soft sigh, you started setting up the table. As you arranged the plates, you felt eyes on you, but nobody offered to help you. Not that you expected them to do so. They were having the time of their lives decorating the tree and yelling at each other not to ruin their hard work. 

As you glanced at the clock, you wondered if anybody else would show up. You had a feeling they wouldn’t. 

You waited almost an hour, and sure enough, your feeling was right. No one even called to apologize. Steve didn’t seem bothered by it.

Setting the carving board next to the turkey, you attempted to transfer it. You almost splashed yourself in turkey juices and fat from the butter. 

“Steve?” you called out.

“What is it?”

You groaned. Couldn’t he have the decency to enter the kitchen to acknowledge you? “Come.”

His groan was louder than yours, as if he was making a spectacle of his annoyance. 

His attitude changed as he approached you and realized what was going on. “Let me,” he said quietly.

You nodded and stepped to the side. “Do you want to carve it on the table, or…?”

“Yeah.” He transferred the turkey onto the board with ease. Maybe he had done this before. 

“I’ll get started with the gravy, then. Won’t take too long.”

He nodded. “I’ll make ‘em wash their hands.”

“Please.”

Steve instructed the kids to wash their hands. For once, they didn’t complain and made a line at the bathroom sink.

You served them their sides in the order they sat at the table, and Steve carved the turkey and drizzled the gravy on top.

Once everyone was sitting at the table, you started to consider Steve and you hadn’t done a bad job. From your seat, you had a perfect view of the decorations in the living room and the colorful tree next to the fireplace.

Moving to the living room, you sat near the window. Fog danced around the lights outside, pushed by the wind.

The kids suggested a few games and Steve and you shared a look but nonetheless agreed. First, you played a game that Dustin won, and Max demanded a rematch that she still lost. 

A beat passed, and then Dustin, who couldn’t help himself, blurted, “Can we open our gifts?”

“No,” Steve and you said at the same time.

Then, you added,” Your parents wouldn’t like it if we let you do that.”

Steve nodded in jerky movements. “And speaking about your parents… it’s getting late.”

“It’s not!” they stubbornly insisted.

“We still have to clean up,” Steve explained, “and I gotta drive her home later.”

You tried to hide your surprise. He would drive you home? Since when did he care enough to bother?

“Now pick up your gifts and jackets, and get in the car.”

You laughed upon hearing the kids complain. Steve had a point, it was, in fact, getting late for the kids to be out, and the night would only grow colder.

You packed their cookies in sandwich bags and handed them to them as they exited the house, wishing them a Merry Christmas.

It took them a lot of effort to point out it wasn’t Christmas yet and to mention they would see you the next day. You appreciated that they didn’t shatter the illusion.

While Steve drove them home, you transferred leftovers to containers and washed dishes. It felt strange now that you were all alone, in a home that wasn’t your own, cleaning the kitchen of someone who disliked you. 

At least you had managed to work together for the day. You would count it as progress if you didn’t know he only did it for the kids. But that was still something.

On Steve’s part, he was dreading putting the decorations away and pretending nothing had happened. All his hard work, and the kids’, would only be immortalized in the few photographs he got to take. He wasn’t even a good photographer.

Once he was back, he removed his jacket and dropped his keys with a sigh. The kitchen island was full of lukewarm food and you were at the sink, scrubbing a pot.

“Need help?” he offered.

“Nah. Almost done.”

He stood beside you, watching as you took care of the pot his mom barely used like it was your own. As he lifted his gaze to the backsplash, he realized you had cleaned it up too.

“Just have to scrub the stove. It won’t take long,” you assured him, rinsing the pot. 

Steve absentmindedly dried the pot while you disassembled the stovetop. He had never seen anyone do that. He logically knew stoves had to be disassembled and cleaned, yes, but he had never cared enough about it to go out of his way to watch someone do it.

He put the pot away in its place and focused on your face as you treated the stovetop with even more care than the pot. 

For a moment, he just watched you, until he saw the grates on the sink. Rolling up his sleeves, he grabbed a sponge and started scrubbing them.

“You’ll ruin your sweater.”

“I’ll be careful.”

“Steve, it’s okay, I can do it.”

“I can do it too.”

You sighed. “If it gets too much, just—” “It’s just two grates.”

That shut you up. 

Both of you worked in silence until the kitchen was spotless. Turning the light off, he rested his hand on your upper back to guide you back into the living room.

You stood at the threshold in silence, admiring the decorations once more—the inviting lights, the fun colors, the sweet faces in the ceramic figurines—but you were sad that they would all soon be thrown into boxes.

“You did good today,” you admitted. “They loved it.”

“So did you.” His hand remained on your back as he angled his body to face you. “I thought we wouldn’t pull it off.” 

You looked up at him and nodded. “So did I.”

He huffed a laugh. It wasn’t much, but his eyes sparkled with something. He looked so approachable and you found yourself wishing he was always like this with you, that he would let you see the person the kids adored.

“Steve, I…”

He rested his free hand on the side of your face, thumb grazing your cheek. “It’s okay.”

“No.” You shook your head for emphasis, and in consequence, nuzzled against his hand. Purely by mistake. “I’m sorry for kicking you out of your kitchen.”

This time he laughed, warmly. He readjusted his hand to cup your cheek, thumb resting on your lips. “Shhh.”

Tracing your bottom lip, Steve said, “Sorry for being a dick.”

“It’s your house.” Your voice was barely audible. You didn’t remember ever feeling shy, much less nervous around Steve. Yet here you were.

He tapped your bottom lip. “I meant in general.”

What were you supposed to say? That he had his reasons? That you didn’t mind? That you were too distracted by his closeness, and perhaps too comfortable, to care?

The lights from the tree, only a couple of feet from you, cast a gentle glow, making the room seem and feel warmer than it was. You entertained the idea that you wouldn’t even be cold outside with Steve so close.

“So?” he pressed gently, “is my apology accepted?”

You nodded, eyes once again on his. The shininess of his hear caught the reflection of the colorful Christmas lights as he moved, shoulders shaking with a soft laugh.

“What’s so funny?” you found yourself asking in a teasing manner, lips grazing his thumb as you spoke.

“You’re really pretty.”

“The exhaustion of the day must be getting to you,” you said. And despite that, you felt your cheeks warming up.

Steve brought his other hand up and cradled your face, each hand cupping your cheeks. “I’m being serious.”

“Oh, so this is the part where you say you were being a dick because you like me?”

His answer took you both by surprise, “I don’t know.”

“Steve…”

“I know,” he assured you. “But… maybe…” He let out a sigh. His eyes landed on your lips as he gathered his words. “Can I? Just once?”

You nodded, but he didn’t move until you said, “Yes.”

Your eyes fluttered closed as he leaned in. Steve lowered a hand to your shoulder, still cupping your cheek in his other palm. 

His lips were a little chapped and his kiss tentative. As the newness wore off, the kiss deepened yet remained sweet, gentle despite its firmness. There was no rush to escalate things, nor to part. 

As you both eventually needed air and slowly pulled away, Steve’s hands lingered on you and just then you realized you were grasping his waist.

He smiled, and so did you.

“How about ice cream tomorrow?” His eyes twinkled with hope, overshadowing the glittery ornaments on the tree. 

“Sounds good.”

He dared to peck your lips before adding, “We should probably put all the ornaments away. My mom would hate the colored Christmas lights.”

Despite how sad you found that fact, you nodded and kept it to yourself. “Did you keep the original boxes?”

The sheepish smile he gave you was the only answer you needed. Maybe he wasn’t that obnoxious, but he was definitely frustrating. And you liked that about him.

[pastafossa]

So now that we've got some episode titles for Daredevil: Born Again and I can already see a few intriguing titles and have my thoughts on those below.

Putting it below a spoiler for anyone who wants to keep themselves free from seeing it.

BEGONE SPOILERS

No confirmation on whether these are in order, but:

Heaven’s Half Hour

With Interest

The Hollow of His Hand

Straight to Hell

Sic Semper Systema

Isle of Joy

Excessive Force

Art For Art’s Sake

Optics

With Interest: My theory is this where we'll see Foggy 'die' (as I've shared before, I don't actually think he's going to die, some interesting theories have been put forward supporting this as well), as revenge on Matt for something he's done. Thus Matt's action has been repaid, 'with interest'. This could also be Matt getting revenge on the person who hurt Foggy, but the first is where I'm leaning.

The Hollow of His Hand: at first I thought this might be a bible verse. Isaiah 40:12: "Who hath measured the waters in the hollow of his hand, and meted out heaven with the span, and comprehended the dust of the earth in a measure, and weighed the mountains in scales, and the hills in a balance?" But I don't think that makes as much sense as what I found with a little digging, which is... incredibly ominous and lonely in true Matt fashion. From the hymn 'In The Hollow of His Hand: In the hollow of His hand He will hide me When doubt and sin draw near, Though no earthly friend may walk beside me, I rest secure from fear. I know whate’er betide me, His hand will safely guide me, His love will ever hide me In the hollow of His hand. In the hollow of His hand He will hide me When the storm is on the deep, And I know whatever may betide me, His vigil He will keep. In the hollow of His hand He will hide me When the storms of life sweep by, To the harbor safe He will guide me, Where His blessèd islands lie.

Straight to Hell: spiraling, party of 1?

Sic Semper Systema: this is interesting, and I'm wondering if this is a Frank episode. Normally this would be, 'Sic Semper Tyranis', a famous Latin phrase meaning, roughly, 'Thus Always to Tyrants', or the idea that tyrants will always be overthrown. By replacing this with Systema, or System (or whole), this becomes, 'Thus Always to the System/the Whole'. Feels very Frank-ish but could also be Matt towards a system that allowed Fisk to become mayor. But I'm guessing Frank, especially considering some of his episode titles.

Isle of Joy: from what I could find, this is a phrase used once or twice to refer to Manhattan, and is also the title of a novel. If it's simply a song reference, then this could be an ironic poke at Matt's isle of joy (Hell's Kitchen) being a miserable place. IF I were to put on my, 'reads too much into this' hat, this might reference a mid-90s spy/thriller novel called Isle of Joy, set in 1950s Manhattan. In it, a retired spy is framed for murder by his old CIA handlers and needs to come out of retirement to take them and the FBI on, as best I can tell. An attack on Foggy (one that we/Matt may even think leads to death) could be what pulls Matt out of retirement and gets him back as Daredevil. But I might be reaching there.

Art for Art's Sake: this is likely going to be where we're introduced to Muse.

That's what I got so far.

[wholoveseggs]

girrrllll, i got another idea! how about Elijah proposing to a reader? it could be angsty in the beginning, maybe they got into a fight because she feels like he always puts his family before her, so he proposes to her to show her she is his family too (and cause he was planning on doing that for a while anyway). and it’s all emotional, she’s not believing what’s happening and she’s thinking he doesn’t really mean it. meanwhile he’s almost desperate to show her how much she means to him. Smut cannot be absent of course. thank youuuu🫶🏻🫶🏻

Forever

18+ ---- {Masterlist} {Tag-List}

Elijah loves you with all his heart, but his commitment to his family and his loyalty to Klaus keeps him from acting on his feelings. But when he almost loses you, he is determined to prove that you are the only woman he has ever truly loved, and wants to make you his, forever.

♡♡ Thanks for the request @msveronicag! Who doesn't want to be Elijah's wife? ♡♡

6.8k words - Warnings: smut, fluff, angst, slight violence (a classic Elijah & Klaus brawl), shower sex, rimjob {f!receiving}, oral sex & the Italian coast ♡

Everyone says that Elijah Mikaelson is the best of his family. A loyal, charming, considerate man that holds himself to a standard not many can accomplish. In essence, perfect. He loves his family deeply, despite their constant misgivings and betrayals. Nothing would get in his way, if it meant he could protect the ones he loves.

Well, that's what you wanted to believe.

There was a reason Elijah held such devotion to his family. He was one of them, and no better than the worst of them, having sinned over and over to the point where atonement was simply not a viable option.

He didn't want you to see him that way, the dark side of his polished exterior. He wanted to shed his past and become a new man with you by his side.

You were unlike anyone he's ever known or had a passing connection to. Your empathy and kindness was beyond measure, it had captivated him the very moment that your eyes met.

He always wanted to be married, there were even a few times he almost found someone to spend eternity with. Something always stood between that moment and himself, usually in the shape of some great threat. But things had now settled in his life, he had a niece and a proper place to call home. He was no longer on the run from one demon or another.

He wanted this. To settle down with the woman of his dreams, build a life together, and maybe even add to it.

Perfect. Simple. Domestic bliss.

You had come for a small party celebrating Hope's third birthday. Or, as far as you were concerned, a get together amongst those you considered family.

Although, sometimes you worried they didn't see you as family in turn. Deep entrenched history often kept you away from the inner workings of their family life. You understood that you had to earn your place in their lives, and you had done so time and time again. But they never seemed to truly accept you as one of their own.

You got along with nearly all of them except Klaus, who saw you as just a passing phase Elijah was going through. A dalliance, nothing more.

He certainly knew how to poke at your insecurities about your relationship.

"So, tell me," he asked as the two of you waited in the kitchen. "When will this little thing with you and my brother end?"

"Excuse me?" you asked, trying to keep your voice light.

"Don't take it personally, sweetheart. You're not the first pretty face he's lost himself in," Klaus explained with a shrug.

"You don't think he's serious about me?" you questioned, trying not to feel hurt.

Klaus just shrugged and gave you a wicked grin. "Why would he be?"

"Because I love him, and he loves me," you replied, keeping your voice low. "It's been four years, and it's serious."

Klaus let out a bark of a laugh. "Four years is nothing in the life of an original. When will you stop living in this fantasy you've built in your mind? This will end and you will move on."

You were about to respond with a few choice words when Hayley came in carrying hope.

While your relationship with Klaus was contentious and you thought him to be cruel and cold. There was no doubt that Hope loved her daddy with all of her tiny heart. She reached out to him, and he happily took her into his arms.

"There's my little one," he cooed, holding her close. "I love you, my sweet girl."

He began to place kisses all over her, and the three year old giggled loudly.

You had baked the cake for her, and placed a number 3 candle in the middle.

"Let's light her up!" you announced.

The cake was placed on the dining room table, and Elijah stood by you. He slipped his hand in yours and squeezed.

"I want auntie y/n to light it," Hope said.

You smiled wide and kissed her on the head.

"Okay," you whispered, your voice soft.

You lit the candle, and everyone began to sing as the little Mikaelson happily ate a slice of cake, messily covering herself. You laughed, taking a cloth to wipe her little face and hands. Elijah watched you with adoring eyes, you were such a loving soul and he was so lucky to be the one to call you his own.

The cake was enjoyed by all and soon it was time for gifts. Hope was handed a large package by her father, and she eagerly tore open the paper.

You were cuddled up to Elijah, and he pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head. "Thank you, my love."

"For what?" you asked, glancing up at him.

"For being here. It means a lot to me," he told you.

You looked back up at Elijah, and kissed him lightly.

"I wouldn't want to be anywhere else," you told him.

Hayley helped Hope unwrap the gift from you and Elijah. It was a wooden dollhouse, and it was a miniature replica of the compound, complete with a little Klaus, Elijah, Hayley, and Hope.

Hope hugged the dollhouse to her chest. "I love it!"

"We made it ourselves," you said with a smile.

"Look, daddy!" Hope squealed. "Auntie Y/N and Uncle 'lijah got me a house."

Klaus gave you a tight smile, and you looked at Elijah. He wrapped an arm around your waist, and held you close. This only seemed to annoy Klaus more, but he turned his attention to his daughter, and the gift that she had received.

"That's amazing, little love. Now, why don't you open the rest of your presents?"

"Okay!"

The evening winded down, and eventually Klaus and Hayley took Hope upstairs to get her ready for bed and the rest of the family retired to their rooms. You had left the dining room table a mess, and wanted to help clean up.

You had picked up a few discarded wrapping papers, when Elijah's arms came around your waist.

"Don't worry about that, my love," he whispered, pressing his lips to your neck. "Leave it, we can do it tomorrow."

"You're sure?" you asked, leaning against him.

"Very," he whispered, taking your hand and leading you towards his bedroom. "I have other plans for you."

"Oh?"

"Mmm," he replied, nipping at your ear. "You know, I've been thinking of you all day. All the things I'd like to do with you."

You flushed,  biting your lips and smiling shyly. He never failed to make your heart skip a beat when he looked at you with that seductive gaze. He never had to force it either, his stare was simply alluring and attentive, it pulled you into its grasp like a siren's song.

Elijah shut the door, and the moment you turned around, he grabbed you and kissed you passionately. His hands held your hips tightly, pulling you against him. He kissed down your jawline, and down your throat.

He pushed you gently onto the bed, kissing down your neck and inhaling the smell of your skin, pulling your clothes off as he went along.

His love, his entire world, right here in his arms. If he were a more possessive man, he'd keep you in this room until his love was imprinted in your very bones.

He kissed you softly, wanting to take his time and express how deeply he cared for you with each touch. He moved down your body, worshiping your skin with his hands and mouth, and the soft sounds that escaped you only urged him on.

His bliss was quickly broken by the sounds of his brother yelling for him at the top of his lungs- an unnecessary use of volume, considering everyone had supernatural hearing.

You reached down and cupped his face, drawing his attention back to you.

"Please don't," you whispered, a pleading look in your eyes. "Stay,"

Elijah's breath left his lungs. You were not the clingy type, in fact you were rather understanding and independent; letting him go and do whatever it was the family needed, always supporting him.

He should stay, finish what he started with you, love you, the one he can't live without. But there was clearly something going on downstairs, his family needed him.

He pressed a soft kiss to your lips. "I'll be back."

"Sure," you said flatly, pulling away. You didn't quite meet his eyes as you turned on your side, facing away from him.

You were clearly upset, but he didn't have time to be swayed by his emotions. He leaned in to give you a quick kiss, but you turned your head away.

"I'm sorry, my love," he said, stroking your hair.

You didn't respond, and he had to leave you there, curled up and angry. He felt a deep pang of regret, but the thought of his family's safety was at the forefront of his mind.

As soon as Elijah left, you let your emotions come to a boil. It hurt how he was constantly running away to deal with his family. It hurt you when he put them over you, their arguments over little things always dragged him in. It made you feel undesired, and second best.

You had no doubt he cared for you, and you did believe he loved you. But did he truly love you the way he loved his own family?

No, not really. He was always holding back, never showing all of himself. He wanted a relationship, but not a true partnership. Not with you, anyway.

Your insecurities bubbled to the surface. The way Klaus acted around you, like you didn't belong, he always treated you as if you were an outsider. Perhaps he was right, that it was a fantasy, that you should move on.

It didn't matter that you were with Elijah. It didn't matter that he called you his love.

He could love you, but not be in love with you. And maybe he wasn't. Maybe this was all a lie, a ruse. 

Just too good to be true.

Klaus was pacing around the courtyard, clearly worked up and ready to take it out on the next person who walked through the door.

"Is it necessary to yell?" Elijah asked, his voice calm and collected.

"I had to make sure to get your attention, since you've been so distracted lately," Klaus snarked, a pointed look on his face.

Elijah let out a sigh, this wasn't the first time they've had this conversation. He was growing tired of Klaus' attitude. "What is it that's so important?" he asked, trying to keep the annoyance out of his tone.

"Y/n is a distraction," Klaus began. "You are blinded by her, and you've become weak and weakness will get us killed." He was speaking quickly and with anger. "You are no longer the man that I've known for a thousand years. You have forgotten where you came from, what you are, and who you are meant to protect."

"Are you suggesting I cast her aside?" Elijah questioned, his voice cold.

"Yes, exactly," Klaus answered, his expression unchanging.

"No," Elijah stated simply.

"She acts far too familiar, and is clearly not one of us," Klaus continued.

"She has proven herself time and time again," Elijah countered. "What more does she need to do?"

"I don't want Hope getting attached to someone that isn't family," Klaus said.

"You can't control who Hope gets close to," Elijah snapped, his anger finally rising.

"I can certainly try," Klaus replied, his tone icy. "And I will. Because you've allowed this woman into our home, our family, and now she's acting as if she belongs."

"She does," Elijah said, his voice steady. "You just have a hard time accepting that."

"If you really care about her, then you will do what is best," Klaus replied, his expression changing. "We both know what happens to your dalliances, they come to tragic ends. I'm trying to spare her from that, brother."

"This isn't some fling, Klaus," Elijah growled, his eyes flashing with rage.

"No, she's just a girl you enjoy fucking! And now Hope is calling her auntie, and she's acting like she's Hope's mother-"

Elijah laughed coldly, his brother was so painfully transparent, his paranoia endless and ever growing. "Is that what this is about? You're afraid of her taking Hayley's place? That I would take yours? Have you officially gone insane?" he mocked, his anger at a breaking point. "Have my actions in the last few years not been clear?"

"She will not be welcomed here once you've tired of her. Once she's gone, Hope will ask for her, and I will not allow that," Klaus stated, his voice rising. "You will have broken a little girls heart because of some stupid infatuation."

Elijah's patience with his brother had worn thin. He had to remind himself that Klaus had suffered so many losses in his long life, that his paranoia had grown into something monstrous. But in times like this, his brother could be utterly cruel, and it was impossible to see him as anything but.

"It's not some stupid infatuation," Elijah seethed, his hands clenched into fists. "I love her, and that's something you will never understand. She has been good for me, and has done nothing but support us. She's not a threat, and you know it. This is the problem with you, you want everyone to suffer as you have."

"That is not what I'm doing-" Klaus began, his voice rising. "She's not one of us, and will never be. You just keep her around as a trophy, to remind yourself that you are capable of caring for another. She doesn't belong here, and it will be her undoing."

Elijah lost his control and snapped. He grabbed his brother and threw him against the wall. Klaus' head hit the stone and cracked loudly. His face contorted into an expression of rage, his eyes flashing gold. He moved forward and punched Elijah in the face, sending him stumbling back. He rushed at his brother and grabbed him by the throat, squeezing tightly. Klaus' anger grew, and his grip tightened.

"Enough!" Hayley screamed, grabbing Klaus' arm and pulling him back. She looked between the two brothers, her eyes wide. "Why are you two fist fighting when my daughter is trying to sleep?!"

Klaus' eyes were wild, and his face was covered in blood, Elijah looked the same, and neither was ready to back down. The only thing stopping them was Hayley's presence. She stood between them, and looked at Klaus. "What did you do? What could you have possibly said to him?" she demanded.

"Y/n isn't family, and never will be," Klaus spat, glaring at Elijah. "I have to protect our daughter."

"Our daughter? You're unbelievable, Klaus," Hayley said, shaking her head. "Go. To. Bed. Both of you," she commanded.

She grabbed Klaus's hand, and dragged him away. Elijah sighed, rubbing his forehead. He looked up and saw you on one of the upper balconies with an unreadable expression on your face.

Had you seen that entire argument? Did you hear the awful things his brother had said about you?

He rushed up the stairs and met you at your bedroom door. You had your bag in your hand, and he knew immediately what was happening.

"You can't," he told you, shaking his head.

"I'm not welcome here," you whispered. "I have to go, Elijah."

"You are always welcome here," he said, reaching for you. "Please, let's talk."

"We have talked," you told him, pushing his hand away. "I've heard everything I needed to hear, Elijah. You keep choosing them over me. It's always your family first, and I understand that, but you have to see how it hurts me. I can't just keep coming second in your life."

"You aren't," he whispered, trying to draw you close, but you gently pushed him away. He felt his heart shatter at the action, and he knew he had lost you. "I want you, I choose you. Don't do this, my love."

You pushed past him, unable to hear anything else he had to say at the moment, you needed space to think, to figure out what you wanted. If this was a fight you could win. "Goodbye, Elijah," you said, giving him one last glance.

He stood there, and he was frozen. How could this have happened? He thought that he had made you understand that this was permanent. That you were forever.

But he had failed to show his love properly and he had to fix what he broke. You were his greatest love, his everything, and he couldn't live without you. He was nothing without you. So he would do whatever it took to bring you back.

Because if you were gone, so was he.

You were staying with Marcel, the only person who understood what it was like to be in the Mikaelson shadow. He wasn't thrilled that Elijah had hurt you, but he did understand that relationships weren't always easy, especially with the Mikaelsons.

He poured you a stiff drink, and let you wallow.

"I shouldn't have gone," you muttered.

"It's Hope's birthday," he pointed out.

"But I should have known better than to get involved like that, it only makes Klaus jealous," you sighed.

"Klaus is a notorious asshole, and Elijah is...well, he's not good with his emotions."

"That's putting it lightly."

You drank the whole glass in one gulp, and poured yourself another.

"I don't know why I thought that he was serious," you grumbled.

"He's serious, but he's also scared," Marcel replied. "It's a lot easier for him to push people away, then have the chance to hurt them."

"It's a terrible feeling, wanting to be a part of a family that doesn't want you," you admitted.

"I know the feeling," Marcel replied, sitting down next to you.

"He told me he loved me. He told me that we were going to spend forever together. And yet, his family still doesn't accept me." You looked up at Marcel, your eyes filled with tears.

"It's just Klaus, the rest of them adore you," he told you.

"How do I get Klaus to trust me? I'm not trying to take his daughter," you insisted.

"Just be patient, give him some time," Marcel advised.

"I've given him four years," you said. "And he's not willing to accept me even a little."

Marcel nodded, and handed you another drink. "Don't worry about Klaus, he'll get over himself."

"And Elijah?" you asked.

Marcel frowned. "That's not my area."

"Yeah," you said, nodding slowly. "Me either."

You and Marcel had a few drinks and talked the night away. By the end, you had almost completely forgotten your heartache, and were simply enjoying the company.

Marcel had fallen asleep, and you were dozing off when your phone buzzed. You opened it and saw a message from Elijah.

We need to talk.

You sighed, and sent him a simple reply.

Tomorrow.

You were far too exhausted to deal with his bullshit right now. You tossed your phone on the coffee table and fell asleep.

The next morning you woke up on Marcel's couch, a blanket thrown over you. You stretched, and grabbed your phone, heading into the kitchen.

Elijah had texted you back.

Meet me outside, I have a car waiting for you.

You frowned. He was sending a car for you? You quickly responded.

Why are you sending a car?

A response came instantly.

It's a surprise.

You shook your head, but smiled a little and texted him back.

Fine, give me 10 minutes.

Hurry, we're on a tight schedule.

You showered, and got dressed, grabbing your bag, and heading out. You gave Marcel a quick goodbye, and hopped into the town car.

Elijah was sitting there, and smiled softly.

"Good morning," he said.

"Morning," you replied.

He looked you over, and you were surprised by the intense gaze. You blushed under his scrutiny.

"What?" you asked.

"You're beautiful," he said softly. "And I'm sorry, for all of this. I never meant to hurt you, or make you feel unwanted."

You shook your head. "I know you didn't," you said. "And it's okay."

"It's not," he told you, reaching for your hand. You let him take it, and he pressed a kiss to your palm.

You flushed, and looked away. "Where are we going?"

"The airport," he replied.

"What? Why?" You were completely confused.

"You are right, I'm not putting you first, and I will not allow that anymore," Elijah replied. "And to prove it, we're going somewhere, just the two of us."

"Where are we going?"

"Italy, we're going to spend a month on the Amalfi Coast." he said, a soft smile on his face.

"A month?" You asked, a hint of excitement in your voice.

"Yes," he nodded, and pressed his lips to the back of your hand. "I've been neglectful, and I need to remind you of how I feel about you.

"Eli, you don't have to do all of this."

"Yes, I do," he replied. "You deserve the world."

He had rented a private plane, and had arranged everything. You were incredibly impressed that he managed to pull it all off in the span of a night.

You sat beside him on the plane, his hand intertwined with yours, and a soft smile on his face. You couldn't help but relax, the last couple of days had been so tense, but you couldn't stay mad at him, and a romantic getaway was exactly what you needed.

As the plane took off, Elijah reached over and brushed your hair out of your face. You lifted the arm rest and cuddled up against him, resting your head on his chest. He held you close, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. You missed this, the way he was so attentive, the way he was gentle with you.

"I am sorry, for making you feel second best," he said, his voice low and full of regret.

"I know," you said, reaching up and stroking his cheek. "It's okay, your dedication to your family is part of what I love about you."

You looked up at him and kissed him softly.

"Let's not dwell on the past," you said. "We have a whole month to make new memories."

"I am going to spoil you so much, my love," he said, kissing your nose.

The flight was nearly twelve hours and you immediately fell asleep when the plane leveled out. When you woke up, the sun was starting to set.

Elijah was reading a book, and had his free hand resting on your hip. You smiled, and snuggled closer. He put the book down and looked at you, his eyes soft and full of affection.

"Good morning, or rather evening," he chuckled. "Sleep well?"

"Yeah," you yawned.

You looked out the window, and saw the city below. It was like something out of a dream, colorful houses all stacked up, the sea sparkling as the sun set.

"Welcome to Positano," he said.

"Elijah," you whispered, awe in your voice.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

"It's magical," you gushed.

"Yes, it is."

The plane landed, and a car was waiting. Elijah had rented an entire villa for the two of you. It was stunning, with a view of the ocean, and a private beach.

You walked through the villa, looking at all the art and antiques. It was very much Elijah's taste, and you could see yourself spending a month here.

The moon was out and it cast a soft glow over the sea. Elijah took your hand and the two of you walked down the stairs to the beach.

The sounds of the waves gently lapping on the sand soothed you. You walked down the shoreline, your hands intertwined.

"You didn't have to do all this, you know," you said, leaning against him.

"I know, but I wanted to. I needed to. It was a selfish thing, really," he replied, wrapping his arms around you.

Up ahead you saw something on the beach, it was too dark to make out, but it looked like a bunch of neatly shaped debris.

You walked a little closer, and you could make out the shapes. It was a heart, surrounded by lit candles, and flowers. The words "I love you" written with rose petals on the sand. Suddenly a bunch of twinkle lights were turned on, and the whole scene was lit up.

You turned around to ask Elijah if he had done this, but the words died in your throat. He was kneeling on the ground, a ring box in his hand.

"Y/n," he began, his voice soft and loving.

"What are you doing?" you asked, a bit breathless.

"I should have done this a long time ago," he said. "I should have married you years ago, but I was afraid. I was afraid that I wouldn't be able to give you everything you deserve."

"Eli-"

"No, let me finish," he insisted, and continued. "I've spent centuries on this earth, never truly belonging anywhere. Always searching, never finding. Until I found you. My home, my heart, my family."

You were crying, tears streaming down your face. You couldn't really process what was happening, here was the man of your dreams, pouring his heart out, telling you how much he loved you, how much he wanted to spend the rest of his life with you.

"You are my world, my everything. And I want to spend eternity by your side," he said, opening the box and showing you the ring.

The ring was absolutely stunning, a large ruby surrounded by diamonds. It looked antique and must have been worth a fortune.

"I found this ring almost five hundred years ago, right here in Italy. I knew that when I finally found the right person, I would give it to them," he said, smiling up at you.

"You can't be serious," you said, not intending for it to sound as harsh as it did. You were in complete shock.

"I have never been more serious in my entire life," he replied, his voice firm.

"What will your family say?" You asked, worried about Klaus’ reaction.

"Niklaus can go fuck himself," Elijah grinned. "As for the rest of them, they will be thrilled."

You nodded slowly, letting the words sink in.

"This is insane," you whispered, unable to stop staring at the ring.

"Is that a yes?" He asked, looking nervous. "Will you be my wife?"

"Yes," you breathed, and he took your hand and slipped the ring onto your finger. It fit perfectly, as though it was made for you.

He stood up, and kissed you. You threw your arms around him, your fingers tangling in his hair, kissing him back with every ounce of love you had for him.

"You're my family, you're my home," he whispered, spinning you around. "And I vow, from this day on, you will always come first. I love you."

"I love you too," you murmured, cupping his cheek. "With all my heart."

He pulled you close, kissing you deeply. You lost yourself in his embrace, in the way his hands felt on your body, his lips on yours, his tongue in your mouth.

You both stumbled to the villa, tearing each other's clothes off. Your back hit the wall, and Elijah pushed your skirt up. His hands found your thighs and he squeezed the soft flesh, lifting you up, your legs wrapped around his waist. He kissed along your neck, leaving little marks in his wake.

"My fiance," he muttered against the flesh. "My darling love."

"I like the sound of that," you moaned.

"Then you're going to absolutely adore being called my wife," he grinned, moving his lips down to your breasts.

His kisses turned bruising, biting at the flesh of your tits. He was rough with you and you relished it. It was like he was finally unleashing his feelings, letting out all the love he had for you.

You tugged on his hair, bringing his lips back to yours, hungry for his kisses, drunk off of his affection.

"Bed, Eli," you murmured, but instead, he picked you up and carried you into the shower.

He set you on your feet and turned the water on.

"We are covered in sand," he grinned.

The steam was rising as the water heated up, and the moment it was hot enough Elijah pulled you in with him. You squealed as the warm water washed over you, cleaning you off.

The water was the perfect temperature, a delicious warmth, but not as delicious as the feeling of him pressing into you, pinning your front against the tile.

He reached up, taking your hands and pinning them to the tile wall.

"Keep your hands here," he commanded, pressing a kiss to the back of one.

You nodded, a small moan escaping your lips, he kissed his way down your back. He ran his tongue down the length of your spine. Soft and gentle, teasing over the top of your ass. His hands ran over your legs, and he bent you slightly, opening your cheeks to reveal the most intimate part of you.

"Beautiful," he murmured, before lapping at you.

Your knees nearly buckled as he pressed his face into your flesh. His hands spread your cheeks wide as his tongue dipped into your core. The way his mouth touched every part of you left you dizzy with need. Your thighs clenched, your clit pulsing, ready to be touched.

But you did what he told you, and kept your hands above your head. The porcelain felt cool on your heated skin and he tugged you closer, your hands moving further down as your body was pulled back. His tongue darted into your center, teasing around your hole, his saliva coating you, trailing up, finding your puckered hole, and slowly circling the muscle.

"Elijah," you whimpered, gasping as his tongue worked you open.

He slipped a finger into your dripping cunt, working it inside, pulling it out and sliding it up, moving to replace his tongue on your tight entrance. He swirled around your asshole before pushing the pad of his finger into your tight heat, his mouth sucking on your ass, soft moans escaping him, vibrating against your flesh.

You struggled to keep yourself upright, your hands against the wall, bracing yourself, wiggling against him. The warm water of the shower cascading over you, the sensations were too much and not enough. You were panting, your head tilted back, eyes closed, as you were overwhelmed by his touch.

He pulled back and stood up, kissing along the back of your neck, he placed his hands on your hips and pulled you close.

"Do you want more, sweetheart?" He murmured in your ear, his voice low and seductive.

"Yes," you breathed, arching against him.

His cock was hard, trapped between the two of you. You ground against him, rubbing yourself on his length, desperate for the friction.

"How much more?" He asked, a smirk in his voice.

"All of it," you said.

"Right here, up against the shower wall?"

"Yes, Elijah, please," you begged.

He hummed and reached between the two of you, taking his length and teasing your core with it. He loved making you beg for him, and he loved hearing the desperation in your voice. But you were now to be his wife, and he was going to take care of you.

He eased himself into your center, groaning at the tightness of you, how good it felt to be surrounded by your warmth. You moaned as he pressed inside of you, the thickness of his cock filling you.

He placed his hands on top of yours against the wall, intertwining your fingers.

"I love you," he murmured, his hips moving against you.

"I love you," you moaned, rocking your hips with him.

He took his time with you, savoring the feeling of your body. He had almost lost you, and he needed to remind you how much you meant to him, how he cherished you.

His slow, languid movements were torture, the heat building inside of you, his thick cock rubbing every inch of your pussy. You moved together, the two of you in sync.

Your orgasm started to build, a slow burn deep within. You had never been so turned on, or so loved, the way he held you, the way he whispered your name like a prayer.

"That's it, baby, come for me," he encouraged, his hips picking up the pace.

He could feel the change, and he knew exactly how to push you over the edge. His thrusts became harder, more purposeful. His lips found the sensitive spot on your neck, and he sucked the tender flesh.

Your walls clenched and you fell apart, coming undone for him, moaning his name, over and over. He smiled against your skin, he could stay buried inside of you forever, and never tire of the way you made him feel.

He turned off the shower and pulled you to the bedroom, his lips never leaving yours. He laid you down on the bed, his body on top of yours.

"I can't wait to make love to you every day, for the rest of our lives," he smiled.

"That's a long time, Eli," you teased.

"Not long enough," he smirked.

He took your legs and spread them, kneeling between them. He guided his length into you, and pushed all the way in.

He groaned, loving the way your body opened up to him, the way you felt like home.

"Elijah," you gasped, your hands reaching for him, needing to touch him.

"I love the way you say my name," he smiled, leaning down and kissing you, his tongue licking into your mouth.

He rocked into you, slowly, the feeling of you was addictive. You were his drug and he would never be able to get enough of you. He pictured all the ways he would make love to you, the ways he would please you, worship you.

"My beautiful girl," he groaned, his body on fire, his desire burning, and it only fueled his need.

His hips snapped against yours, and you gripped the sheets, the pleasure coursing through you. Another orgasm was building, the feeling of him deep inside of you, the way he looked at you with such love.

"Come with me, my love," he pleaded, his hand moving between the two of you, finding your clit, his fingers gently rubbing the bundle of nerves.

He was so close, and he was determined to have you come with him, to fall apart for him, together.

You whimpered and moaned, your hips lifting to meet his, chasing the feeling, knowing it was so close. He pressed his lips to yours, and the dam broke, crashing over the both of you.

You came together, moaning, his cock twitching as he emptied inside of you, your walls clenching and milking him, taking everything he had to offer.

You collapsed, boneless, spent, completely and utterly satisfied. He smiled at the sight of you, blissed out and glowing, your hair wet and splayed out over the pillows. . He had never seen anything so beautiful in his entire life.

He laid down next to you, making sure to keep you close. You curled into his chest, and his arms wrapped around you, holding you tight.

"So, tell me more about this wedding of ours," you grinned, holding your hand up to look at your ring.

"I'll arrange everything, don't you worry about a thing," he said softly, nuzzling your neck.

"Is that so? I don't get any input?" you teased, turning to look at him, your lips brushing against his.

"I mean, you can make suggestions, if you'd like," he smirked, his hand running along the curve of your hip.

"Hmm, well, I do think we should get married in Positano," you smiled, and his eyes lit up.

"It’s perfect here, isn't it?" he mused, a soft smile on his lips.

"I want it to be a small wedding," you said, tracing patterns on his chest. "Family and close friends only."

"Of course," he replied. "I want it to be something just for us."

The two of you talked until the early morning, dreaming up your future together, and making plans for your wedding. It would be a simple affair, a celebration of your love, in a beautiful location, with the people who cared about the two of you the most.

The month spent in Italy was something out of a dream, the days filled with long walks on the beach, picnics in the gardens, and nights filled with dancing and drinking. You made love in the most luxurious beds, and in the most unorthodox places, including the rooftop patio one night. You even made it a bit of a game, seeing who could find the best spots to fuck in. Elijah always won, and was very proud of himself, you loved seeing him so carefree, so happy.

There was no talk of his family or what was going on at home. It was like you were in your own little world, just the two of you. But it was time to return home, the news of your engagement was something you both wanted to share in person.

When you entered the compound, Hope came running up to her favorite uncle, Elijah scooped her up in his arms and spun her around.

"Uncle ‘lijah! Auntie y/n you're home!" she grinned, and you smiled at her, ruffling her hair.

"Have you been behaving for your mother?" Elijah asked, carrying her towards the courtyard, letting her tell you both all about what she had been up to while you were away.

"I see the trip did you both some good," Klaus said, walking towards the three of you. His eyes darted to the ring on your finger, the red ruby catching the light. "Is that what I think it is?"

"What is?" Hope asked, looking confused.

"I asked aunt y/n to marry me," Elijah told Hope, smiling sweetly at her.

"You did?" She exclaimed, her eyes wide.

"Yes," you nodded, laughing at the excitement.

Hope hugged Elijah tightly, and Klaus looked at his brother, a hint of a smile on his lips. The sight of his daughter so happy warmed his heart.

"Well, I wish you both every bit of happiness," he said, giving you a tight smile.

"Thank you," you replied, knowing his words were sincere and it was probably the most enthusiastic response you would ever get from him. It was progress and that was enough for you.

Elijah put Hope down, and she took off running, the news of your engagement clearly something she was very excited about. You could hear her yelling the news as she ran through the compound. Rebekah was the first to appear, pulling you into a tight hug.

"Congratulations!" She beamed, and you hugged her back, her enthusiasm contagious. "I better be a bridesmaid."

The rest of the Mikaelson's slowly came and offered their congratulations. Hayley and Freya both hugged you, Marcel shook Elijah's hand and Kol gave you a warm smile. Hope was thrilled, talking a mile a minute about all the ways she was going to help with the wedding.

"Can I be a bridesmaid?" she asked, her cute little face pleading.

You knelt down so you were at her level, taking her hand. "How about something even more special? No one else at the wedding is going to have such an important job."

"What is it?" She asked, her face completely in awe.

"Will you be my flower girl?"

She squealed and jumped into your arms, squeezing you tight. "Really? Yes! I'd love to!"

You laughed and hugged her back.

Elijah watched the scene, a warmth in his chest. You were his family, his home, the missing piece that had made him whole. He had finally found the love he had been searching for.

You caught him staring, and walked over to him, his arm wrapping around your waist. He kissed the side of your head and let out a contented sigh. You were everything he ever wanted and so much more.

"I can't wait to call you my wife," he smiled.

"Neither can I," you said, your lips meeting his, sealing the promise, always and forever.

♡♡ Tag-List ♡♡

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Lucifer (Hazbin Hotel) X Fem-Reader - Sinless Sinners - Chapter 5

Chapter 5 - Stories and Dolls

A/N – Okay, so I just quit my job and I’m freefalling right now. Time to channel my anxiety into fanfiction. Also, this chapter is darker so I’m raising the rating to M.

Warnings – MENTIONS OF RAPE, S/A, ABUSE, KIDNAPPING, AND TORTURE.

Rating – M

TAG-LIST: @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx @sseleniaa @randomgurl2326 @22carolina08 @astrxwitch @yu-87 @clover-1767 @lil-bexie @thesimpybitch @reverse-soe @koirb @usernameunavailable2 @lavenderkita @kannakanan @mcueveryday @amarokofficial @mbruben-stein @tyrythewolf @lasagna-501 @bizzardvark @firefirefeline @kaylanotkk @missme-07 @memontica @angelsdemonsmonsters @tj4shy

MALE VERSION HERE

GN VERSION HERE

Lucifer had to admit, he was getting used to you. He enjoyed making breakfast a show in the morning, entertaining you with his parlour tricks and general showmanship. You were like a child, easily amused by flashing lights or some sleight of hand.

And of a night, he also found your company less than objectionable, whether you were reading a book in the library with Spick and Span curled up at your feet, in front of a roaring fire (you had conjured them medallions with their names on them, so as to tell them apart), or those nights when you came back from visiting the hotel and regaled him with the tales of its inhabitants. Lucifer was starting to like Angel Dust, even if he didn’t believe the porn star actually had a chance at redemption. Nifty also seemed entertaining, Husk could be a source of wisdom and comfort in equal measure, and Alastair… Well, he was there too, taking up too much of your attention.

Yet, despite his newfound almost-friendship with you, he couldn’t help thinking about what you had said on your first night in the manor.

‘You don’t even know why I’m down here, and you don’t want to know, right? ‘Cos all of us filthy Sinners must be the same.’

You were right. He didn’t know why you were there, and that was driving him crazy. He wanted to like you. Truly, he did. But how could he like you when he didn’t know your sin? People got sent to Hell for a reason! They wasted their free will. They sold drugs to kids, murdered people, trafficked victims, tricked and swindled others. For all Lucifer knew, you were there for drowning puppies.

The thought made him deeply uncomfortable.

Okay. He would ask you about it. No big deal. People probably talked about why they went to Hell a lot right? That was a normal conversation for Sinners, probably…

Lucifer wasn’t entirely wrong in thinking that. However, nearly all Sinners lied about what they went to Hell for, making it even more brutal or horrifying to try and earn some extra credit among their fellow Demons. Someone who had killed one person would claim to have been a serial killer. A low-life drug dealer would paint themselves as a mafioso with a drug empire, and arsonists… They didn’t have to lie much, as fires tended to spread quickly and they generally were as psychotic as they claimed to be.

It was all basic self-preservation in Hell. Be the toughest person there, so nobody could find new ways to hurt you. Kill or be killed (figuratively, since Demons couldn’t technically kill other Demons), sink or swim, do unto others before they did unto you.

Right. When Lucifer next saw you, he would ask.

“Hey Lucifer,” You said upon returning to the manor from the Hotel, “You doing okay?”

Lucifer froze. He hadn’t expected to see you so soon. Fuck.

“Hey bitch,” Lucifer greeted, feeling entirely awkward, yet trying to feign confidence.

“Uh… Back at ya,” You reciprocated confusedly.

“Sooooo,” Lucifer started, steepling his fingers together, and holding them to his mouth, his brow knitting together worriedly, “I have a question for you.”

“Oh.” You were surprised by Lucifer’s admission. While the two of you generally made conversation, he didn’t tend to ask too much. Besides, in the preface of announcing his question, it seemed that he was likely to ask you something personal.

You waved your hand casually, indicating that he was free to ask away.

“How- Uh how was everything at the Hotel? Is my little girl doing okay?”

As you smiled and fell into a description of how Charlie was doing and her general excitement about her meeting with Heaven, Lucifer cursed himself. He knew that what he wanted to ask was important, but it was just so personal. Well, at least he was happy to hear about his daughter. There were also some other colourful stories included in your conversation.

Finally, you wrapped up the conversation, effectively ending it when you casually said, “Anyway, I’m going to get ready for bed. I’m real tired, you know?”

Lucifer didn’t say much as you left, he was still pondering whether you might be a puppy killer or relative and accomplice to that Jeffrey Dahmer fellow, or something equally disturbing. If not… Why were you there?

Having gotten ready for bed, you sighed, letting the day’s events wash over you, lifting a weight off your shoulders. You were tired, but the day had been a good productive one. Moreover, it was nice to end the day by standing out on the balcony, overlooking the rest of Hell.

There was a time when you had died, during which you stood atop a building in the main streets watching all the fights, looting, and maiming, and you were horrified. Then, you met Charlie, and she had been so wonderfully pure, good, and non-judgemental that you had to agree with her. Hell could be a home to you, and all the other Sinners who lived there, and Sinners could always change for the better.

While you held onto the balcony railing, leaning over it, and staring at the red horizon, Lucifer approached your open door at the entrance of your room, knocking despite the open invitation to come in.

You turned and smiled at him, your smile putting him at ease.

“Come in,” You offered.

He did so, crossing the large room and taking quick mental notes of the changes you had made. They were minor, but they spoke of your personality. You had lit scented candles, brightening the room – the official scent name was Tapioca Tit-play.

Subconsciously, Lucifer worked his magic to remove the off-smell that he had placed there; it was redundant when your candles covered it, and he didn’t mind your company so much anymore.

He also observed several other items. There was a photograph of everyone at the Hotel, though you had drawn Alastor on the end in crayon since he didn’t love to be captured in photographs (he could bear it unlike being filmed, but he didn’t care much for it.)

Wrapped around your bedposts were nightlights to keep out the dark. On your bed, you had a teddy of one of Sir Pentious’ egg-bois, a gift from him. Husk had gifted you with a bottle of his best Whiskey, though it remained unopened on the nightstand. There was a cockroach/daisy hybrid necklace wrapped around a book. The candles were from Angel Dust. Beneath your pillow was a dagger, gifted by Vaggie, for your protection. Alastor had given you a collection of books from the store in Cannibal Town, including several that were rumoured to have been stolen from Heaven’s library, though nobody was certain where that rumour started or if it was even true, though there were no copies of the books anywhere else in Hell.

Although Lucifer had no way of knowing these items were all presents from your friends at the Hazbin Hotel, he could tell that you cared deeply for the odd assortment by their placement on the two bedside tables; they had been positioned with care, and were well looked after.

Then, his eye caught the rubber duck, slightly hidden behind the picture frame. He remembered making that one. As a hellhound imitation, it was meant to teleport to whoever needed it most inside the Manor, offering protection should they come under attack. Naturally, he and his family didn’t need such protection, but he had been experimenting with what powers he might imbue unto yet another duck.

He decided not to mention it as he joined you on the balcony, looking you over in your pyjamas.

You also spared him a glance, noting that he seemed more relaxed. Although he was still in his usual attire, he had removed his top-hat-crown and his overcoat, revealing the waistcoat and shirt beneath; the sleeves were rolled up, giving him a more casual appearance.

“Hell’s skies are beautiful, aren’t they,” You stated, returning your gaze to the horizon.

Lucifer looked up, but all he saw was Heaven, the home that didn’t want him.

“(Y/N),” He started, forcing himself to look down, so he wouldn’t have to stare at the painfully beautiful golden glow above.

“Hm?”

“How did you end up here?”

Your grip tightened on the railing drawing Lucifer’s gaze to the whites of your knuckles.

Your whole body became tense and you answered with a ragged breath, “I died.”

“Yes but-” Lucifer was about to lead into the question of your sins, but you spoke up again, seemingly misunderstanding the question as you continued, tears forming at the corners of your eyes.

“I was- I was murdered.”

Lucifer could have explained that the cause of your death wasn’t what he had been driving at, but now he was darkly fascinated. If you were the same kind-hearted, warm person in life, why would anyone wish to bring about your death?

He remained silent as you began recounting the manner in which you had been killed.

“I had a friend,” You started slowly, taking steady breaths between each part of the story that followed as if it would make it any easier. “I mean- I- I thought he was my friend. I loved him. He knew that. He counted on it.”

“I thought that he travelled for work. That’s what he told me. It’s why he was always coming and going. But no… He was just looking for more people like me. He found people. Made us fall for him. Then he- he took me out on a date. Blindfolded me. Said it was a surprise. I- I trusted him, but the blindfold just made it easier for him to- He knocked me out.”

You subconsciously touched the back of your head, remembering the blow that had come with no warning.

Lucifer turned to you, one hand holding onto the railing, the other planted firmly at his side.

“Did he-” He started to ask.

You shook your head. “It wasn’t rape. It was worse.”

You shivered, waiting until you were certain you weren’t going to vomit. Then you continued, your skin ashy.

“I woke up in a- It was like a cinderblock cell, but it had been sort of decorated to look like a fancy suite?”

You recalled the room. It was damp, and the floor was cheaply produced concrete, given away by the amount of air bubbles which had never been levelled and now pocked the surface, like a teenager with bad acne. The cinderblock walls were easy to see, though some talented artist had been paid to paint it with the likeness of the Ritz hotel or somewhere equally fancy. While that had made it look better, it was still clearly a cinderblock wall; then again, you can’t polish a turd, but you can roll it in glitter.

You had been handcuffed to a chair in the centre of the room. Your clothes had been taken, and you had been dressed in a skimpy shortened tuxedo, with a fitted vest instead of a jacket. You remembered screaming till your voice was raw. You screamed so much that you ended up spitting flecks of blood, but nobody came to save you.

“I- I was tied up,” You said simply, downplaying the memory to Lucifer, more for your own sake than his, though he could see the pain behind your eyes.  

Lucifer didn’t interrupt your story, but his anger was growing. Behind him his tail lashed furiously, his eyes became flaming red, and his fangs became sharper. You hadn’t noticed, you were lost in memory, and you had yet to look his way since beginning your story.

You sighed, thinking of the torture, humiliation, and suffering which followed, all at the hands of one man. It wasn’t your captor. It was who he had sold you to.

“It- I was- They were making snuff films. I don’t know how many people died there before or after me but- I was sold to an American. He- He liked to cut things. It was a while before- I don’t know if I bled out, or if my heart stopped, maybe both?”

For the first time, your skin changed colour, turning from your regular human shade to a pale seaweed-green. Against the colourful backdrop, Lucifer could see your now blinding white glowing scars. Upon your death they remained hidden, completely invisible, but now you were distressed… You seemingly did have something of a Demonic appearance after all.

You were a ragdoll.

There wasn’t a part of your body that hadn’t been cut, or originally sliced off, only to be repaired in death. In all likelihood, your real body was probably burned, buried, or dissolved in acid. In Hell, your scars were the stitches that held your body together. Lucifer now understood your human appearance since like a real ragdoll, you were good at playing dress-up. He bet that if you explored your abilities, you would have been able to look like anyone, a skin-changer, but you had adopted your appearance in life; it was likely an accident caused by the trauma of your memories.

“(Y/N),” Lucifer said through gritted teeth. He wanted to be comforting, but he was already thinking of all the ways he would punish your killer and any accomplice he may have had. There were worse things than Death in hell; he would torture those bastards for eternity, and then when he finally grew bored, he would end them with angelic weaponry, wiping their souls from existence, leaving no trace of such monsters.

You didn’t turn to face your King, who was now in his full Demonic form, his rage at its peak.

“Just go,” You murmured despondently, staring over the balcony, and down to the ground. A long drop and a short stop… It was a shame it wouldn’t kill you; at least the pain would end if you died.

“But-” Lucifer reached you to put a hand on your shoulder, his wings almost curling around you as if to envelop you.

“I- I would like to be alone. Please.”

Lucifer hesitantly withdrew his hand, “I’m sorry.”

That was all he said before walking away, leaving you alone.

You wished that you could have been left to wallow, but your phone soon buzzed and you opted to check it in case it was an emergency.

Retrieving it from the bed, you found a message from Charlie.

“EMERGENCY. ANGEL DUST. RELAPSE. GET OVER HERE. PLEASE!”

Damn it! If Charlie was texting you for this, it meant that Husk was either the cause or he wasn’t around to be the solution. Moreover, while Charlie would want to assist her friend, she was likely the last person Angel Dust wanted to see; sometimes, though she was well-intentioned, she just didn’t understand such issues or she could be a bit much.

Still stuck in your ragdoll body, you ran back to the balcony and vaulted over the edge. It wasn’t a smooth landing, and it hurt a lot. Anyone else would have broken their bones, but when you were like this, there wasn’t anything else that could be broken. Everything had already been torn off you. Ignoring the pain, you ran until you found a taxi. You took it to the Hotel.

[charliemwrites]

Part 4 of Nikto’s commandments

Content: Sexual Desire, Dissociation, Depersonalization, Codependency, Acts of Service, Masturbation

You moan his name sometimes in your sleep.

Usually just before you wake up, panting and overheated, shooting wide-eyed glances his way. Lying to you would be a sin beyond redemption so he always lets you know that he’s awake. You often apologize, sometimes you assure him you’re alright. It takes him a while to identify the look in your eyes those nights — he was unfamiliar with it even before: guilt.

You feel guilty.

Puzzling out the why of that takes longer still. You’re a mystery to him, ineffable. The way god is supposed to be. Unlike the Christian one, you almost always have a purpose behind what you do, and you’ll answer Nikto whenever he dares to ask. (He’s not going to ask about this.)

He first thought that you were calling for his help in dreamt pain. That your blown out pupils, trembling hands, and flushed face were products of fear and imagined torture.

But then you started to lean into his neck in your sleep, making soft, high noises. Would press your ass into the cradle of his hips, grind against his thigh. Alien as his body is to him now, he can recognize emotion in others. Lust, desire.

Coming to terms that you feel these things for him has been another challenge altogether. (But you are a loving god, a compassionate keeper. The sweetness and mercy and nobility found in the viscera of his world. If there is anything of him worth wanting, you would find it.) If you are attracted to this… vessel he inhabits, who is he to question you?

The guilt, though. That he is still puzzling out.

If anyone should feel guilt, it is him (though he doesn’t, isn’t even sure if he can). Now that you’ve made him more aware of his body, of his desires, there’s a constant buzz of arousal in his blood. For you. He craves you constantly. Your touch, your voice, your scent in his nose. He could suffocate on you.

It’s selfish, it’s sinful. To desire anything of you when you have given him everything and asked for nothing in return. Not even his loyalty, freely given. It is why he could not say yes when you offered to slake his desire; it would have been akin to blasphemy.

Unless.

Unless you have asked something of him.

“Whoa!” A giggle as you tilt your head back to him, amused and curious. “What was that for?”

He feels wooden as he glances down at you. His arm is around your waist, nearly crushing you to him. Hadn’t even realized he moved. You don’t seem to mind, palms light on his forearm. Still looking to him.

He does not answer. Can’t find the words past the panic clawing at his throat. Lets you go slowly, finger by finger. You don’t step away once free.

You say something else. Something about rain maybe? He’s too busy staring at the deft hands you cup around your mouth.

How soft and gentle they are on his skin, skipping over the worst scars. The first thing you always do is touch him. When he’s out of a shower, just changed, climbing into bed, waking up. You reach for him, as if you can’t bear to be parted with the same intensity he feels.

Do you crave to touch him in other ways? Has he denied you, unwitting as it may have been?

It would be one thing to ask anything of you, especially for his own sake. But to give you something… even if it’s such an unworthy offering as himself…

“Nikto?”

His eyes flick down to yours. You smile at him, point at your own temple.

“Busy up there today, huh?” It’s not even a tease, but he feels as if he’s made another misstep.

“Sorry.”

You shake your head, bump your shoulder into his arm. “I’m just checking that you’re alright.”

“Alright” being relative. He objectively understands that he is broken and damaged. That he does not operate at full capacity all — or even most — of the time.

But with your help he’s established a baseline, a “normal.” Something to measure his body, and more importantly his damaged mind by.

“I am… alright,” he decides finally. “Just thinking.”

“Okay,” you answer, easy as that. “If you want to talk, I’ll listen — but you don’t have to.”

You don’t have to is your favorite thing to say to him. He would laugh if he remembered how.

He grunts an affirmative and follows you to wherever you’re headed next.

—

That night, your ankle is hurting. Nothing serious, you assure Nikto. Just rolled it a bit. You promise it just needs rest, low level painkillers, and a bit of elevation.

Nikto is unpracticed at care. For all he practically lives in your pocket, medical care is unusual for you. He spends so much time keeping you safe, protected, alive and unharmed. He has little direction when it comes to your discomfort.

Luckily, you provide direction in spades.

“Two pills from the bottle with the red cap and a glass of water please.”

His cock twitches hard. Fills out almost dizzyingly fast in the confines of his tac pants.

He fetches both for you, holding each in turn as you pluck the pills from his hand and sip the water. You sigh gratefully and tell him to set the glass on the nightstand. Another bolt of pleasure to obey, while you like droplets from your bottom lip.

“Can you grab my computer and the charger? I want to watch something before bed.”

He brings them, stands waiting while you fiddle with it. Waiting for another request. He’s achingly hard now. Throbbing in his underwear.

“Oh! Hairbrush too, please?”

When he hands it to you this time, hand almost to the point of shaking, you give him a sheepish smile.

“I’m sorry, I keep making you run around.”

“Don’t be.” His voice is gruff, but it so often is that you don’t seem to find anything amiss. “More?”

“Ah… well, if it’s not too much trouble, could you grab the extra blanket? It’s cold tonight.”

He tries to pace himself. To balance the pleasure of obeying against the speed of completing the task. You hum in delight as he drapes it over you — a fluffy monstrosity of a thing. Utterly decadent, he’d never even entertain the idea of having one. But you deserve a dozen of them if you wanted them. He’d retrieve them now for you if only you asked.

(He wishes you would ask.)

He is harder than he ever remembers being. (Granted, there are many gaps in his memory, even now. But there is enough there to know this is true.)

“Okay that should be the last thing for a bit.” You’re looking away and don’t see the minute deflation of his shoulders. He’s nearly panting. “Come snuggle in?”

“In a moment,” he says, surprising himself. You seem a bit (pleasantly) surprised too. He’s never denied you anything for even a moment. But if he sits next to you now…

“Ah, gotcha,” you say when he turns for the bathroom.

You start playing whatever tv show you have queued up to offer him privacy. He closes the door after himself and for the first time since regaining his freedom, takes himself in hand.

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Masterlist

[hrtwayne]

The Doctor and the Monster || Wednesday Addams

Pairing: Doctor!Wednesday Addams x Werewolf!Reader (The strange case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr AU!

Summary: Where Wednesday finds an injured blonde-haired girl in the halls of Nevermore!

Note: In this chapter, Wednesday's personality has been altered for better understanding. (English is not my first language!!)

Warning: Mentions of blood, mentions of betrayal, and a pre-established relationship!

MASTERLIST

Dr. Addams was a physician of a reserved demeanor, never graced by a smile, cold, measured, and timid in speech, withdrawn in feeling; slender but not overly tall, dusty, somber, yet somehow appeared endearing—why, no one could quite explain. At social gatherings, when the wine happened to please her taste, a faintly human spark would ignite in her dark eyes—a light that never found its way to her lips, but one that spoke volumes in its silent language, hinting at depths unseen in her actions. She was strict with herself and, when alone, would drink gin to dull the lingering taste of wine.

Occasionally, she marveled, almost enviously, at the immense pressure the drink seemed to exert on her unvoiced sins. And in extreme cases, she leaned more towards assisting rather than condemning.

Regarding her character, she often found herself the last respectable acquaintance and the final positive influence in the lives of the fallen. Yet, those who stepped into her office never saw even a shadow of change in her composed and detached behavior.

Undoubtedly, it was no grand feat for Dr. Addams. Reserved to the extreme, her friendship seemed to stem from a similarly modest yet liberal kindness. Hers was the mark of a humble woman, enviable despite holding numerous accolades and recognition for her willingness to help those in need.

Walking through the corridors of Nevermore Academy, while the chill of Edinburgh’s high streets bit at her pale cheeks, Wednesday Addams seemed more silent and reflective than usual. Typically, her stern expression alone was enough to instill fear in her students.

The Addams family name carried significant weight in the bustling streets of Edinburgh, known for producing doctors, businessmen, engineers, and even governors. It was not difficult to recognize those raven-black locks, as dark as a starless night, paired with an indescribable beauty.

Her stormy eyes wandered the hallways until a loud noise near the main room caught her attention. The brunette placed a hand on the door, only to find her best friend’s older sister slumped against the wall, a deep gash on her abdomen and claw marks marring her arm. The blonde looked visibly distressed, writhing in unbearable pain. Without hesitation, Wednesday’s arms encircled her waist, guiding her to sit on a wooden table.

"Why am I not surprised to find you covered in blood?" Wednesday questioned, retrieving her first-aid kit. "Raise your arms. I need to remove your shirt."

"If you wanted me undressed, all you had to do was ask, Addams," you teased, your thick Scottish accent making her roll her eyes as she pressed on the wound. "Ow! I was kidding!"

"Be quiet, will you?" she replied, watching you pout.

Her cold hands reached for saline solution and gauze as she leaned closer for a better view. Your abdomen was soaked with bright red blood, and you closed your eyes, leaning your head against the white wall behind you.

Wednesday Addams was not one to show emotion, but seeing you in such a state caused her chest to tighten and bile to rise in her throat. Your teary blue eyes only made her more meticulous as she cleaned the wound, handling you with more care than usual. In a few minutes, the bandages were done, and the painkillers had taken effect, leaving you drowsy. Although your werewolf abilities were usually reliable, they seemed to have abandoned you that night.

Later that evening, Dr. Addams brought you to her apartment with a grim determination. She laid you in her bed, your arms still wrapped tightly around her waist. With a deep sigh, she attempted to compose herself before heading to take a shower, hoping to steady her nerves.

"Who hurt you like this, mon loup?" she whispered softly, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

A faint sigh escaped her lips as she watched you sleep peacefully, subdued by the medication.

She would find whoever had hurt the blonde-haired girl and make them pay in the most excruciating way imaginable.

[wovendreamscapes]

What if I made this a story? Eris: I have the urge to do something stupid. Azriel: I'm stupid, do me.

P.S. This was inspired by a post on tumblr by @irithiadourden

Eris Vanserra was an arrogant bastard, a pain in Azriel’s ass, and entirely too attractive for his own good. Worse, he was also absolutely, unbelievably oblivious.

Azriel had spent months trying to get Eris to notice him—real, actual, I’m flirting with you, you idiot notice him. But no matter what he did, the heir to Autumn remained as dense as a rock, his sharp mind apparently capable of dismantling court politics but not capable of recognizing when someone was actively trying to sleep with him.

Azriel had endured through subtle touches, lingering glances, and just about every innuendo Rhys had snorted into his wine over. He had let his shadows coil around Eris’s wrists when they stood too close, had tested the waters with a borderline sinful “I could make you beg” during a sparring match (Eris had smirked and said, “That’s rich coming from you,” and then flipped him over his shoulder—Azriel hadn’t known whether to be turned on or offended).

The worst part? Eris wasn’t ignoring him—no, that would’ve made sense.

Eris was simply not getting it.

“You’re not his type,” Cassian had snickered once, watching Azriel glare at Eris from across the room.

“He flirts with anything that breathes,” Azriel had muttered. “Surely I qualify.”

Cassian had simply patted his shoulder. “You’d think.”

It was infuriating.

And now, now, after another long, miserable meeting with Beron and the other High Lords, Azriel found himself at Rita’s, a whiskey in hand and Eris seated across from him in their usual dimly lit corner.

The tension between them was always thick, a coiled thing neither of them fully addressed. Eris looked as tired as Azriel felt, his coat slung over his chair, the first few buttons of his shirt undone like even he couldn’t stand the weight of Autumn’s expectations. His long fingers toyed with the rim of his glass, his expression unreadable.

Then, completely unprompted, he sighed and said, “I have the urge to do something stupid.”

Azriel didn’t think.

Didn’t stop himself.

Didn’t even consider the words before they came out of his mouth, smooth and dry and utterly fucking doomed.

“I’m stupid,” he said. “Do me.”

Silence.

A long, long silence.

Eris blinked.

Tilted his head slightly, like a fox catching an unfamiliar scent.

Azriel stared at him, unblinking, willing the realization to finally, finally sink into that pretty, too-smug head of his.

But Eris just frowned, his brows drawing together. “You’re not stupid,” he said, perplexed. “You’re terrifying.”

Azriel exhaled through his nose. “That’s not—” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “That’s not the point.”

Eris took a sip of his drink, considering him. “Wait, are you actually stupid?”

Azriel wanted to throttle him.

Instead, he leaned forward, bracing his forearms on the table, and stared. Hard. “Eris.” His voice was steady, measured. “What, exactly, do you think I’ve been doing for the past several months?”

Eris’s expression didn’t change. “Being mildly homicidal?”

Azriel inhaled deeply. He was going to kill him. He was actually going to kill him.

A few beats of silence stretched between them before something seemed to click in Eris’s mind. His eyes narrowed slightly, as if flipping through every single one of their interactions at once.

The flirting.

The looks.

The “I could make you beg” comment.

Azriel could practically see the realization dawn in real-time, Eris’s face shifting from confusion to understanding to—oh.

“Oh.”

Azriel just took a slow sip of his drink, unimpressed. “Took you long enough.”

Eris opened his mouth, then closed it again. His fingers drummed against his glass, his gaze flicking over Azriel’s face like he was seeing him for the first time. Then, to Azriel’s immense suffering, a slow smirk curled his lips.

“Well,” Eris murmured, leaning in just enough for the scent of autumn leaves and firewood to reach him. “Lucky for you, I love making bad decisions.”

Azriel arched a brow, unimpressed. “Not sure I believe that. You took months to figure out a simple fact.”

“I’m thorough,” Eris said breezily. “Wouldn’t want to act without considering all the factors.”

Azriel leaned in, voice dropping. “And what are those factors?”

Eris tilted his head, gaze dipping briefly to Azriel’s lips before flicking back up, smug. “You, obviously.”

Azriel exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “You’re a menace.”

“And you’re a menace with a crush,” Eris said, grinning now. “It’s honestly adorable.”

Azriel shot him a flat look. “I take it back. I hate you.”

Eris just hummed, swirling the last of his drink in his glass. “You really don’t.”

He wasn’t wrong.

Azriel sighed, defeated. “So,” he said, tilting his head, “what are you going to do about your urge to do something stupid?”

Eris considered him. Then, in one smooth motion, he stood, stepped around the table, and held out a hand.

Azriel stared at it.

Then at Eris.

Then back at the hand. “Are you serious?”

Eris’s smirk was pure wicked amusement. “What? Too afraid?”

Azriel huffed a laugh, finishing the rest of his drink in one go before rising smoothly to his feet. He didn’t take Eris’s hand—but he did brush past him, close enough for his shadows to skim along the shell of Eris’s ear.

Eris shivered.

Azriel smirked. Finally.

Eris caught up a moment later, muttering, “I hate you,” but his voice was low, and there was something in his gaze that promised revenge.

Azriel was so looking forward to it.

[sweemmy]

“Remember, dear, the key to being an excellent broadcaster isn’t just having a pleasant voice, but knowing how to use it to capture and hold your audience’s attention. Speak to them as if you’re sharing an intimate secret, something only they should know. Make every word feel as though it’s meant solely for their ears.”

Alastor's voice flowed smoothly, weaving through the air like a hypnotic melody, and it took hold of you in a way that felt almost suffocating. His red eyes glimmered with a dark amusement, a twisted joy in watching your reaction. There had always been something unsettling about him, a danger lurking just beneath his charismatic exterior. But tonight, that danger felt closer, more present than ever before.

“Do you understand what I’m saying?” His voice dropped lower, no longer just instructive but now filled with an edge of menace, as if testing how much you could handle. His gaze bore into you, evaluating, judging.

You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his words press into you, constricting your breath. “Yes, Professor. I understand,” you managed to say, though your voice came out more fragile than you intended.

Alastor’s smile deepened, predatory, as he closed the distance between you with slow, measured steps. Each one made your heart beat a little faster, the tension building as his shadow loomed larger. Though he stood only inches away, it felt as though his very presence consumed the room, suffocating any sense of control you thought you had.

“Good,” he purred, his voice a whisper laced with satisfaction. “Then let’s test that understanding, shall we?” He handed you a script, his fingers brushing against yours for a fleeting moment, leaving a trail of warmth that lingered far too long. “But this time, I want you to read it as though you’re speaking directly to me, as if every word is a whisper meant only for my ears.”

You took the script with trembling hands, the paper feeling heavier than it should, as if it carried the weight of the moment. Your eyes skimmed the words, but focusing was difficult with him so close. His proximity was overwhelming, the heat radiating off his body like an invisible force that seemed to pull you in. You could feel the breath of his words still clinging to your skin, each syllable echoing in your mind like a spell.

“Slower,” he murmured, leaning in just enough that his lips brushed the shell of your ear. The sensation sent a shiver down your spine, making it hard to concentrate on the script in your hands. “Take your time. Control the rhythm of your words, just as you would control an audience. Let them hang on every syllable, every pause.”

You tried to follow his instructions, your voice faltering as you read. But it wasn’t just the words that were slipping from your grasp—it was your own control. You could feel his presence everywhere, an invisible hand guiding you, pushing you further into the depths of something you couldn’t fully understand.

Alastor’s hand slid down your arm, so light it was almost imperceptible, yet it sent a spark through you. His touch was both comforting and threatening, a duality that left you frozen in place. You knew you should resist, should step back, but instead, you found yourself leaning into him, letting his energy consume you.

“Better,” he said softly, though his tone was still thick with dominance. “But you’re holding back. I want more.” His fingers trailed down your spine, and every inch he touched ignited a fire under your skin. “You’re trying to control your voice, but you need to let go. Surrender yourself to the moment, to the power of your words.”

Your breath hitched as his hand came to rest on your waist, a subtle but unmistakable claim. He was testing you, not just your voice, but your will. And the worst part was that you could feel your own resolve crumbling, your body betraying you as it leaned further into his control.

“I... I don’t think I can,” you whispered, barely able to get the words out.

His laugh was low, almost sinister, as he tilted his head, his lips ghosting over your neck. “Oh, but you can, darling. You just don’t realize it yet.” His voice wrapped around you like a noose, tightening with every breath you took. “You’re not here to think. You’re here to feel, to experience the raw power of your own voice... and mine.”

Without warning, he plucked the script from your hands and tossed it aside, his actions deliberate and dismissive. “Enough of the formalities,” he said, his tone dropping to something far more intimate, more dangerous. “Now, I want you to speak from here.” His fingers brushed over your chest, just above your heart, and then moved downward, tracing a path that left your skin burning in their wake. ���From your soul.”

Your heart pounded in your chest, the room growing hotter, more oppressive. His hand rested on your hip, pulling you gently but firmly toward him, and despite the alarm bells ringing in your head, you couldn’t resist. You didn’t want to. Alastor’s gaze was magnetic, a dark promise of pleasure and pain that made your knees weak.

“Control isn’t about restraint, my dear,” he whispered, his lips so close to your ear that his breath sent shivers down your spine. “It’s about knowing when to let go. To let someone else take the reins.”

Before you could react, his lips met yours, and the world seemed to stop. It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was consuming, filled with a hunger that felt centuries old, as though he was devouring a part of you. And you... you gave it willingly. His hands moved with expert precision, tracing the curve of your body, igniting a fire that burned hotter with every touch.

Your mind screamed that you should stop, that this was wrong, that he was playing you like a puppet on a string. But your body, traitorous as it was, responded to his every command, melting under his touch.

“Alastor...” you gasped between kisses, but he silenced you with a look, his eyes burning with that same dangerous glint you had seen earlier.

“Shhh,” he whispered, his voice dark and velvety. “Now is not the time for words. It’s the time for surrender.”

His hands slid under your shirt, the cool air meeting your heated skin as he pushed the fabric away. Every movement was deliberate, calculated, as though he was savoring the moment. His fingers danced across your skin, making you arch against him, seeking more of his touch.

“You see?” he purred, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “This is what true control feels like. You think you’re helpless, but in reality, you’re exactly where you’re meant to be. In my hands.”

You tried to speak, to regain some sense of control, but the words died in your throat as his lips found yours again. This kiss was different—slower, more intense, as if he was drawing out the pleasure, savoring every second of your surrender.

The world around you seemed to blur, your senses overwhelmed by him—his scent, his touch, the sound of his voice in your ear, promising both salvation and damnation.

And in that moment, as his hands moved with precision, as his words wrapped around you like chains, you realized the truth: you were his. Entirely, utterly his. And there was no turning back.

[jujutsukgojo]

Hey Nena, Can you write about Feitan or Chrollo Soulmate AU?? I fell in love in your writing when I read about it for the first time

hiiii and thank you! I need to freshen up on chrollo and fei :)

tw: illness, angst-ish, stalking (feitan), barely edited I'm sorry if it's bad

chrollo:

   He pulls the shoe lace one more time for good measure. In the mirror, he fixes the bandana around his head to cover the evidence of his life. The ink is a reminder that this shelter over his head and crisp, clean clothes on his back is nothing but a facade, a moonlight to hide what’s deep inside. That gnawing feeling of greed for the things he steals and gluttony for rolling in it. All of it taken horribly, brutally, bloody with sins left in its wake. 

  Except for you. The second he saw you, he knew that the flower that had been drawn on his palm since he was a child was yours. It was a time that the Phantom Troupe was hiding, and he went underground as he usually does after a job. You stood out from the corner of his eye, as bright as the sun. Suddenly, the flower began to bud out of his hand and its petals blossomed. As if he had used nen to conjure it. 

When he was a child, he was curious as to whose flower that was. He wanted to know all about soulmates, something that wasn’t really talked about in depth. Chrollo resorted to books about them and discovered that what was on his hand was your symbol. From time to time, he had found himself tracing the lines and giving a silent prayer. Alas, whenever his hands were soaked in blood and grime, he hated it.

  Then it happened. You were at the bus stop right across the street when a small book manifested from your arm. He had never seen someone so beautiful and as delicate at the flower that was now physically in his hand. You were looking down at the book with wide eyes. Both of you were taken back by the suddenness and of course, the meaning. You looked around frantically. Finally, Chrollo made eye contact with you. There were no questions about what was happening. 

  Chrollo straightens his tie and walks out the door of his borrowed house. Although it brings shade and comfort, he is also disgusted by it. Any time he comes around after committing a sin, he feels the need to cleanse himself before he sees you. However, there is no time for that. Before he spends even more time wishing and regretting, he has to go get you a gift like he always does. 

   When it concerns you, it is the only time he’s honest. Rather than snatch the beautiful custom bouquet behind the florist’s back, he buys them. Chrollo spends time planning and arranging the perfect flowers for you and even providing a vase he thinks you’d like. He does this every time he’s in town and always will. 

   Chrollo holds the flowers close to him, careful to not let a single one get damaged in any way. He enters the sliding doors and waves the lady behind the desk. Even though he comes and goes like a stray, the receptionists know him well enough to let him through to see you. Since it happened, he has been faithful with coming to visit you, from morning to night. 

  The doors to your room slide open. The very first thing spotted is you. In the hospital bed you sit to observe life below and wish for the air of freedom. One day soon, he’ll give you that. 

  “Darling?” You turn your head towards him. His chest flutters when he sees you breathe a sigh of relief when you see him. “Chrollo! You came to see me?” It has been a while since he has. With the Troupe, the Dark Continent, Hisoka, everything has distracted him from you. What a terrible, terrible excuse. Alas, it is an honest one. 

  “Beloved, of course I have,” He hands you the bouquet carefully. You’ve been sick for a while. He’ll never forget the day when he discovered you were sick. It was a heart wrenching agony to see you in pain. What he felt is nothing compared to what you’re going through. If it were done by a person, he’d scorch the earth and not give a damn.

  “How are you feeling?” He sits on the edge of the bed. He is cautious to not accidentally pull a wire or plug. “Better since last you were here! They’re lessening my meds, and I walked today!”

  Something so small makes you so happy. The light isn’t gone from your eyes despite your body weakening. “I’m proud of you, lovely.” He caresses your cheek as if you are a delicate artwork. You chuckle. “You don’t have to be so stiff, bud. I’m not dying.”

  “Absolutely.” He’ll see to that. For years he has been collecting healing and sensory abilities for you. Chrollo in his time has cultivated them, trained and increased them in hopes of curing and replenishing you. Finally, now that he has increased his level, he is able to mix them to create the perfect nen.

  You frown. “If you stole it, I don’t want it.” He cups your face. Your eyes are beginning to droop. He lays you down. “I-I’m not sleep-” Your eyes flutter as he goes to lay your head on the pillow. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

  Two hours later, you awaken. Chrollo’s hand never left yours. You sniffle and try to stop your wobbly lip. “Chrollo, I’m so sorry.”

  What could you ever do to hurt him?

“For what?”

“You deserve better. I don’t want to weigh you down.” He kisses your hand. With a whisper he says, “I deserve nothing but was blessed with you. Don’t take it from me.”

  “Look at me! I can barely stay awake. Please, please go-”

“No.”

“Don’t waste your life on me. I can’t keep up.” Tears run from your eyes. “I’m not going.”

  “Why do you torture youself like this?”

He kisses your hand several times. “What will make you happy?” 

“You being happy. And I know you’re not. You’re not happy at all.”

Is he? He knows what being satisfied feels like and what contentment is. But being happy is fleeting, he thinks. Cheerfulness and excitement are something for the moment. Maybe he was happy when he still had his childhood innocence. 

  Happiness is a fleeting thing that people focus too much on. With you, it’s different. Yes, you can be exciting with your adventures and jokes; reading with you makes him content and it is something both of you like to do. He used to read to mimic the characters but you, darling you, told him to stop. Chrollo saw the world through ink until you peeled that thick layer away for him to see color. 

Beloved, you are his peace. With you, he has a sense of direction and all of those feelings before are rolled into one. It surpasses happiness since it lasts longer. He smiles more in the morning and waits for you to laugh first. Not for him to mimic you, to pretend to be someone he’s not, but because he is living. Chrollo is in love with you and has joy and knows you do too. 

   “I have so much more than happiness with you. Don’t push me away. I want to stay.” 

  He brings your hand to his face. He pleads to you softly though in his ears as the leader of the most feared organization, it is loud. “Let me stay.”

You shake your head. “You’ll leave soon. Do it now while I’m ready.” 

  That has so many meanings. He leaves you all the time to tend to the Spider and your sickness can take you, too. Are you ready for him to leave, or for you to? Chrollo’s eyes widen as the realization settles in. Your heart breaks when he goes. You always smile and tell him to be back soon. Never have you shown that you are in pain. 

  God, he’s an idiot. 

Maybe it’s true. Maybe it is time to disband the Troupe. He has more than enough to last for a lifetime and take care of you. The nen abilities he has collected over the years to heal you, to protect you. He knows that you will do the same as you always had. 

Yes, yes. It is time, isn’t it? Almost twenty years of this fight and his goal has been accomplished already. No one messes with Meteor City, Sarasa’s killers have been torn to shreds, he destroyed the footage and used his nen to erase it from existence, Hisoka is gone, and his friends have been avenged. All of this is already done. So, why not? Since he saw you, it was his dream and his sins were addicting. He’s ready now. 

   You unwrap the bandana from his head. “You get uncomfortable with this thing on, silly.” You ruffle his hair. “Don’t stay because of pity.”

  “I’d never.” He kisses your palm. In his own, another flower blooms. Your symbol comes out from time to time. Whenever he’s away and it appears, he keeps it to himself and never lets the enemy know. When he’s with you, he happily hands it over to you, praying you’ll accept it. It is reminiscent of his sins and transgressions being forgiven by a saint, a divine angel even.

“I can’t keep up, Chrollo.”

“Please trust me.” The Head has never begged yet here he is, on his knees to his soulmate, the half of his soul that’s worth saving. Your cold fingers wrap around the stem. The flower is vibrant and beautiful, just like you. This bed you lay on with a warmed blanket and tubes around you don’t diminish your beauty and strength at all. 

You cradle your symbol to your chest. With a genuine smile, he assures you with a conviction that is stronger than when he created the Spider. “Darling, I’m staying home.”

Feitan:

You take another sip of tea. The liquid warms you up against the chill outside. You close your eyes in an attempt to ignore the hair raising feeling of eyes on you. This has happened several times now and they last differently. The first time was years ago. It was so brief and a surprise because no one was there. You tugged on your parent’s hand for them to look around but there was nothing.

  It’s sporadic and the only thing they have in common other than the peeper, is how uncomfortable you feel. When it first happened, you recognized who it was immediately.

  The other for sure way you acknowledge them is by their writing, or more like scratches. On your arm are small scars from when your soulmate hurt themselves or you, purposely. All you would do is doodle or throw in an encouraging message. Sometimes you’d even give them your location in hopes of meeting them. None of that mattered since you were met with pain. Now there are visible scars from their responses.

Since they like to hurt you so much, you decided years ago to leave them alone. There are plenty of couples who aren’t soulmates but might as well be! For instance, your neighbors; you could’ve sworn that they were written in the stars but it turns out that their soulmates sucked. They’ve been together for almost fifty years. So, all hope isn’t lost. This soulmate of yours is more like an option to you. 

Alas, this person has found you. Rather than starting a conversation, they watch you. You have no idea where they are, but you know they’re there. The creepy and menacing aura is practically tangible. You just can’t figure out the location. For all you know, they could be across the street with binoculars. 

  The tea gets to room temperature the longer you sit and think. Sighing, you down your drink and toss the cup in the recycling bin. The outside weather is chilly and the wind steals your breath. You lower your face to fight it. The eyes disappear for only a second just to emerge again like a phantom. Behind you are the steps of a few pedestrians. However, you can still faintly hear the steps of something else. It’s eerie and bone rattling. 

  Finally, you turn to the left rather than go across the street. Your mind is fuzzy from fright and instincts dulled. There isn’t anyone near you now as you press yourself against the brick wall. Taking a deep breath, you close your eyes and count, hoping it calms you down. 

  It begins to work until you feel a tingle on your arm. Whoever your soulmate is, they’re writing or doing something with their forearm. You brace yourself for the upcoming ache and agony. 

  There’s nothing. 

Shivering, you pull your sleeve down and see the word, “Hi.” written in shaky handwriting. It’s uneven and looks hesitant. Almost like a child writing. 

Wait, back when you would write to them, the lines didn’t look methodical but like scribbles. The cuts weren’t straight either. Now that you think about it, you wonder if it is because they pressed too hard when they tried to write. Maybe, they can’t write. If so, does that mean they can’t read either?

 You close your eyes again and whisper ‘stop’ to yourself. Despite this reminder, there is a fondness and mushy feeling that makes you want to be lenient and soft; to be understanding and run over to them to introduce yourself. 

  You write back, “Hi”. Still, you brace for pain. Instead, a scribbly word appears. “Feitan.” Ah, his name? You write your own as straight as you can. Hopefully, he’ll learn from it. Perhaps you can teach him. 

  Curiosity killed the cat but satisfaction brought it back. 

“Are you following me?” 

“Yes. I see you.”

  Your eyes dart around. “Why?”

“Because.”

He seems to be a man of few words. “Why do you hurt me?” It needs to be asked. 

“Accident. Sorry.” The 'sorry' is bigger than 'accident'. Feitan. Feitan? The name sounds familiar, on the tip of your tongue yet nothing clicks. “Do I know you?”

  “No. I know you always.” 

  There’s so much you want to ask. To pick Feitan’s brain and figure out what’s going on. If you ask too much, will he hurt you? That damn cat.

  “Can you read or write?” After a few moments, he responds with, “Learning.” You pause and nod. So you’re right. There is a strong possibility that he wasn’t purposely trying to hurt you. His admittance of him ‘knowing’ you could be…a soulmate thing? Or has he always watched you and is just now making himself known. Is he just now doing it since he’s learning how to communicate? It would explain a lot. You haven’t written anything in years and neither has he. 

  “I would like to know you.” You write straight and slightly spaced for him. He replies quickly. “Go home, dark is soon.”

  You look up and notice that it is getting darker. The sun is about to set. You mutter a curse and walk home. It’s not as busy out as you dodge people to go home. Now that you’ve talked to Feitan and got some answers, you feel better, lighter even. Just before you enter your apartment, you look around. Rather than that creepy feeling you have had, there is a new sense of protectiveness. Although you don’t see him, you know he walked you home. 

  Has it always been like this? 

“When will I see you?”

You stand on the step of your apartment, not ready to go in. The sun is bidding goodbye by the minute. You feel warm despite the breeze and know that you are weak. That conclusion doesn’t bother you right now. You have answers and are talking to him.

“Later.”

Before you can reply, he writes, “Will you write again?”

A smile blooms. “Of course. I promise.”

 It’s not much but it is enough for you to know that you will know him and one day meet him.

[burnednotburied]

Chapter 1: A New Prophet

AO3 Link | Masterlist

Pairing: Abby Anderson x fem!reader

Fic Synopsis: Abby goes looking for Owen and ends up on the wrong end of your knife.

Tags/CWs: angst; slow burn; enemies to friends to lovers; animosity between WLF and Seraphites; blood/injury; cutting (not to self, but still); religious/cult-like ideas

Note: So the idea for this started as a prequel to my first fic (linked here), but ended up turning into something different. It basically follows the plot of Abby’s Seattle Day 1, diverging from canon where necessary and using dialogue from the game wherever possible.

This is a lot of build-up (important to the story and hopefully enjoyable to read), but I promise romance is on the horizon!

Also, the idea of deadnaming or misgendering Lev—even in the flashback part where they’re little kids and wouldn’t have known otherwise—physically pains me, so we’re going to pretend that reader has been calling Lev “L” as a nickname for forever.

Hope you enjoy! :)

----------------------------------------------------------------

April 2038

Abby knew as much about the Scars as any of her fellow WLF members.

She knew that the group was founded by a woman who claimed to have a vision after the initial outbreak of Cordyceps brain infection in 2013, and then started spouting some bullshit about how it was all just a punishment for the sins of humanity. Said that the way to move forward was to go back to the basics. Live off the land. Reject technology and progress and pretty much all the good things in life.

She knew that they live on the island but they wouldn’t fucking stay on it, and that there was once a truce but they broke it, forcing the WLF into an endless war.

She knew that they fought hard and killed brutally, without hesitation or remorse.

She knew that, especially now that Joel was taken care of, killing Scars was pretty much her life’s purpose.

And she knew that the woman who started all of this became known as The Prophet. And that Isaac gave the order to have her killed ten years ago.

It was for that reason that Abby thought Isaac must have misspoken when he opened with:

“The Prophet is on the move.”

He was standing over the large map of Seattle in the center of the room, hands braced on the table, head down in thought.

She didn’t know what to make of that. Or how to respond. A quick glance over at Manny confirmed that she wasn’t the only one who was confused.

One of them had to ask. It seemed Isaac wasn’t going to fill in the gaps unprompted.

“The Prophet?” Manny questioned hesitantly. “Sir… respectfully… She’s been dead for years. Died before we even joined.”

“Don’t you think I know that? I’m the one who killed her.” Isaac was always calm and measured, almost always spoke quietly. But sometimes there was something beneath his words, just below the surface. Something seething and kind of terrifying, although Abby would never admit that out loud. This was one of those times.

“My unwilling informants downstairs,” he said, referring to the captive Scars being held and interrogated on the building’s lower levels, “tell me that they have a new Prophet. One their Elders have been quietly grooming for the role for the last decade, maybe even longer.”

“Okay so… What does that mean?” Abby asked, finding her voice. This was not the conversation she was expecting to have when she heard that Isaac wanted to talk to them. She had hoped to get some answers about what was going on with Owen.

“There’s a reason why they’ve been more resilient lately. Bolder. Even more bat-shit than normal.” He clenched his fists on the table. “This… Neo-Prophet,” Isaac almost laughed, the words coated in venom, “is about to fully step into her role. She is of age now. Or so I’ve been told.”

Abby stared at Isaac, still waiting for him to tell her what all of this meant. And what exactly he wanted her to do about it.

Manny jumped in. “What? So the Scars are… celebrating? You’re saying that’s why they’ve been ballsier? Killing more of us. Pushing further inland.”

Abby let out a short laugh. “If this is what it looks like when they’re happy, I don’t want to see what happens when they’re mad.”

Isaac remained stoic. “They have a renewed sense of purpose. When we killed their first Prophet, the Scars were enraged. They fought hard for vengeance. But people will only fight on behalf of a dead woman for so long. Passion for the cause wanes without something tangible to fight for. They need that higher authority to look to. They need someone to honor and defend. Their Elders were smart enough to know that their people need a unifying symbol. A living one.”

“Right, and you said that unifying symbol was on the move so…” Abby said. “Want us to hunt her down? See what they’ll do when we take away their new favorite toy?”

“No,” Isaac said quickly. “She’s not our target. We’ll get to her in due time.”

“Then wha—”

He cut her off. “The Prophet will be leaving the island soon, for the first time. In fact, it’s possible she’s already here. One of our captives tells me there will be some sort of initiation for her. I don’t know what that entails, but I’m sure it will involve attempting to kill some of ours. I’ll spend some more time with our friends downstairs and see if I can’t get any more information on that. We’ll try to prevent it if we can, but that’s not our main focus right now.” Abby opened her mouth to protest, only to be cut off once again. “With the Prophet away and many of their best soldiers traveling with her, the island will be more vulnerable than ever.”

Manny gestured to the map, reinserting himself into the conversation. “Sir, we’ve tried attacking their island and—”

“Not like this,” Isaac said. “Not with everyone. There’s a big storm a few days out. We’re going to use it to mask our approach. And you two are going to lead the first wave. Pick your squads. Start prepping.”

“And the Prophet?” Abby asked.

“One battle at a time, Abby.”

“Are we sure it would be a battle?” she pressed. “Isaac, she’s just one girl.”

“You would be foolish to underestimate this unknown enemy. Besides the likelihood that the best of the Scars will be at her side, I don’t doubt that she will be a very skilled fighter in her own right.” Abby huffed. Isaac continued, “And if she’s anything like her predecessor, the greatest threat is in her words. Not her actions. I watched some of my most loyal soldiers abandon our cause for theirs after just one conversation with the one who came before her.”

At this, Abby raised her eyebrows, ready to argue. A look from Manny shut her up.

“We’ve only got one shot at this… And this is bigger than any of us.” Isaac pushed off the table, walking over to Abby and placing a hand on her arm. “I need you, Abby.”

She shifted uncomfortably before relenting, giving a curt nod. “Yeah, I get it.”

“Good.” He pulled away, heading toward the door. “Look over the plans and go through your rosters.”

“I want Owen,” she said. Abby thought Isaac could at least give her that.

When he denied her permission to go look for Owen, Abby went anyway.

----------------------------------------------------------------

March 2030 (8 Years Earlier)

The day of your scarring had been the first time Haven saw the sun in weeks.

Your mother said it was a sign. But your mother thought everything was a sign.

She told you that, no matter what, you were not to cry. That you, her only child, would not disgrace her by shedding tears during your ceremony.

You were to be brave. And strong.

The Prophet herself had ordained the act of scarring for all of her followers. A symbol of the innate imperfection of mankind. And so her people would never forget their own failings, even in the midst of their unending efforts towards perfection.

No one was meant to question the Prophet’s teachings, or the Elders who had taken on the responsibility of interpreting those teachings and carrying out Her will since Her death two years prior.

You could feel your mother’s breath against the back of your head as she huffed and decided that she was once again unsatisfied with your hair, roughly taking it down and beginning again for the fourth time.

While she worked, you sat still on the wooden stool in front of her and stared at yourself in the mirror, trying to memorize your features as they were now.

This was the last time you would see the face you knew. Next time you looked in the mirror, you would be different. Would you feel different?

You tried to picture yourself scarred, with two thin lines running from each of your ears to the corners of your mouth. Your eyes stung, tears threatening to fall at the thought.

But there would be no crying today.

Instead, you let your eyes wander to your mother’s reflection, hovering just behind and above yours in the mirror. You examined her face. Of course, you had never seen her without her scars, but you’d always thought your mother was beautiful.

Maybe the change in your appearance would not be so drastic. Maybe it was vain to care.

You were not supposed to be vain.

Once your mother was satisfied with the look of the braided crown of your hair, she gently placed her hands on your shoulders, meeting you gaze in the mirror.

“We are imperfect beings,” she recited. You joined your voice with hers for the second part, “And thus we make ourselves imperfect in Her eyes.”

She smiled softly, squeezing your arms lightly. “Good girl. I’m proud of you. I know you will do wonderfully today.” You tried to return her smile. “Now. Get dressed. I laid your clothes out on the bed.”

She turned to leave you, pausing in the doorway. “Remember what I said, child. No tears today. Do you understand?”

You nodded quickly. Obediently.

She seemed pleased as she left the room.

You changed quickly, wondering if she had been able to tell that you’d spent the whole night before crying. You hadn’t gotten a minute of sleep.

The stool squeaked as you sat back down, not sure what to do with yourself while you waited. You met your own eyes in the mirror once more, this time immediately averting your gaze. You felt sick. And close to tears. And so very scared.

On the other side of the door, you could hear Yara and her mom greeting your mother. The eight-year-old asked if she could come inside to see you. After just a moment of hesitation, your mother allowed it, and you could hear the slight creak of the door as she came in.

Yara said your name quietly, standing just inside the door. You turned to look at her. She smiled, happy to see you, just as always.

“Happy birthday!” she whispered excitedly, closing the distance between you and wrapping her arms around you tightly. You squeezed her back, holding her close for longer than usual. Yara, never one to be the first to break a hug, lingered for as long as you wanted her there.

You were neighbors, and your mothers had grown up together and had always been close. And although Yara was four years younger than you, the two of you were close too. She and five-year-old baby L were your siblings, as far as you were concerned.

Yara was mature for her age, even more so than most of your other friends. You knew you could trust her, so with her you were honest.

“I’m really scared,” you said quietly into her hair, still not releasing her from the embrace.

“I know,” she whispered back, squeezing you even tighter. “You’re the bravest person ever though. I know you can do this.”

You finally let go, retreating back to your stool, but Yara stayed close by, rubbing your shoulder comfortingly with one hand.

“She will be with you through this, and for all the days of your life,” she said, earnest. “Our pain is Her pain, and Her pain is ours.”

You couldn’t help but make a mental note of the fact that the Prophet actually did not receive the same scars as all of her followers, so perhaps this one specific pain is one that was not, in fact, shared between to two of you.

But Yara’s comment was made with a level of sincerity that you couldn’t help but admire—and borderline envied—so you chose to keep your thoughts to yourself.

Her presence was always a comfort, so you allowed yourself to relish in it for a quiet minute before your mother reentered the room.

“It’s time to leave,” she said simply. Firmly.

Behind her, just outside the door, you could see Yara’s mom standing there, holding a quiet but curious little L’s hand. They would all be walking over with you to witness the ceremony.

You forced yourself to stand, brushed your hands down your thighs as if to clear some nonexistent dust and smooth the phantom wrinkles. For a moment, you considered taking one last look in the mirror, but ultimately deciding against it. It would feel strange to do so, now that everyone was watching you and waiting.

For the briefest moment, you thought about making a run for it. Stealing a boat or even attempting to make the swim to the mainland. You could survive on your own, or maybe even join the Wolves. You weren’t scarred yet. You could lie about where you came from, and they would probably take you in…

The hiss of your name from your mother’s mouth ripped you back into reality, along with a gentle nudge from Yara.

You took a deep breath and started walking.

Once the home of the Prophet herself, Sanctuary was one of your people’s primary places of worship, second only to Martyr’s Gate on the mainland. (You had never seen it – You’d never left the island – so Sanctuary was where you most often prayed.)

Scarring ceremonies were held there, always on a child’s twelfth birthday.

You had witnessed many friends receive their scars. It was customary to attend the ceremonies of those close to you. Family, friends.  

The process was always the same.

Elder Constance would lead all those gathered in a prayer, holding the ceremonial blade. You would recite a version of the Prophet’s Prayer. The blade would be blessed. Then Elder Duncan would make the incisions before welcoming you as an official member, a child of the Prophet.

It never took very long. Everyone had work to get back to, tasks to fulfill.

You would soon come to find that your ceremony would not be like any of those others.

The first indication of this was the sheer number of people who were gathered at Sanctuary. You had never seen this many people gathered in one place at one time, many of the faces you did not recognize.

As you approached the dais, the crowd silently parted for you, all eyes examining you carefully as if looking for something unseen. You couldn’t begin guess what it was.

You wanted to go home. You wanted to cry. To hold your mother’s hand. You wanted to not be here at all. Ever. For this to be a horrible nightmare.

Why were there so many people here?

Your eyes met Elder Constance’s. She was stiff and serious, as always, but there was a brightness in her eyes that you were not accustomed to seeing. A quick glance at Elder Duncan revealed a similar expression on his face.

The other five Elders also stood on the stage. Another thing that was unusual for a simple scarring ceremony.

Had you done something wrong? Were you in trouble?

You looked ahead, and your legs continued to carry you forward, despite your internal protestations.

When your feet were nearly touching the first step up, you stopped. And although your mind went blank, your body remembered what to do.

You bowed your head to each of the Elders, silently waiting to be greeted and invited onto the dais.

“Welcome, child, on this most joyous day!” Elder Constance’s voice boomed, carrying enough for everyone gathered to hear. “Come. Join us.”

You fought the urge to turn around and find your mother. You wanted to look at her face, to see if she knew what was happening.

But you knew that any moves you made in this moment other than exactly what was expected of you would be seen as hesitation, and therefore disgraceful. And you didn’t want your mother to be angry.

So you did as Elder Constance said, and you climbed the steps.

Your vision blurred. You tried to focus on your breathing.

“Two years ago, the ignoble Wolves took our beloved Prophet from us,” she began once you were standing center-stage. The reaction from the audience was instantaneous, full of outrage and despair. Elder Constance allowed this to continue for several moments before holding up her hand; and the noise stopped just a quickly as it began.

“But She is not dead! For the Prophet’s spirit cannot be killed by the evils of mankind.” The crowd hung on her every word as she continued, “She lives in all of us. In our actions and in our virtues. In Her teachings.”

“Here before you are all of your Elders, appointed to this honorable position by our Prophet, most wonderful and wise. She speaks to us, and it is our duty—our privilege—to share her words with you.”

“But today, She does not have words for us.” Elder Constance paused, the audience hushed, waiting for the reveal. “It is Her heavenly desire to give us a new source of hope. An advocate. A champion… A new Prophet.”

Elder Constance’s hands landed on your shoulders.

“Today, She has chosen Her successor.”

The crowd erupted in celebration.

You went completely numb and tuned them all out.

The Elders continued to speak, and the people continued to celebrate. All the while, your mind was reeling and your face was blank.

A new Prophet?

There can’t be a new Prophet.

What does that even mean?

There have never been any prophets except for THE Prophet.

And if there does need to be a new Prophet, why would it be you?

Why you?

Why you?

Why you?

It can’t be you.

If any of your questions were answered, you didn’t hear it above the ringing in your head.

Your attention was drawn to the blade that was now in Elder Constance’s hands, and you forced yourself to again begin to listen.

“…The Neo-Prophet will take on her full responsibilities when the time is right. But until then…” She continued on with familiar words, ones used in a typical scarring ceremony to bless the blade before it was used.

The knife was then passed down the line of Elders, each of them lifting it above their head and reciting the same words.

Your legs suddenly felt very weak.

Elder Duncan blessed the blade last and stepped forward, positioning himself just a couple feet away from you. You turned to him just as you knew you were supposed to.

This was the part in the ceremony when you would usually say a version of The Prophet’s Prayer. You weren’t sure if you were still meant to do that, given the circumstances, but you were operating solely on instincts now, so you began, “The world is not in balance, but I will do my part to right it.”

You weren’t speaking nearly as loud as the Elders had. You hoped you were loud enough. You hoped you were doing it right.

The pleased look on Elder Duncan’s face indicated that you had done well, but before you could go on with the next line, all of the Elders continued the prayer together:

“You will lead us through the storm May the current be calm May You guide us home.”

Their words had been slightly altered from the classic prayer, different than you would’ve said it if you had been given the chance. The strangest part was that they were speaking to you.

Almost like they were praying to you…

Elder Duncan took another step forward, gripping the knife.

You expected him to use his other hand to lift your face, to hold it at the best angle for the scarring. You’d seen him do the same to others many times before.

This was the part that you knew was coming. You had been at least attempting to prepare for it. You could handle it.

But you were thrown off once again when instead, he took your right wrist in his free hand and gently pressed your fingers down, making you form a fist. He then lifted your hand until it was by your ear, knuckles facing inward, arm bent at the elbow. His own hand gripped your elbow, holding your arm in place.

You were frozen, with no choice but to watch as the knife met the outside of your forearm and sank in. A slow, straight line was carved from the top of your wrist all the way to your elbow.

You didn’t look away. You didn’t cry. You did as you were told.

You wanted to go home.

“We are imperfect beings. And thus, we make ourselves imperfect in Your eyes.” Elder Duncan said, meeting your gaze. “It is for this reason that we proudly wear our scars on our faces.”

When his work was done, he released your right elbow and moved on to the left, lifting that arm into the same position. “But the Prophet, in Her kindness, bears the weight of our imperfections, carrying all of us in her arms. This is why You will wear your scars here.”

“Remember that You are part of us, but set apart.” The blade pierced the skin of your left forearm, and a twin incision was formed. “We look to You, Prophet. May She guide you. May She protect you.” With that, he took a step back, lowering the knife.

You slowly lowered your arms to your sides and turned back to face the enraptured crowd.

Finally, you found your mother among them.

And she was crying.

“My friends,” Elder Constance declared, gesticulating dramatically, “Your Prophet!”

The cheers were deafening.

As you scanned the masses, you felt the blood ooze down your arms and curl around your fingers, pooling on the ground by your feet.

You found Yara, who was somehow clapping and cheering more enthusiastically than anyone else. And then you saw L, held up on their mother’s hip, face concerned, eyes wide and wary.

At least someone was as skeptical as you were.

You wondered if you would get to go home now.

But Elder Constance placed her hands on your shoulders again, this time turning you and leading you in the opposite direction, into the Prophet’s grand house. Into Sanctuary.

There, servants’ gentle hands carefully cleaned your stinging wounds, took down and brushed out your hair, and helped you change into a new white dress.

You would never live in your mother’s house again.

And it would be eight years before anyone addressed you by your name.