#i’m also not foolish enough to keep one in my house | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

feyascorner · 1 year ago

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6 | The Fangs Between Us

summary. You remember how the sunlight glistened against his skin the morning after your first night together. The longing in his eyes for the very same thing now makes your stomach churn.

It might have suit him even more than the moonlight.

With an irritable sigh, you take your blade and press the sharp end against the tip of your finger.

“What are you doing?”

“Keeping you alive,” you reply, pushing your fingertip now with a bead of blood trickling down its side, toward his face. “Drink.”

warnings. angst, comfort, slow burn, reader is a bard

pairing. Astarion x GN!Reader

parts. TFBU masterlist

a/n. 6.4k words,,,tav is better than me i would've thrown hands like twelve years ago,,,I HAVE NO IDEA HOW I WROTE THIS IN LIKE TWO DAYS???? also thank you for all your comments they really motivate me to write!! so have this monster of a chapter early as thanks!!

"You'll kill them, Astarion," you mumble. "They might not have had the power to help you, but they're still your siblings. I don't want them to die hating you."

"They're not my siblings--not really. I don't care what they think of me. Hells, they could haunt me even in the afterlife, as annoying as that would be, but they're no innocents either. They've brought in as many souls as I have," he responds, his jaw visibly clenching at the thought. "I don't care if all seven thousand of them die hating me as long as you're here."

And while you feel flattered, you can't disregard the worry driving a hole through your conscience. Ever perceptive, he lifts a hand to brush stray strands of hair out of your face, his fingertips tracing your jaw. His voice is but a hushed whisper.

"You understand, don't you, my love? It would set me free--after two hundred years of forcing myself through hell--I can finally free myself from Cazador," his tone sours at just the mention of his master's name, and he intertwines his fingers with yours, drawing your attention back to him.

"It is what you want for me, no? For me to be happy?"

It is what you want. Just not like this.

Music was your way of releasing the mountain of feelings you kept locked away in your chest, waiting for the right person to recognize them for what they are. You’d hoped someone would understand the meaning behind your lyrics without you telling them outright, and they’d know what it truly meant to you. And for a while, you’d believed Astarion would be the key to this safe.

You couldn’t have been more wrong.

“While I usually entertain your certainly out-of-the-box plans, this is bordering on just foolish, I’m afraid,” Gale sighs, eyes tracing you as you pace around the house, stuffing every possible weapon and healing potion into a brown sack. Despite his insistence, you ignore him, testing the blade of a knife against the edge of the table. It’s not entirely dull, nor is it sharper than the dagger in your drawer, but it’ll have to do. “Simply charging into the tavern won’t do much good if you’ll be overwhelmed in number anyway.”

“I know what I’m doing, Gale,” you hiss, snatching an Alchemist’s Fire and shoving it a tad too hard into your bag. He tenses. “If they want to talk to me so badly, then I’m not waiting around for them to attack another one of my friends—I’ll go to them.”

“Yes, your determination is certainly praise-worthy, but can we please just sit down and think this through before running into a battlefield with a few knives? This is basically a suicide mission.”

“The wizard is right, even if it’s hard to believe,” Lae’zel announces from the corner of the room, wiping a cloth on her sword. “When I arrived, they’d already fled. They could be anywhere by now, and they’ve had more than enough time to plan another ambush if we were to charge now. We must be smart about this. I am a warrior, but I am no fool.”

“I’ll go by myself,” you say, a sense of finality in your voice. “They already showed what they’d do if someone they didn’t want to talk to approached them. I’ll just talk to them.”

Gale stares with lidded eyes. “So why are you packing so many explosives, exactly?”

“...Precaution?”

Silence befalls the room, and you take it as a sign to finish your preparations. All you can hear is the crackling of the fireplace and the rain falling against the windows of the home. The lot of you had somehow managed to stabilize Shadowheart by the time Lae’zel returned, and while she’d been conscious earlier, you insisted she rest before she consumed herself with the investigation again. You didn’t miss the way she limped back to her room with little to protest against you.

“Take the spawn with you.”

Two jaws drop at the words, the only one remaining fixed belonging to Lae’zel.

“The kainyank is living here to help. Not cause more problems for us. And so far, he’s only done one of the two things, and I’m dangerously close to turning to my blade if he doesn’t choose otherwise,” she says. “The spawn are searching for him, too. If blood breaks out, you must use him to flee safely.”

Gale blinks. “As in…use him as a body shield?”

“What else is he good for?”

While the wizard seems positively appalled, you can see the contemplation flicker in his eyes before he shakes his head. He's always been more considerate than the rest of you. “No, Tav would never agree to such a-”

“Okay.”

They both whip their heads toward you, and you avoid their piercing gazes, staring down at the dull blade in your hand. “It might help, too, if we find out why they want him. There are nearly 3000 spawns in the city—we can’t kill all of them, at least not immediately. It’d be best if we convinced them to leave, and the best way of doing that is to understand what they want in the first place.”

Lae’zel narrows her eyes. “Then you must swear it. Swear that if Astarion were to face risks, you will leave him behind. If he were to turn on you, you slice through his throat without a second of hesitation. He is there to aid you–nothing else.”

“I will,” the words feel hot on your tongue.

And so, you soon find yourself standing in front of his door, hand reaching for the door handle. There’s a slight pause right as you touch the cool metal, but you bite your tongue and shove it open, praying he’s still not as ravenous as he was a few hours ago. And much to your surprise, he appears wholly composed.

He lowers his book to his lap, eyes training themselves on you as they dart from your bag and then back to your face. The window’s wide open, bathing him in the moonlight, with dark curtains tied to the wall to keep them from obscuring his view of the city. He raises a brow. “What could you possibly want from me at two in the morning? Come here for a cuddle?”

You’re scowling again.

“I need you-”

“I’m flattered, but I fear you may stab a butter knife into my eye, so I’ll have to decline.”

“Not like that.” Your frown creases deeper at his smug grin. “We’re going to the Blushing Mermaid to find the spawn.”

“Just us?”

“They want to see us.”

“And if I refuse?”

The answer is almost immediate, cutting through the atmosphere like a knife on bread. “I hear the bloody bedrolls in the Duke’s dungeon are very comfortable.”

He drops his smile at this, and a tiny spark of pride puffs your chest. He seems to weigh his choices before snapping his book shut and standing from the bed, snatching a comb from his bedside table before pacing up to you, pocketing it behind him.

"A comb?"

He shrugs as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Well, I doubt you’ll be giving me a weapon of any sort, so I must make do.”

You don’t correct him.

As the two of you make your way downstairs, you hear your other companions speaking.

“I didn’t expect you of all people to defend Astarion,” Gale says in disbelief, still comprehensive as Lae’zel poorly cuts up slices of an apple.

“I am doing no such thing, istik,” she mutters. “I am giving him a choice. Either to pick up his dead weight and prove his life is worth more than the dirt on my shoes or die at my hand.”

The walk to the Blushing Mermaid is painfully awkward. To you, anyway, because he seems positively unbothered the entire time. Seeing him leisurely follow behind you is irritating—and it bothers you more than you’d like to admit.

By the time you survey the area around the tavern, you’ve discerned they must be inside, considering there are no ambushes awaiting your arrival. While it’s a relief, it also increases the anxiety of what lies inside the tavern itself, and you confirm your knives are at your disposal if it were ever to come to that. You sincerely hope it doesn’t. Astarion sighs dramatically for the umpteenth time as you approach the front doors, and you finally snap to look at him with a glare.

“Will you stop breathing so damn loud?”

The change in your attitude toward him is apparent, but he doesn't seem to care. If anything, he seems more pleased with you than he was before every time you shoot him an annoyed glance or something along those lines. He responds with lazy answers, but it's better than the bitter ones he gave you before.

You're not terribly surprised, though. He's always loved pissing people off for his own entertainment, and it would be an understatement to say that he's been somewhat successful with you.

“I’m not breathing, my dear. I don’t need to, remember?”

“Then what is your problem?” you hiss between your teeth. “Are you trying to wake up the entire city with your insistent groaning?”

“Must we do this tonight, of all days? Couldn’t this wait till tomorrow?”

“No!” you say in exasperation. “That gives them too much time to heal and recover from Shadowheart and Gale. It has to be tonight, just in case they do decide to fight—then we’ll have an easier time because, in case you haven’t noticed, it’s just us two!”

He sighs again, and you swear you might pluck a strand of his hair for good measure. And just as you shove past him and reach for the door, he clears his throat again. Loudly.

“For God’s sake, what?” you nearly yell.

He smiles at you, pointing at the front door. “Well, if we’re looking to avoid an ambush, perhaps we should find another way in than the main entrance. Unless my prior knowledge as a rogue proceeds me.”

You blink. You recognize the validity of his statement and feel your face flare, and you immediately march past him again—the other way this time—and search for the nearest wall you can climb up to the roof. You hear him snicker, but you do your best to ignore it.

Somehow, you manage to climb in through the window, admittedly a lot louder than him, but you don’t think it’s fair to compare yourself to him when he has footsteps lighter than a child’s. Hidden behind one of the tables, you peer into the rest of the tavern, which is completely empty save for the bottles of alcohol scattered everywhere. You turn to signal to him that the coast is clear, but he’s nowhere to be seen.

Immediately, your face drains of color.

“Right here, darling.”

He drops down from seemingly thin air, and you gasp, nearly letting out a shriek if it weren’t for your hand covering your mouth. He grins at that.

Bastard.

“There’s nobody in the entire building–at least, not visible to the eye,” he confirms, glancing around the room.

“How do you know that?”

He points at the ceiling, and your eyes follow it. “Someone decided to build such useful beams on the roof. You can see the entire place from up there. Care to take a look?”

While you would have thanked him if he had been any other person, you only march straight by him. “Don’t do anything without telling me first.”

“No ‘thanks, Astarion’?” He quirks a brow but huffs when you ignore him. “Very well then, my liege. No need to acknowledge a humble servant such as I. But I shall let you know when I’m about to take any questionable decision.”

You’re starting to wonder if his presence is worth the headache it gives you.

Pacing around the tavern, it seems all too normal. No blood splatters against the wall, no broken chairs—hells, even the booze cups look clean, which is a rarity for the Blushing Mermaid. You check each room, inspecting down to the last cups in case there are traces of blood in them, but to no avail.

It’s like there was never anyone here.

“You look like you’re having trouble, my dear,” Astarion clicks his tongue mockingly, leaning back in one of the more luxurious chairs he’s decided is his own.

“Considering the only company I decided to bring along is lounging around like a bum, I’m not surprised,” you say back, now searching the smallest cracks in the walls for some sort of secret passage. It’s strange. Even though your companions had spoken of the bodies they encountered when facing the spawn, there’s not a single speck of blood in sight. Neither is there anything outside but the whistle of the wind.

“This particular wall must be quite fascinating.”

You fight the need to groan and whip around to snap at him, but he’s suddenly just a foot away from you, staring at the spot you’d been squinting at. Gods, you hate how quiet he is when he walks.

“As wonderful as it is getting a fresh breath of air,” he feigns disappointment with a half-hearted sigh, turning to walk toward the entrance. “I believe we’ve done what we can. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d love to return to my book–”

The wooden floor underneath him creaks. It sounds hollow.

As if there’s something underneath.

“The basement,” you blink, eyes wide. “The hag’s lair.”

He stares at you as if you’ve taken too many mushrooms. “It was sealed up after we rid of that dreadful woman. Good riddance, too, I mean, I’m not particularly fond of children, but eating them, even I wouldn’t be able–”

You rush toward the very corner of the tavern, sensing that he’s following you regardless of his obvious distaste toward your decision. There, you push against a table perched on top of the basement latch and test its locks.

It’s open.

“Heavens, it reeks here. How didn’t I smell it before?”

“Of what?” You sniff the air. “I don’t smell anything.”

“Blood, my dear. Fairly recent, too, if my judgment hasn’t gotten rusty in the time I’ve spent cooped up in that room,” he pauses. “And I haven’t gotten rusty, to be clear.”

“Right,” you retort, reaching down to pull the latch open. You don’t see him do the same, and you glance at him quizzically.

“Gods no,” he says, when he realizes why you’re staring. “I’m doing no such thing that ruins these nails.”

You sigh. Loudly.

The latch opens relatively easily, but you make an effort not to simply swing it open in fear the occupants inside might be warned of your arrival. You prop the trap door open against a chair and begin your descent down the stairs, remaining as silent as possible.

The first thing you can notice is that he’d been right.

The stench of blood burns in your nose, and you immediately cover it with your sleeve to avoid inhaling anymore. You’ve smelt enough of your companion’s blood today, and you’d rather not continue the streak with the blood of complete strangers. Astarion, however, frowns.

“Such a waste,” he mumbles.

When you turn to where he’s looking, there’s a pile of bodies—poor victims, no doubt—lying over a puddle of their collective blood mixing with one another. It almost feels inhumane to leave them that way, just hours after their death, as if they’re cattle to be used.

Though, in this case, they are cattle.

“Are you sure it’s them?”

“I’m telling you it is!”

“Where’s their lyre, then?”

“How would I know that?”

You locate the source of the whispers instantly, reaching for one of your daggers as your eyes bore into the corners of the lair that are obscured from your view. Astarion steps forward before you can figure out a plan to approach them, arrogance exuding from his very body as he holds nothing but the comb tucked in his back pocket. “We can hear you, you fools. Come out before I lose my patience.”

“What are you doing?” you hiss.

“They’re only a few spawns, my dear. Nothing like Cazador—no need to be so cautious.”

You open your mouth to protest, but a woman emerges from the shadows, her eyes trained on your own as she marvels at your mere presence. You realize she’s not alone as multiple vampires begin to emerge from different corners of the room, all a safe distance away but not enough to ease the nerves jittering in your stomach. She steps toward you. “It’s really you, isn’t it?”

Another spawn steps beside her, and you immediately notice how ravenous he seems, eyes almost glistening with hunger as they bore straight into you. The woman puts a hand on his neck, seemingly soothing him, before he slumps his shoulders again, but the pure violence swirling in his head doesn’t seem to vanish. She then looks to Astarion, and the expression on her face morphs into something more akin to dread. “And you, brother.”

“Dalyria.” Astarion only stares with lidded eyes, visibly unfazed.

You instinctively scan the entire lair, searching for any differences you can spot since the last time you were here. The only glaring thing besides the bodies piled in the corner is the study desk on the other side of the room, scattered with different potions and concoctions. Behind the desk is an entire wall plastered with diagrams—most of which study the anatomy and functionality of what you can only determine to be a vampire judging from the fangs. There are also beds everywhere—though they look like they could collapse any second—and the room almost looks like a hospital.

The atmosphere between the siblings is so uncomfortable you’d think they’ll start attacking one another any second.

“Is Leon here?” you finally cut through, lowering your hand away from your blade. “I need to speak with him—technically, all of you.”

“How curious. We were hoping to speak with you as well,” she says, motioning all the other spawn to stand down. It does little to ease you. “By all means, feel free to go first.”

You take the opportunity, too exhausted, to demonstrate polite etiquette. “The spawn are causing too much trouble in the city, Dalyria. They’re killing too many people, and it’s getting noticed by more than enough people. At this rate, you’ll lose some of your own if the Fist figure out how you guys are hiding throughout the city.”

“...Yes, I’m aware.”

The resignation in her voice makes your throat bob, but you continue anyway. “I’m saying we need to get you guys somewhere more stable. Whether it be the Underdark or elsewhere, we can’t have you staying here.”

“I see,” she says slowly. “I appreciate you trying to talk this out with us, but I’m afraid I cannot grant your request.”

Your shoulders tense, and you can see Astarion shift beside you. “You don’t understand, sister. There’s going to be an outright war at this rate-”

“Baldur’s Gate is our home as well, Astarion. You, of all people, should know this,” she demands. “We have a right to remain here, and if the Fist insists on forcing us out, we have no choice but to retaliate.”

“But you’re killing the city off!” you gawk in disbelief, unable to believe what you’re hearing.

“We’re surviving,” she corrects, the corners of her lips turning downward. “Surely you can’t hate us for that.”

“Then…” you blink at her, positively appalled at her words. “Why the hells did you need to speak with me? What was worth putting my companion through hell?”

“...There is a way—for both parties to benefit.” She looks down at her hands, then back up at you. “I didn’t expect the both of you to come together. Our informants were correct when they claimed to see Astarion in your possession. In all honesty, we technically only needed one of you, but this makes things a lot quicker.”

Confused but desperately wanting an answer, you urge her to continue. Only you can see the way Astarion’s hand slips toward his pocket, where his comb lies.

“We were going to ask you to bring him to us, you see. But it appears you’ve already done the hard part.”

The dreaded intuition in the back of your mind tells you something is wrong. Very, very wrong.

“Me? What do you need me for?” he scowls.

She disregards him and continues speaking to you, leaving a sour taste in your mouth. “If you turn him over to us, you’ll never have to see him again. That is what you want, yes?”

Both you and the pale elf freeze.

“I watched as my brother nearly killed you the day of the ritual,” she continues. “I understand how you feel being betrayed by someone you thought shared your pain. And I believe this is a way to relieve you of that pain—and finally move onto a new stage of your life.”

She acts as if Astarion is the only thing holding you from moving on from the past few months of your life. And if she’d said so a week ago, you would have nothing to defend yourself with. But you’ve cut the few strings left that tie yourself to him. You remind yourself that you no longer care for him, regardless of the slight squeeze in your chest. You’ve already sworn to force yourself to disregard him, and you want to say all these things to her, but nothing comes out. So, instead, you keep your mouth sealed.

Astarion scoffs from beside you.

“For God’s sake, please tell me you’re not actually considering this. Let’s just force the madwoman out and go,” his voice attempts to stay firm, but it’s high-pitched at the end. He’s panicking.

You don’t respond to him, and he stiffens. “...My main concern is the city. If you think you can use my personal matters to convince me to just let you keep killing all these people–”

“That matter will resolve itself in its own time. We’ll return to the Underdark—or wherever it is you wish, and you won’t have to spend your nights hunting us down anymore.”

With a dry throat, you fixate your gaze on her face, desperately trying to discern any hint of a crack in her mask. Instead, you find nothing. “Why would you do that? For one spawn?”

“I’m afraid that’s for me and my siblings to know. But I can promise you that no harm will come to you if you take this deal.”

For what seems like the millionth time this month, you have no idea what to do. Lae’zel’s words flood you like a wave crashing onto shore as you remind yourself that Astarion is here not as your ally but as a shield. If things are as Dalyria says, simply turning over the man standing next to you would end this entire ordeal. You could return to your everyday life of repairing the city, learning to heal and grow from the terrors of the illithid invasion. You could learn to let people in again.

You could learn to play music again in hopes of finding the person you dreamed would understand.

Such an enticing, perfect deal. It’s almost too perfect. But you’ve learned not to trust perfection, especially when handed to you by a vampire spawn.

Astarion, who had been observing your expression this whole time, almost seems to read your mind. Or perhaps he’s just feeling selfish, ready to defend himself. “You’ve created a lot of problems for me, dear sister. I’ve gotten accused of your own murders, thanks to your pets.”

The delirious spawn, who’d looked sluggish after Dalyria’s soothing, now bares his teeth at Astarion. Dalyria attempts to calm him again, but it’s no use. The bloodthirst cannot be satiated unless there’s blood spilled on his very hands.

Astarion doesn’t seem to take a hint—or maybe he does but chooses to simply ignore it. “I’ve always known you were strange, Dalyria, but really? Experimenting with your ‘useless procedures’ on fresh spawns? He looks positively possessed, sister. He might just resort to eating you instead.”

“They are not useless, Astarion,” she snaps. “I am a doctor. I’m only curing what needs to be cured.”

“Then tell me why you haven’t managed to cure yourself of our curse? You may be intelligent in medical aspects, but gods above, you are more foolish than Cazador himself if you really think you can cure vampirism.”

“I had nobody to test my ideas on for two centuries, Astarion! Now that I do, surely I can-”

“You’re starving them, Dalyria,” he snaps, tone drastically different from the banter you shared just minutes ago. “And they’ll give into the thirst sooner or later.”

His words are the final straw.

The spawn who’d been standing beside her launches himself toward you. Before you can even register what’s happening, his fangs are at your throat, your neck tilted so it shoots pain up your side. Just as you feel your skin split at the tips of his canines, Astarion rips him away from you so harshly that the spawn flies helplessly into the wall, which crumbles under his weight. Dust flies into your eyes, and you cough, wiping at them until it clears just enough to see Dalyria staring in horror.

“I told you, Dalyria. You are no doctor, not anymore,” Astarion scoffs, eyes narrowed into slits. “And I’m afraid I can’t let you kill my liege here, as I’d much hate to be trapped in a cell somewhere underground.”

You reach the specks of blood drops forming on your neck, horrified by the close encounter you had with death just seconds ago. The culprit of your injury lies unconscious beside the cracked wall, and you wonder just how hard he had to be thrown to be rendered in such a state. You can see the other spawns’ eyes practically glow at the sight of your blood—fresh, unlike the pile of corpses on the other side of the room.

She turns to you, desperation pouring from the wavering of her voice. “Please, don’t make me do this. Don’t make us enemies. All you need to do is give us Astarion. My brother, for heaven's sake!”

You think better of it. Something that obviously pleases Astarion if the way his face relaxes tells you anything.

“May I?” he glances at you.

Surely, there are ways–more civilized ways–-than drawing your blade, but the ferocious growling from the rest of the spawn tells you otherwise. You need to find out why she needs Astarion so badly, and clearly, she’s not willing to tell you unless it’s through pure force. You despise the idea as much as you despise the predicament you’re in, but you refuse to be attacked and deliver nothing back. Just as you nod to his question, another spawn lunges, unable to resist the red staining your neck.

But it’s smart this time, choosing to eliminate any threats before turning to the full course. In this case, the only thing between you and the vampires is another vampire.

“Brother!” Dalyria shouts, horrified.

You don't bother calling his name, only barely manage to tackle Astarion out of the way before the spawn’s claw sinks into the very ground he was standing on just seconds ago.

As embarrassing as it is to practically crash on top of him, both of you wince because it’s more painful than anything. You force yourself up with your arms, and it’s then that you see even more spawn crawling from whatever shadows they hid in, and you realize you are terribly and most definitely outnumbered. By a lot.

“Dalyria, if you’re truly a doctor, do something! Stop them, godsdammit!” you shriek in her direction.

“They’re not—they were doing so well!...” she gasps before she reaches for a tattered journal and desperately files through its pages in a frenzy. “They were nearly docile before. I don’t know why–”

You feel Astarion’s hands slip out of the sack you carry on your back, realizing you hadn’t even noticed him opening it. He’s still lying flat on the ground, and you look down at him, puzzled before he laughs bitterly.

“I’ll be borrowing this for a few minutes, darling.”

You barely dodge another spawn that comes flying at you, rolling off of him and practically slamming into the wall. And before you can crawl away, your knife—in Astarion’s hand—stabs through the spawn’s left eye through the back of their head, specks of their blood splattering against your cheek.

You want to throw up.

“No, don’t harm them! Please, just let us go!” Dalyria pleads, but you’re finished being patient with her. She clearly has no way of calming the spawn, and you’re tired of being thrown around like a ragdoll in the mess that is the lair.

You yank out the Alchemist’s Fire and chuck it at the nearest cluster of spawn—around 2 or 3—and flinch as the vial collides and explodes into flames right before your eyes, blowing your hair out of your face in a gust of smoke and wind. You swear you hear Astarion cackle in utter glee at the destruction, but you choose not to dwell on it, too busy figuring out how else you could get out of here alive.

“You’re ruining the patients!” Dalyria screams, and you almost regret not throwing the vial at her instead.

“Your spawn are the ones attacking us!”

Suddenly, her face goes impossibly pale, and you hear a hiss of pain from a few feet away. Astarion winces as one of the spawn claws at his chest leaves behind a reasonably deep wound following the path of their sharp nails. Your knife is kicked away from him, and you hear Dalyria again just as he reaches for the comb instead. “Brother, be careful!”

You’re not sure if she wants you and Astarion dead or not, but it’s seriously giving you backlash at this point.

He stabs the comb into the spawn’s neck and kicks him away, and you take the opportunity to send the knife he dropped through the air.

By some miracle, it pierces straight through the spawn’s arm. Astarion lets out a breathy laugh from the floor, attention glued to your handiwork. “Ha! And to think that could have been me!”

And while you want to admire your aim yourself, there’s no time. Dalyria’s footsteps rush up the stairs, out of the basement, and you realize you need to follow moments after Astarion, who’s already fleeing up the steps, cursing under his breath. “That demented wench!”

You stand to follow after him, but the remaining spawns are already blocking your way. There are only two more, but you brace yourself for the worst, reaching for whatever remaining weapons you have left in your sack. The smoke and debris feel suffocating in your lungs, but you have no choice but to push through, praying to whatever God you can remember at the moment that this be the last time you have to fight this many vampire spawn. Or any, for that matter.

You wish you had left your fighting days behind you when you defeated the elder brain, but you suppose even that was too much to ask for.

You arrive just in time to see the sunrise.

Lying against a wall is Astarion, who you find just before the sunlight hits the part of the ground he’s on. He’s clutching his shoulder, which drips with his own blood, and showing no signs of the quick vampire regeneration. You stare down at him, face stoic as you wait for him to say something.

Judging from his condition, you assume Dalyria got away.

“Leaving me to die here would be unwise,” he scoffs. “Though it’d be rather easy to let me burn to death in the sun, I must remind you that I much rather prefer decapitation if it’s all the same to you.”

“I’ll consider it,” you reply curtly. "Can't promise anything, though."

He leans his head back, amused. The sunlight is just a few feet away now, and you wonder how long it's been since he's been outside to watch the sunrise. “You’ve always had a cruel streak in you. I just had to lure it out, sometimes, but when it did come out—Gods, you should have seen it yourself.”

“You’re delirious,” you remind him, observing just how much blood he’s losing. You remind yourself of your resentment when worry probes a small part of your heart. One that you hope dies soon. “Why aren’t you healing?”

“I haven’t been exactly feeding well, unfortunately. And days old boar’s blood can only sustain me so long, darling,” he lulls his head forehead, sneering to himself. “Now that I think about it, dying by sunlight sounds rather poetic, don’t you think? Perhaps you can make a song about my glorious death.”

He’s definitely unhinged from blood loss.

You sigh, tossing his arm over your shoulder as you deem the sunlight a bit too close now. It’s a slow process with your own body’s soreness, but you manage to drag him to a more shaded area, propping him against the wall there so that you can rummage through your sack for a healing potion. You stop when his hand latches onto your arm.

“What?” you frown.

“It won’t help. I need blood, my dear.”

“There’s none for you here.”

“The bodies in the basement,” he bites back a groan, more blood gushing out of his shoulder. “I can make use of them--give their deaths a sense of purpose."

The displeasure on your face must be apparent because he laughs.

You pause, lowering the sack onto the ground. While you’re illuminated by the sunlight now, he remains in the shadow of the building, only able to see the sun with how it reflects off of your skin. And you find that he’s no longer looking at you but looking past you into the glowing orb you call the sun. You remember how its light glistened against his own skin the morning after your first night together. The longing in his eyes for the very same thing now makes your stomach churn.

It might have suit him even more than the moonlight.

With an irritable sigh, you take your blade and press its tip against the tip of your finger.

“What are you doing?”

“Keeping you alive,” you reply, pushing your fingertip now with a bead of blood trickling down its side, toward his face. “Drink.”

His eyes widen, and the temptation is more than evident with how his mouth falls open as if he tastes your blood from a few inches away. But as fast as it had come, he tears his eyes away. “I’m not taking your blood.”

“Stop with your prideful act, Astarion. You’re going to bleed out.”

“I wouldn’t die, exactly. I would just remain unconscious until I can properly heal myself.”

You spare him a long, hard stare. He refuses to look at you, biting the inside of his cheek to ignore the scent of your blood. And it's painfully clear he's failing.

You have no idea why he's so insistent on avoiding your blood, but you refuse to spend your own time pondering it.

“Fine then.”

He watches in utter loss as you lick the blood off of your finger, shrugging. “Bleed out for all I care.”

You turn to stand, but his hand latches on your arm once more. You’re not sure if you’re imagining how warm he feels, but you think you must be. He's always been terribly cold.

“Do you hate me now?” he asks again, this time staring up at you through his lashes. “Have I finally run through your patience?”

The question remains the same as he asked you a week ago, but it feels different now. This time, you know your answer, and it feels so, so relieving. You just wish you could understand his own feelings, but his expression is so superficial you don’t even attempt it.

“Yes,” you reply blankly. “I hate you.”

He takes a moment to process your words. You have to admit it’s satisfying to say it to his face, even if your hatred for him is new. But perhaps because it’s new is why you feel it so strongly, and you silently thank it for how confident you sound saying the words. Even if they taste bitter. You think he might have some quip to respond with, but he only smiles, and as usual, it doesn’t reach his eyes.

You never want to see it again.

Without another word, he pulls you down to him, and you nearly topple over before stabilizing yourself with either of your knees on either side of his legs. He breathes against your neck, and you think he might drink from you until you feel his fingers brush against your nape. Immediately, your body freezes like a deer in headlights, flinching at his touch as your mind involuntarily forces the last memories you have of his hands on your neck.

And ever so perceptive, he notices how you recoil from his touch.

You hate your body for reacting the way it does out of fear. Not the disgust or the anger, but something much more pathetic, and you want to go back on your own actions to stop yourself from appearing so weak to him. You think he might tease you--taunt you, even, but he stops, slowly pulling away and lowering his head from the crook between your shoulder and head.

You’re unable to see his face, but his movements seem more sluggish.

Instead of going for your neck, he lifts your wrist, brushing his lips against it before sinking his teeth into the tender flesh.

Despite the initial sting, it’s a feeling you’ve grown accustomed to over time. With him, it had always felt so intimate. It’s why you can’t help but feel heat bloom across your cheeks before you remind yourself you no longer care for him. Only when you think he’s drinking a bit too long do you try to pull away, but his arm loops around your waist, bringing you even closer as the amount of blood he’s taking increases with how deep his fangs are.

You feel so cold, yet heat burns through your very blood. It makes your head dizzy, and you take it as a sign that he’s had enough.

You only manage to speak a few seconds later, breathless. “Astarion.”

He pulls away, seemingly out of breath himself as he releases his hold on the rest of your body. He runs his tongue over the access, staining the side of his mouth. He uses his finger to make sure the rest is off his face. “I know.”

He rarely feeds so messily, so you discern he wasn’t lying when he said he hadn’t been drinking well. Knowing he wasn’t deceiving you brings little relief, but it’s still a welcome feeling. Rubbing at your wrist and the two puncture wounds now residing there, you stand up and slug your sack over your shoulder. He watches you the entire time, and you hate that you can never seem to read his expressions—only one, and that’s whenever he claims to despise your very existence.

His shoulder has already stopped bleeding.

“Why didn’t you drink from those people at Sharess’ Caress?” you finally say.

“Their blood…” he pauses, trailing off, and suddenly he seems to change his mind. “...I've grown tired of it.”

“Blood is just blood, isn’t it?”

He stares at you for a moment, then laughs.

“I wish it was, darling.”

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#baldur's gate 3 #astarion ancunin #baldur's gate astarion #bg3 astarion #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #astarion #bg3 x reader #fluff #bg3 #angst

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reallyhatethiswebsite · 3 months ago

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i'm also a big fan of both! maybe tav will get the whip this time? i'm a sucker for raphael in traditional devil setting, it scratches something in my brain. for the rest, whatever you want is fine with me

Tav tested her restraints. Not looking for weakness, no. She expected none. The chains around her wrists were heavy-duty and clinched tight, biting into her skin. She wanted some leeway. She’d been strung up and dangled like a prime cut of meat, just high enough that her feet lifted off the ground without supporting her entire weight, leaving her strained and uncomfortable. That she was nude only made things worse. Avernus’ air was dry and hot, yet Tav shivered; she was waiting for him, and the dread, the anticipation, chilled her to the bone. She had no way to know how long he kept her waiting. An hour, an eternity, it was all the same. When she finally sensed him enter the room, each of his footfalls causing tight spasms in her belly as he approached her, she was already breathless.

“My, my,” purred Raphael, clear delight in his hellish eyes as he observed his prisoner. “So well-behaved…not even a squeak from you. I almost forgot you were in here.” He reached out one big and warm red paw and cupped her chin, lightly dragging the claw of his thumb across Tav’s bottom lip. “Unfortunately, no one leaves the Room of Shame without submitting to their punishment, but that’s a rule you know intimately…isn’t it?”

“I…” Tav hesitated. Raphael’s expression did not change, but he traced her lip again, this time pressing just hard enough to make a thin scratch. Tav winced at the sting, a taste of what was to come. “Yes, I know,” she murmured.

“Of course you do. And you know exactly why you’re here, hanging so…precariously…yes? Remind me.” The way he curled his smoky words with such sweetly sinister intent never failed to heat Tav’s cheeks, or moisten her sex. Apart from his grip on her face, Raphael was keeping himself out of reach. Reminding her of the distance, metaphorical and physical, between them. He was untouchable and she, a wriggling morsel for him to play with.

“I’m being punished because I…because…” Tav didn’t want to admit her transgression aloud. Raphael hummed throatily, his black and fire eyes glittering with dark delight.

“Every second you hesitate is another lash, dear…”

“I’m being punished because I played with the incubus without permission,” she blurted. She wasn’t sorry and he knew it.

“Indeed you did. You took advantage of my previous generosity and indulged in my unruly pet’s attention. How many lashes do you think you deserve for that, audacious little mouse?”

“Ah…um…t-ten?”

“Ten?” Raphael barked; laughed. “Ohhh, audacious and foolish, aren’t you? Were I not in such a good mood, I might’ve decided you deserved flaying instead for that.”

Tav shuddered. She was both lucky and unlucky as a warlock, with such a temperamental patron. She was too useful to be disposed of. There was the sound of infernal displacement and a whiff of fire and sulphur, and Raphael’s unruly pet himself swaggered into the room.

“Oh, excellent! You haven’t started yet,” Haarlep crooned.

“You weren’t invited,” Raphael growled. “Go back to the boudoir where you belong.”

“And miss a good old fashioned whipping? I think not.” The incubus clicked his fingers and summoned a chair that he, sensual and over the top, folded himself into, ready to watch.

“Fine.” The master of the house decided it wasn’t worth the hassle. “But be quiet and keep your hands to yourself.”

“Not a problem.” Haarlep winked at Tav. She couldn’t hold his lust-laden gaze, dropping her eyes to his bare feet – long, clawed toes that he deliberately wriggled, rubbed the arch of one foot with, reminding Tav of when she, out of her mind on spit and pheromones, eagerly gagged on them to the sound of the demon’s twisted laughter. He made her experience shame and humiliation beyond anything even Raphael was capable of. Haarlep smirked when Tav looked away.

Disregarding the exchange, Raphael cleared his throat. He was, after all, the most important person in this room. “What delightful instrument shall I use on you…”

“Cat O’ nine tails,” Haarlep offered helpfully. His suggestion was ignored.

“How about one of my old favourites?” The devil clicked his fingers and a long, thin whip with a flared tip appeared in his hands. “Yes…this will do. Simple, but effective. Sometimes a bit of simplicity is all you need.” He petted the weapon, fondled the black leather, testing its weight in his hands. Tav watched with baited breath. Raphael grinned, making a show of rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck. He was enjoying drawing it out, knowing Tav’s racing thoughts, her growing dread, would only make her suffering taste better. She knew better than to beg for clemency. Begging excited him, meaning he was inclined to strike her far more times than he promised. All she could do was wait. In a way, that was worse than the whipping itself.

Get on with it, please, she thought, on the chance that he might be peering into her mind, hit me already.

Raphael prowled around her, a lion circling his prey. Tav tensed, jolting when he stroked the length of her spine with one claw. “Such a pretty canvas waiting to be painted…where shall I make the first stroke?”

Deafening silence. Tav’s own heavy breathing. Then a mighty crack – the whip split the air, and Tav’s skin. For a brief, merciful moment she didn’t feel it, but the agony wouldn’t be denied. Sharp, burning. Tears sprang up in Tav’s eyes. Her body arched, her mouth open but her scream silent, shock and pain stopping her from making a sound. Good, because Raphael preferred it if she fought just a little, if she refused to give him what he wanted until he broke her. Haarlep shifted where he sat, eager and lascivious.

“How was that, sweet mouse?” Raphael cooed.

“F-fine,” Tav managed through grit teeth.

“Hmm…perhaps I need to make the next one harder.”

She could picture him raising his arm up higher, bending into the strike. He grunted as he swung. Tav couldn’t keep quiet this time, making a strangled noise as the whip ripped her flesh. Her mouth filled with blood; she’d bitten through the meat of her cheek.

“How about that one?” Tav struggled to speak, fought to push words through her copper-wet mouth. The devil chuckled. “Surely you’re not done in already…we’re only on the second…”

“No…I’m f – it’s f-fine.”

“Good girl.”

Tav briefly whited out with the third, calculated strike. He’d got her across her lower back. She could only imagine the expression on her face, tears streaming down her cheeks, because when her vision returned she saw Haarlep avidly watching her, feasting on her torture, his thighs spread. He squeezed and rubbed his fattening cock still in his harness. His forked and fraudulent tongue licked his thin lips that were pulled into a serpentine smile. Raphael released a quiet groan from behind. Arousal and frustration went into his next strike, and the next, and the next. Again and again and again. No break between, no leering in her ears.

Someone was screaming, guttural and wheezing. Tav realised it was her. She could feel her warm blood dripping down her back, over the swell of her ass. Raphael was shredding her raw; Haarlep had freed his red, ridged prick and was stroking it leisurely, enjoying the fruits of his impish, infernal misbehaviour. Never punished, always rewarded, but Tav just couldn’t hate him for it.

“There, now,” Raphael crooned, sounding a mite breathless, awed by his work. He rounded her. Through blurry eyes Tav saw a bead of sweat trickle down his temple, a lock of black hair unkempt from his effort. The whip was soaked crimson. The devil’s erection strained in his trousers and he was alight with fiendish frenzy. His tail swayed to and fro. He spoke with pride. “Quite the piece I’ve made of you this time, I must say.”

“It looked good from the front, too,” sighed Haarlep dreamily. “Choke her on your cock and you’ll complete it, I think.”

Raphael hummed, loosening his belt. His dick, hard and veined and heavy, its thick head leaking hot cum, sprang free. He clicked his fingers and Tav lowered to the ground, collapsing onto her knees – perfect height for Raphael to feed that fat dick between her slick and bloodied lips, into her warm and slack mouth. He groaned deep in his throat when his precum-sticky tip touched the back of her throat and Tav gagged. “For once, Haarlep, you’re right about something.”

#baldur's gate 3 #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #bg3 raphael #raphael bg3 #raphael the cambion #fanfic #raphael x tav #cringe

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vulpisnocturna · 2 years ago

Text

Binding Vow - Part II

Part I here

Part III here

Read on AO3

This is part II of III :)

Warnings: kidnapping, manipulation, coercion, Stockholm Syndrome, captivity, Chrollo being a manipulative asshole, obsession, slight NSFW

Word count: 6k

The lilies in the vase by the windowsill were starting to wilt. Their petals were drooping, the stems getting darker, the vibrant white of the flowers starting to become ashen. In that way, you were like them. Wilting away in a prison you were forced to call home.

But Chrollo never let you see them die. No, he brought you new flowers every week, along with all the other gifts he gave you. You did not know which ones were bought and which were stolen. Not that it mattered much.

His pathetic romanticism fell on deaf ears. He could court you all he liked, but he failed to see in that brilliant brain of his that it would not work after kidnapping someone and holding them prisoners. A golden cage was still a prison, and he could not make the canary sing by locking it away, even if he used his silver tongue on it.

Sometimes, you did not know whether he was completely oblivious or simply did not care. Every glare of yours, every time you ignored him, shouted at him or even refused to eat- he met all of your attempts at rebelling with a soft sigh and a stoic outlook, telling you he “would wait for your tantrum to quiet down to talk like adults”. Always patronising. He was always so damn condescending.

Another month had passed since the day Chrollo had tricked you into having sex with him under the guise of letting you go free and then had drugged you and left that house with you. When you had woken up, you were in a new flat, which he told you would serve as a home for the both of you for a couple of months.

He had reassured you that he would never harm you and that he would protect you, failing to understand you needed protection from him. He had also reminded you that the doors were all locked, and that he knew your life inside out in case you planned to do something foolish.

The first night in this house, you had screamed your lungs out at him, fighting him, or rather, trying to hit him with all your might whilst he restrained you. In the end, he’d tied you to the bed and told you he would free you once you learnt to be civil.

Next, you had refused to eat. That lasted until he tried to force feed you, and the humiliation of the act had made you start to eat by yourself again.

After that, you had refused to speak or even look at him. Luckily, he hadn’t tried to force himself on you, but he certainly seemed to want it. He had started to sleep in the same bed as you as soon as you had cut out the screaming and hitting, and no amount of begging had made him change his mind.

“I understand you dislike my approach, but I’m doing this to keep you safe, my love. If you can get past it, you’ll see it’s only natural that we sleep in the same bed. I love having you close to me. You are so peaceful when you sleep” he had said, stroking your upper arms as though the gesture could ever be perceived as soothing.

You always made a point to fall asleep curled as far away from him as possible, yet, somehow, you always woke up with his arm wrapped around your waist. He was stifling.

Your best moments were the ones where he’d go away to do God knew what for a few hours, or when he would be so immersed in the book he was reading that he would not talk to you for a while. Of course, he would insist on having you sit on his lap as he read, but he had settled for letting you sit with him in the living room where you wanted, which was as far away as possible from him.

You hated to admit it, but when he left, you sometimes could not help but feel lonely. He was the only person you ever saw, the only one you talked to, the only one you could go to in order to find comfort. That fact alone was enough to make your stomach churn.

But that was all stopping that day. You had decided that one way or another, you would escape. You were on the eighth floor of an apartment complex, but even Chrollo hadn’t been able to find a place that did not have windows. They were locked, of course, but you could break them if you used enough strength. It wasn’t your strong suit, but you had trained a little on your Hatsu to be able to do more damage than your muscles were capable of. And of course, you would get hurt, but it was all for a good cause. If you could make it out, then… then maybe he wouldn’t find you. If you were careful.

That very day was your best bet. Chrollo had told you he would not be home for supper and had left you some food in the fridge. You packed it and filled several bottles of water, raiding the cupboards of chocolate, biscuits and fruit. You also found some gauze in the bathroom drawer, which you took with you in case you wouldn’t be able to use your Nen power straightaway.

You had cursed your power for two whole months now, hating that you weren’t an Enhancer, that you weren’t strong or fast at all. Of course, Chrollo would still be stronger, but your chances at escaping would increase. But now, you were glad you had it: if you fell from a few stories, you would be able to heal yourself, so long as you did not die on impact.

Which was why you had gathered every single towel and sheet you could find and created a makeshift rope with tight knots. It was around ten metres, which left fifteen to twenty metres left to jump. You’d found that there was a tree underneath the window of the office, so that was where you decided to escape.

The glass was thick, and you decided to wrap your hand in a section of your rope and punch it with all your strength.

It took half an hour and the breaking of your knuckles, which had also split and gotten wounded, but you had managed to stay focused through the pain and heal them before you lost too much blood.

Now, as to your escape. The window was now broken, and you did your best in creating a wide enough passage where glass would not be likely to cut you or the rope. Next, you looked down to see that no one was around. The apartment complex was situated on the side of a forest surrounding a small town, and the office happened to face the woods. You could not see anyone around.

You had around three hours to escape and get as far away from that place as possible before Chrollo came back. You had to move quickly, find out where you were and then find a way out of there.

You breathed in, calming your thundering heart and swinging the rope out of the window after tying it to the sofa. It reached ten metres or so from the canopy of the tree beneath the window, which was not ideal, but not too bad either. You stepped on the windowsill, planted your feet and started descending.

Ten minutes later, you had reached the end of your rope. You swallowed, the wind making your eyes sting and tear up as you looked down. Legs first. You had to either grab a branch with your hands or land on your legs.

You jumped.

Your hand scraped against the bark, burning and shredding against it. The branch underneath you winded you as you landed on your side, but you managed to break the fall before you hit the ground.

You convulsed on the grass, nausea and cold shivers tearing through your body as you quivered, taking small breaths that had you dizzy from the pain.

Definitely broken ribs. Definitely a broken leg.

Your trembling hand reached to your side, and you focused on your aura, feeling the pain, mending the bone, healing the damage until it felt like a dull throbbing rather than stabbing, burning agony.

Next was your leg. It took you longer than you wanted to consider to heal all of your injuries, but when you finally got up, you were okay. You could run, even though the numerous cuts on your body had made you lose quite a bit of blood and you felt lightheaded.

You started running. The feeling of hope that bloomed in your heart was quick to burst into euphoria, even though you tried not to lull yourself into false security. Running along the path in the forest felt good, freedom felt like cool breeze, autumn leaves and the faint scent of rain lingering on the ground.

You must have run more than ten miles by the time you stopped as you got to the edge of the forest. The sun was setting on the horizon, and you wagered Chrollo would be back soon. You probably had another hour before he realised you were gone. Where could you go from here? The hills to your right looked too exposed, but so did the town to your left. He would expect you to be there. But with the amount of blood you’d lost, the fact that you’d been running for hours and the lack of shelter in the hills, you had to go to the town. Maybe you’d find a sheltered place where you could stay for a few hours, before you left again.

But you never did get to the town.

Because as soon as you got back on your feet and went to grab your bag, your wrists were caught behind your back in an iron grip. You knew that scent all too well.

Your heart threatened to burst in your ribcage, and your chest heaved, your eyes widening as you writhed wildly to no avail.

‘If I were you, I would stop thrashing, darling. I am not in a gracious mood’ he murmured against your ear, voice cold, seeping into your bones like ice. You stopped moving altogether, swallowing the heavy lump in your throat.

‘Have you any idea of what that fall could have done to you? You’re covered in blood. Did you break anything in your brilliant escape?’ he continued, and you wet your lips, your temples throbbing.

Would he kill you now? Would he simply take you back? Would he break some more bones to punish you? Tie you to the bed, or relocate you to a basement?

‘Answer me. You do not want to make this any worse than it already is’ he said coldly, releasing you and staring at you. You knew trying to make a run for it would be useless. He would catch you in seconds. And who knew what he’d do to you.

You were done. He’d found you immediately. There was no escaping him.

‘My knuckles. My ribs- my leg’ you whispered, scanning his face for any clue on what might happen to you. His jaw tightened.

‘So you counted on your power to heal you, disregarding that had you broken your neck, you would not be able to heal. Not quite well-thought out’ he said, a tinge of cold fury in his voice. You ground your teeth, deciding you would go out swinging instead of listening to more of his patronising remarks.

‘I did not have many options. I ran, because you kidnapped me. I was willing to take the risk’ you spat, and he lifted his chin, looking down at you, seemingly rigid in his posture.

‘I must say that was a rather inventive plan. I think I might have read about a character doing the same thing in an adventure book once’ he mused, recomposing himself and disregarding your words completely.

‘You clearly cannot care for yourself, darling. Look what you've done to yourself. You are so very fragile. We have much to discuss. Of course, there will be consequences, but you should know I would never hurt you. I simply need you to listen. You can come with me now without a fuss or you can make the situation worse for yourself and risk more dire consequences for your behaviour. Your choice’ he said, looking at you, his eyes softening ever so slightly as you let out a strangled sob.

Choice. Another choice that was already written in stone.

‘Just let me go. Let me free. Please’ you breathed, resorting to pleading in the face of defeat, hating the fact that you could feel the tears spill from your eyes. He let out a soft sigh, cupping your face and stroking your cheek. You did not know whether you wanted to spit in his face or let him comfort you for something he was guilty of. Because you were so alone, your heart was so wretchedly heavy.

‘Shh, shh. It’s alright, my love. You must be so exhausted. You need to rest. I’ve got you. I’ve got you’ he kissed your forehead, soothing your sobs, and perhaps it was desperation and exhaustion that made you cling to his shirt with trembling fingers. You let all of your tears of frustration, pain, hurt and anger out, sobbing in the arms of the one who had brought them to life. And he was so gentle as he held you. So painfully tender in the way he soothed you, stroking your hair, kissing the top of your head, holding you close to him.

Chrollo bent to pick you up in his arms, and you buried your head against him, not wanting to look at him and accept what you had just done and where he was taking you. What the consequences of your escape would be.

As the temperature started dropping, you found yourself seeking out the warmth of his body, feeling the exhaustion catch up to you quickly. You had finally stopped crying, but your head was pounding and your eyes were raw from the tears.

You saw a car at the edge of the forest, parked behind the building, in front of the tree and your makeshift rope. He opened the door and deposited you on the passenger seat, closing it behind you and getting in on the other side. He reached over and put on your seatbelt, locking the doors and staring at you.

‘Where are we going? What is going to happen to me?’ you asked, voice hoarse from all the crying. Chrollo slicked back the wayward strands of black hair that had escaped his hairstyle, regarding you with a cold expression, if not slightly laced with disappointment.

‘You saw fit to break the window of our flat. I called some people to take care of the mess there and get our stuff whilst I retrieved you. We are going to another place, this one is compromised now. As to you, my love... I do not know what punishment would fit this crime. Your sorrow and your tears have touched me, truly. But I must ensure you learn your lesson. You don’t want this to happen again, do you?’ he asked, turning the keys and starting to drive.

Did you want this to happen again? Of course not. His tone let you know that if you ever did this again, there would be Hell to pay. Who knew what he would do now, you shuddered to imagine what he might think to do if you tried to escape once again.

‘No’ you said quietly.

There was no escaping Chrollo Lucilfer. You had been stupid to think that you could have done so. Drunk on the idea of freedom. He might have said he would never harm you physically, but he hadn’t said anything of the sort about your loved ones. You had learnt that with him, the devil was in the details. He always twisted meanings and played with words like a musician would play an instrument. And there was no escaping his judgement.

Chrollo was not having a nice day. He had had to pull back a heist when Shal had informed him the museum had been tipped off, and had thought he would just get to go home and spend some needed time with his darling girl. He had seriously thought you had made vast progress in your interactions with him. In a mere month, he had managed to mellow you a lot, and even though it had irked him to put up with your foolish tantrums, he had done so patiently, knowing being less strict would eventually aid him in making you come around. You had started to talk to him again, even seemed content to sit with him in the living room to read.

He wasn’t too pleased you never took him up on the offer to sit on his lap, and sometimes, he wanted to pull you against him and hold you there, but he was a patient man, and he understood the perks of patience and strategy.

That was why he had been willing to compromise on not taking everything he wanted yet. He had put boundaries on what was non-negotiable, like sleeping in the same bed. After all, you were his. He had claimed you, given you food, shelter and protection, brought you all kinds of beautiful gifts that reminded him of you, made you feel good. He knew you liked the sex, too. You could not deny it, he remembered all too well how very precious you had looked writhing underneath him, begging and whining for him.

Nevertheless, he was waiting to do it again, simply because you were under the impression you had been tricked by him with the vow you had made, and that had upset you. Understandably so, but the fact that you hadn’t paid enough attention to his words was hardly his fault. However, if he was respectful of your body and did not force himself on you, he knew you would eventually seek him out. He could already see the slivers of your resolve shattering, and it pleased him to no end. The way you now let him kiss the top of your head, flinching less often when he drew you in for a hug or stroked your cheek. It was a chess game, and Chrollo knew he would win.

But now, you’d broken his trust. You’d disappointed him.

When he had come back home, looking for you, thinking you might be asleep or ignoring him as he called your name, and had eventually seen the window shattered and a makeshift rope made of sheets and towels, he had seen red. There was blood spatter on the glass, and the thought of you going so far as to harm yourself in order to escape him had made his stomach hot with rage and his chest tight with worry.

He had inspected the grounds underneath the tree he surmised you had used to break your fall, and he could see some blood, not enough to make you die of blood loss. Some drips had seeped into the blades of grass that led to the woods. Torn between cold fury, worry and admiration for your commendable resolve, for a moment, he had also thought you were truly so delightful. It was so sweet of you to believe you could escape.

He also knew you must have used your power to heal yourself, because he expected you to have broken at least a few bones. Therefore, you must have been lightheaded and weak. A fragile thing like you, alone in the woods, where anyone could easily harm you. He had been worried sick, ready to burn the forest to ashes.

It had taken him twenty minutes to scour the whole forest. When he had found you, you had been panting, holding onto a tree as your gaze shifted between the hills and the small town as though you were considering your course of action. So fragile, so impossibly delicate and fatigued, so oblivious to your surroundings. He hated how you put yourself in danger. Hated that you thought it would be better than being by his side.

Of course, Chrollo knew it was human nature to seek freedom, so he could not fault you for trying. But he was not pleased. You had put yourself in danger and broken his trust.

He had been ready to make you learn your lesson by confining you to a windowless bedroom, never taking his eyes off you, even pay a visit to one of your friends. However, the moment you had started to sob and clung to him, accepting his embrace, seeking him in your sorrow, he had been truly moved. You were truly so sweet in his eyes, so vulnerable, he just wished to hold you and never let you go.

Now, he was not sure what the best course of action would be. Should he be understanding, threaten what would happen if there was another attempt, and bask in your need to be comforted by him? If he happened to be too strict with you, it might halt the progress you’d just made. But if he offered himself as the only one who could soothe your worries and comfort you, then, perhaps, you would become more dependent on him. He wanted nothing more.

But things would have to move more swiftly, because his patience was starting to run out. If he was honest, as he had you back in his car, looking so meek with your tear-stained eyes and torn clothes, he had only wanted to move you to the back of the car and show you just how much he needed you. Just how much you truly liked him. Then, maybe, you would regret your actions. But he had to hold back.

He had nothing but time with you. And your attitude and outlook on your living situation was the most important thing right now. He had to change your perspective, or his work the past month would be ruined just because he had lost his temper after you made a mistake. You could still make things better.

‘Chrollo’ you murmured, wringing your hands in your lap. You rarely called him by his name. You rarely talked to him without him starting the conversation. He loved the way his name sounded on your lips.

‘Mh?’

‘What’s going to happen to me?’ you repeated, small voice haunted. He placed his hand on your thigh, stroking your skin gently as he drove through the empty street.

‘You did something quite upsetting, dearest. You know I would have never forgiven myself if something happened to you. I cannot let anyone, including you, harm you. I cannot trust you now; you understand that, don’t you?’ he asked, voice smooth. A part of him wanted to ask you what you thought a fitting punishment would be. But he did not do well with not knowing what you would say.

‘I won’t try to run again- just... please don’t hurt the people I care about. Please. I’ll do anything’ you said desperately, and Chrollo forced himself to restrain the urge to smile. Now, that was a pleasant development. He could utilise this. Could reap the benefits of your dedication.

‘My love, it pains me that you think me a monster. There would be no reason to visit your past acquaintances if this is a one-time mistake. But how can I trust your word? How can I be certain you will not try to run from me again? That you’ll be my good girl?’ he asked gently, keeping his voice as soft and calm as he could.

Human imagination was truly intriguing. How you had come to that conclusion in your mind, already deeming it a reality, and sought to find a way out of it by offering everything you had. It was truly endearing, and Chrollo had barely had to do anything. And now, if he spared your acquaintances, he would be seen as merciful. You would be grateful. Even though he hadn’t planned to kill them as of yet, deeming it counterproductive for your opinion of him. But if he utilised your fears against you, he could appear as a compassionate source of comfort to you.

‘Because... I know it’s useless. And I don’t want to be the reason they might... get hurt’ you said earnestly, your bottom lip quivering. It made you look so sweet in his eyes. So innocent and pure. Completely different from him, someone so fascinating he could never take his eyes off you.

‘I- will behave. I’ll do- whatever you want’ you whispered, almost resignedly, your shoulders sloping. Chrollo let out a soft sigh. You had no idea of the effect you had on him when you said things like that. It was all he ever wanted. And soon, he knew you would say the same words with care and tenderness in your voice.

He parked the car in front of the skyscraper, opening the door and stepping out, and a middle-aged woman approached him, holding a pair of keys. Chrollo took them from her, spotting Shal’s antenna sticking out of her neck when she turned to head towards the glass doors. Chrollo went back to the car, opening the door and giving you his hand. You looked at him, closing your eyes briefly before you accepted his help and stood up on unsteady legs. He took his coat off, wrapping it around you. It would not do to have you walk in the lobby with your shirt and legs covered in blood.

It was long and baggy on you, and covered your whole body. He thought you looked quite sweet in it. He made sure to lead you to the door with a hand on your lower back, not trusting your balance after the injuries you had sustained and the clear exhaustion he could observe in your sluggish movements.

This time, Chrollo had asked Pakunoda and Shal to find him a place as high up as possible, so you could still watch the sky and not get any stupid ideas. The woman led you and him to a lift and pressed the button for the fiftieth floor, the penthouse. He liked to show off with a better flat, a more luxurious one, but had it been up to him, he would not have cared much, so long as it was comfortable and had everything he might need.

The woman stayed in the lift as he led you outside, to the door of your new home. He opened it, stepping inside and conjuring Bandit’s Secret to lock the door with Nen that only he could unlock. He put the keys on the bowl on the accent table by the door, because they were as useful as a pen to you if you planned to use them to open the door.

The penthouse was spacious but decorated in a way he did not mind. Cosy and warm, with a big fireplace, a loveseat and two armchairs in front of it, bookshelves filled with books on the opposite wall. His friends had truly found him a good place to crash. The dining room and the kitchen were connected to the living room by a wall with open arches, and one side of the dining room was a full window that offered a nice view of the city. He decided to look for anything that might be amiss before you moved from the hallway, and walked through the corridor, opening the door to the bedroom and the bathroom. It must definitely be more expensive than his previous lodging, but he hardly cared or worried about that in his life.

His clothes and yours had been carried here in two suitcases, and Chrollo decided he would give you space to have a bath or a shower whilst he tidied things up. With that in mind, he stepped back into the living room, observing you as you put his coat on the armchair.

‘Why don’t you take a warm shower, darling? It will relax your muscles. I’ll be here if you need anything’ he said, and you looked down at your torn clothes, your eyes wandering around the room.

He quickly went back to the bedroom, opened the suitcases and grabbed one of his shirts and clean underwear. You could go without trousers. If he were honest, he wanted you to go without any of those cumbersome clothes covering your stunning body, but he doubted you would react nicely to it if he suggested that. He was willing to compromise.

Besides, the thought of you wearing one of his shirts was somehow even better than going without it. Something about having something that was his on you. Proof of the fact that you were his.

He stepped outside, handing you the clothes and planting a kiss on your forehead.

‘Uhm- I need... trousers’ you murmured, your face growing hot against his fingers. He smirked, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

‘Do you, darling? The shirt will cover enough of you up. I’ll be in the living room. Come over when you are finished’ he said, leaving you blushing in front of the bathroom and going to the bedroom, starting to sort through the clothes and objects in the suitcase.

When you came back, he had finished tidying up and was sitting down on the sofa with a book in his hand, the fireplace now crackling with orange flames and a glass of red wine on the coffee table.

He had been right, you did look ravishing. With the smears of blood and dirt gone, his shirt on you, covering you to your upper thighs, leaving your legs exposed, he could hardly restrain himself. But tonight was not the right time to have you. No, he just wanted to hold you and see you. And perhaps taunt you a little as punishment for running away. Yes, he would definitely have you fulfil your promise to do anything he liked starting that very night.

He patted his thigh, and watched with sly amusement as you swallowed, clearly trying to find a loophole that would allow you to sit anywhere else. He enjoyed watching you rack your brains, knowing you might incur more dire consequences after you refused him the day you had attempted to escape.

It took you a minute, but eventually, you took small, hesitant steps towards him until you were firmly sat on his lap, his arm around you holding you to him. He loved your scent, loved the feel of your body against his, loved the sight of your pretty thighs. If he had been any other man, he would not have been able to exert control on his desires. But he would, because if he waited, the reward would be much sweeter. Besides, you seemed to think he would do something, and watching you squirm was delightful in it of itself.

He resumed reading the psychological thriller he’d picked up, stroking your ribs, knowing you’d mended them mere hours before. Your power was truly incredible. A power that sought to heal, remedy, one so in tune with your pure, kind soul. He found it so very fitting, so sweet. And so useful.

He could feel you shifting on his lap from time to time, and could not decide whether he wanted you to continue or to stop because it was so enticing. He decided he might do something, even if he would not take you to bed yet. After all, he had you there, glued to his body. It would be a sin to discard such a sweet chance.

He lowered his book, holding you more tightly, tilting your chin with his fingers.

‘Kiss me’ he murmured, watching you to see if you would hold to your word. He saw your pretty eyes widen, your lips parted as you scanned his face and shifted on him. Your teeth caught your bottom lip, pulling lightly on it, and he could not wait to do that himself and feel just how soft your lips were.

He had held back on kissing your lips as well, and he still remembered how worked up he had managed to get you just with that. He had a nice plan in the making, but he wanted you to kiss him first. Set it into motion.

You hesitantly craned your neck to press your soft lips on his cheek, and he let out a soft laugh, cupping your jaw.

‘Do not play coy with me, darling. You know perfectly well what I mean. Now, shall we try that again?’ he crooned, and he could see the acquiescence on your face set, compliance in the face of what you had said in the car as you leaned back towards him, closing your eyes and pressing your lips to his. This time, you did not have to be told to do it again. You knew what he wanted from you, and you acquiesced, tilting your head and touching his hair gingerly, your lips brushing against his, soft and timid. Chrollo restrained the urge to take the lead and show you exactly what he craved, because he wanted you to get there yourself.

At first, you kissed him slowly, tentatively, but then, the tip of your tongue traced the outline of his bottom lip, and you sucked it gently. Chrollo’s fingers curled around your scalp, tangling in your hair as he sank his teeth in your bottom lip, taking advantage of it to slide his tongue in your mouth. He had waited way too long to do this, but God, it was worth it.

You were addicting. He sucked and licked your lower lip, pressing his tongue against yours, tasting you, savouring the feeling of your restraint fading whenever he kissed you more passionately. A few times, he could have sworn you sought out his lips, hungry for more, battling your own desires but unable to deny them to the fullest. And it felt like a damn drug to him. He could force himself on you, but nothing could ever replace the feeling of watching you melt in his arms, so willing and pliant by the time you warmed up to his touch.

Your fingers were tangled in his hair, and his hand wandered down to cup your ass, fingers gripping the plump flesh of it, his cock already hard in his trousers. Judging by the way you were squirming and pressing your thighs together, he knew you would be wet if he touched you. And the thought alone was tantalising. He wanted to devour you, wanted you underneath him again, pretty and completely at his mercy. But he steered clear, deciding to just stroke your thighs, massage them, feel the goosebumps there as he continued to kiss you.

When his fingers inched closer to your inner thigh and you spread them for him a little, he knew he’d won. He smirked against your lips, sucking your swollen bottom lip one last time before he pulled back, looking at your flushed skin, bright eyes and tormented lips. You looked so tantalising, so compliant.

‘Have you any idea what you do to me?’ he whispered, his hand resting on your hip now. He let you simmer in that feeling, knowing that he would not have to wait much longer, he would have you soon.

He went back to his book, smirking slightly whenever you would squirm in his grasp. Oh, you must be so wound up. He wished he could help you. But this was all in favour of something better. To make you truly desperate, just as he was to get his hands on you. To have you all the time.

It did not take you long to start growing more sluggish, and before he knew it, he had finished the book and you were asleep, your head against his jaw, peaceful in your slumber. You were such a heavy sleeper, but he was also aware that you had exhausted yourself with that foolish stunt you’d pulled. He kissed your hair, setting the book down and lifting himself up, carrying you to bed. When he looked at you as you twisted in the sheets and his shirt lifted up to reveal the panties he’d picked out, he let out an audible groan.

Just a little longer, he thought. For now, he headed to the bathroom, seeking to relieve your effect on him.

You were disgusted with yourself. Disgusted with your weakness, disgusted with the effect he had on you. Yes, you’d said you’d do anything if he spared your loved ones, and you had been dreading him trying to fuck you. Having to go through it again. You had not expected him not to.

A week had passed, a week of torture. You had given up altogether on running away, especially because the door was impossible to open and jumping out the window wasn’t a viable option anymore. He had been more lenient than you’d ever imagined he could be, and hadn’t even tried to fuck you. He had merely demanded you sit on his lap and kiss him. And he had done so every day for the past week.

And every night for the past week, you’d been plagued with dreams about him having his way with you. You were horrified whenever you woke up drenched, pressure in your lower stomach, the unbearable desire to feel his touch rearing its ugly head again. Reminding yourself of who he was had become increasingly difficult, when all you could think about was how good he felt, how much his touch sparked heat in your body. And he knew it too, the clever bastard. You could see it in his sly grey eyes, in the sardonic smirk he would give you once he pulled away.

You were lonely, and you were tired. Tired of the struggle, tired of the anxiety, tired of weighing your every word, of pushing him away, of walking on eggshells all day long. It would be so easy to give in. The only thing that held you back was giving him the satisfaction. But then again, you’d already done that the time you’d slept with him. What was the point? Wouldn’t you live a much easier life if you gave in? If you stopped fighting and just let him encroach himself in your life? It had already happened, and your stubbornness and pride were only making your life harder.

You wanted to scream. You wanted to cry. You were weak and twisted for considering liking someone like him. Someone who had kidnapped you, a murderer with no morals, a man who had no problems threatening your loved ones and keeping you captive.

But what choice did you have? What was there in the future for you? More struggle, more bile in your throat, more tightness in your chest, more pain and suffering? Or just acceptance?

He could be considerate, when you did what he wanted. And he could be your worst nightmare if he wanted to.

You couldn’t defeat him, couldn’t escape, couldn’t convince him to let you go. Your choices were to either live a miserable life of suffering, or to give in and experience something bordering safety. Something that might resemble a life one day. All in exchange for giving in to the one who had ruined your life. Somehow, the choice made itself in your mind.

Part III here

#chrollo #chrollo lucilfer #chrollo smut #yandere chrollo #hxh chrollo #chrollo x reader #chrollo hunter x hunter #hunter x hunter #yandere hxh #hxh #hxh x reader #chrollo x y/n #chrollo x you #yandere chrollo x reader #kuroro lucilfer #yandere x reader #yandere chrollo lucilfer

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jd-loves-fiction · 1 year ago

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𝐎𝐩𝐢𝐚

n. the ambiguous intensity of looking someone in the eye, which can feel simultaneously invasive and vulnerable—their pupils glittering, bottomless and opaque—as if you were peering through a hole in the door of a house, able to tell that there’s someone standing there, but unable to tell if you’re looking in or looking out.

✦ 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Sir Gawain x GN!Reader

✦ 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: smut + fluff

✦ 𝐰𝐜: 2.2k

✦ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠: Minors DO NOT INTERACT thanks. also DONT USE SALIVA AS LUBE THIS IS THE MIDDLE AGES WAAAAHH

✦ 𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: Anyway I havent written anything in a hot second, especially smut, so i might've lost my touch but this man makes me insane. Hope its still enjoyable anyway and im working on some fluffy stuff as well whoop enjoy :)

Stupid quest. Stupid forest. Stupid rainwater puddle.

You didn't see it – you were too damn busy staring into those gorgeous brown eyes of his, lashes lowered ever so slightly in a way so tender it might as well have been what knocked you over.

“Oh goodness.” Sir Gawain exhales a second after the splash, arms reaching for you a little too late. Turns out he’d been lost staring at you as well. “A-Are you alright? Are you hurt?”

“I–” You start to deny it but think better of it. It’s Gawain, he’d know the answer just from looking at you. “I’m cold. And wet. And tired.”

“I see. Let’s find ourselves a place for the night, yes? The storm from last night might be coming back.” He tells you, reaching out a large hand to pull you up. You take it without hesitation.

Quickly finding yourselves a damp and dingy little cave to pass the night in, Gawain gets to work starting a fire as you shiver uncontrollably.

“You know–” He begins, fumbling with two rocks and a handful of dryish branches, looking up at you for a moment, “You look good, all soaking wet.”

The warmth of his gaze sweeps over your form, lingering on your shaking shoulders, passing by the water dripping off your linen shirt and how your arms curl around yourself to keep the heat in – heat he stokes with that cheeky look, the quickness of his breath, the biting of his lovely, soft, bottom lip…

A spark goes off, catching fire to the branches, cutting the tension like a hot knife over butter. But it does not dissipate, the fire does not cool, it merely wanes to a simmer.

“I bet you’d look even better.” You blurt out, just to get the last word in before sitting by the flames, not entirely aware of what you’ve just said and where his beautiful, hasty mind would take your words. Then again, you’re much more concerned with not freezing to death.

“Trying to warm up with wet clothes isn’t going to do you any good. It isn't going to do anything at all, really.”

“What do you suggest, then?” You sigh, knees tucked to your chest, sitting opposite the dashing young knight.

“You should take off whatever clothes are wet and let them dry by the fire.” He begins shrugging off his thick wooly cape to lay on the stone floor beside him, “And sit close to me – we can share body heat.” he adds on quickly, as if he hasn't made his intentions with you clear enough throughout this journey already.

You’re not sure when it started, when his dark eyes began wandering, when his touches started lingering, or even when you started doing the same. But it’s clear to the two of you; the want– the need too transparent to hide.

There’s more to it though, for you at least. It would be almost too easy to dive into him otherwise. Like a nymph’s bewitching calls into murky waters.

But it could never be that easy. Not with the one they may one day call King. That and his womanizinging reputation.

Expecting anything other than a purely lustful encounter out of this would be foolish to say the least, but perhaps you are a fool. Because the way he looks at you; the way he has been looking at you since– whenever you started noticing; makes you feel as if there might be a chance.

So you do as he suggests, stripping down to the basics under his unwavering gaze, shuffling over to his side and nuzzling against him.

Questions swirl endlessly within your mind while leaning on Gawain's warm body, his shirt so thin you could almost perfectly imagine what he'd look like without it in your mind's eye.

But then, those eyes, clear as spring water in their intentions, cage you in with their stare and suddenly you feel as if everything must be laid out plainly, “What are your intentions with me, Sir Gawain?”

The look on his face nearly makes you regret it, fearing you may have offended him, but surely he’s aware of his reputation – surely he must understand.

After a beat he exhales with a slight smile as his large hand comes around to your shoulder, “Are they not clear?”

“Clear as they may be, I like things to be absolutely transparent, especially when it comes to men of your… caliber.” He hums in acknowledgement with a smirk, before it slowly slides off his face, replaced with a thoughtful expression so rarely seen it could be possession.

“I understand what you mean, love. But, in truth, I cannot answer you as of yet.” At the inquisitive look you give him he begins trying to explain himself, “It is that… Well, I am to be King somewhat soon, I assume. So it would be reckless for me to act as carelessly as I once did. But then also, I do not yet know what my intentions are – beyond tonight, that is.” Your face warms slightly at his suggestive tone as his hand drifts down your naked back, “All I know, is that you intrigue me. Greatly. If anything, I know– I feel as if… once will not be enough…”

A dark hand of long, slender fingers lifts your chin to meet his fathomless stare, looking deep into your eyes and beyond that – to your vulnerable soul.

“I feel… the same.” You speak, suddenly breathless as your face nears his subconsciously, giving in to his siren call.

Lips meeting like a spark to a fire, a beginning. His hands wander over you, reverent, gentle, as yours grasp at the front of his tunic, urging him as close as humanly possible – as if close isn't nearly close enough.

The kiss grows fiercer, a push and pull of soft pink muscles attempting to gain control, before being forced to part, open around heaving breaths while eyes grow hazy with lust– no, yearning. Gawain draws back to shed that bothersome tunic before his hands attach themselves to your hips to pull you onto his lap. The ease with which he does it has you grinding down instantly, hands running over sweat-slick caramel skin.

His dark curls bounce as he tosses his head back under your movements, desperate for some control of the primal urges suddenly overloading his brain – to fuck you without mercy, to ruin you for anyone else – but no, that’s not how he wants this to go.

“God above, you're beautiful.” He breathes, hands stilling your hips to let his eyes sweep over your features slowly. The intensity of his gaze makes you squirm and the strength in his hands warms your inside more than the fire ever could.

Burying your face in his gorgeous, exposed neck you speak so low not even God could hear, “Shut up and take your pants off.”

You feel him smile against your hair, laying a kiss against it before drawing away to do as you ask, somewhat clumsily, but earnestly all the same. Sitting still on his cloak, you watch him avidly, eyes catching on every new inch of dawn-hued skin revealed.

The singularity of the moment strikes you suddenly; back at the castle, amongst duties and expectations, this would never be possible – this calm, this undemanding rhythm. You have no place to be, no one to meet, so you can just be. Together.

“Where did you go?” He whispers, caressing your face with a softness undeserving of a knight’s strength, making your eyes focus back on his features and immediately surge forward to connect your lips to his, “Nowhere important.”

Gentle as a breeze Gawain lays you back, body between your legs and arms beside your shoulders. His prominent nose brushes yours softly, sensually as he parts your legs even further, “Good. I want you here with me. For this will not be a moment you’ll want to ever forget.”

“Oh,” You chuckle teasingly, back arching almost subconsciously against his warm, wide chest while his hips start moving against yours, “You’re sure of that, are you?”

“Your reaction tells me all I need to be sure.” He replies, so cocksure you’re suddenly reminded of who he’d been before the Green Knight had showed up proposing a ridiculous game – knowing he hasn't changed completely is oddly comforting.

“You talk too much… Sir.” You grumble in lieu of remaining silent and further inflating his ego, getting a raised brow at the tacked-on title.

“But you like it, don't you? Don't lie to me, it's unbecoming.” The corners of his lovely lips twitching with the effort not to laugh. Quick as a flash, your legs lock around his waist, pulling his center down to yours and he’s forced to take a breath from between his teeth as his long lashes flutter, “Like I said; you talk too much.”

Gawain bites his tongue – there will be plenty of time to get back at you once you’re mindless and thoroughly spent – he reasons. For now, he just needs to get you there.

One large hand settles at the base of your throat as his luscious lips travel down your neck in flickers of contact that have you arching against his firm grip for more. Soft as a feather, he pulls away your undergarments as needed to kiss at your chest; sweetly at first and then so wet and sloppy you’re left gasping and whimpering, hands grasping at his strong shoulders for purchase.

Grabbing you below the knees, he gently pries your legs open while kissing down your body until you're tingling and trembling all over wishing he'd just get to it.

“Gawain…”

“Hmm? Are you going to beg? Go on.”

You pout petulantly; no you won't beg, he'd enjoy that far too much. But you can, however, tempt him into doing what you want.

“Gawain…” you moan seemingly helplessly, nails brushing his skin making him shiver in delight, “won't you take me? It's clear you want to.”

“It's clear, is it?” He chuckles breathlessly, ceasing completely to just watch you and it makes you want to smack the back of his head in frustration.

Breathing deep, your eyes move over him carefully, appreciating every inch of delicious, exposed skin so many yearn to catch a glimpse of before…

“Gawain,” you raise an amused brow, surely he noticed… “Yes?”

Oh, he's far too good at playing dumb.

You raise yourself until your lips barely brush his, brown hues watching you closely down the length of his nose before your hand boldly presses down on his stiff cock and those eyes glaze over before rolling back in overwhelming delight, “I'd call this pretty obvious.”

Hand squeezing in pulses, you're granted a low groan followed by a deep sigh, “God, you're too much. I cannot– wait.”

Gawain's mouth devours yours, hungry as a wolf, pushing down once more while his lithe fingers graze the inside of your thighs, grinning at what he finds. Cheeks warming at how your mouth chases his as he pulls back, he gives his palm a full lick before wrapping it around his throbbing cock and stroking. The flames illuminate this length of his gorgeous neck like an old painting and your tongue longs to glide over it and follow the path of his sweat so deeply you almost miss him speaking, “Will you beg now?”

You groan most crudely, far over his games and his perfect face and his disarming voice and his damned haughtiness– your hand grasps the curls at the back of his head, delighting in his whimpered response, “Take me now or so help me–,” your not proud of the way your voice wavers but you’re both past that now.

Gawain’s lips connect with yours surprisingly softly, leaning his forehead against yours and lining himself up with your center, “Shh, I’ve got you, just relax.”

A kiss to your hairline is the only warning you get before he starts pushing into you, slow as can be and yet still you cry out at the feeling in between the kisses he places to your lips to offer some comfort.

“There we go, breathe for me. It’ll feel better soon…”

“Gawain…” You moan, clinging onto him as the bite of initial pain melts into pleasure.

Sucking on your neck, his hips sway against yours rhythmically, wavering only when your nails dig into his sides while moaning desperately in his ear, “Gawain please…”

“Now–” his breathing stutters while his hips buck suddenly, pressing a collection of whispered curses from both of your mouths, “Now you beg?”

“Just please fuck me, please.”

The way his cock twitches inside you tells all you need to know on how he feels about your words.

Curls brush the side of your neck as he reaches to bite at your lobe, grunting and moaning into it while speeding up his hips so much your own moans become stuttered and desperate.

As the end nears, Gawain presses his lips to yours, nearly missing in his eagerness, and opens his mouth as if to say something but no words leave him, only a loud moan of your name ringing across the cave just as your body does the same.

Your mind is eerily quiet as you come down, blinking eyes you don't recall closing and feeling the next king breathe against your naked chest while gathering himself. After a moment he raises himself on shaky arms to gaze down at you, hand reaching to brush a stray hair from your cheek and sighing as if suddenly, all is right in the world.

#sir gawain #green knight #dev patel #dev patel x reader #green knight x reader #gawain x reader #sir gawain and the green knight #the green knight #sir gawain x reader #gawain smut #green knight smut #smut

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rizzoreads88 · 2 months ago

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✨Elain Is Smart, Brave & Has no problem getting her hands dirty for those she loves✨

People act Like Elain is useless,weak dumb ect and I’m going to debunk this from canon.

Acotar- Yes we know everyone will bring up how Elain didn’t plant vegetables blahhhh. Nesta & Elain both didn’t help Feyre as much as they should have BUT it is not on them to provide. I don’t blame any of the sisters for not being the parent the father should have been. Also please remember when SJM wrote the first book she hadn’t planned on doing spin offs w the sisters yet so both are made to basically be like the Cinderella step sisters. Even though Elain doesn’t help Feyre as much as she should have we see she does but Feyre paint, she deeply cares for her family, Feyre talks about how Elain is strong too. How through everything Elain still had hope.

“I gazed again at that sad, dark house—the place that had been a prison. Elain had said she missed it, and I wondered what she saw when she looked at the cottage. If she beheld not a prison but a shelter—a shelter from a world that had possessed so little good, but she tried to find it anyway, even if it had seemed foolish and useless to me. She had looked at that cottage with hope; I had looked at it with nothing but hatred. And I knew which one of us had been stronger.”

Acomaf-

When Feyre goes to the human lands to ask Nesta & Elain to help them be a liaison between the IC & the human queens Nesta doesnt want to help. They are both scared of fae and Nesta doesn’t even want them in the house. But it is Elain who offers to help Feyre and the Fae. It is Elain who comes up a plan how to help them while Also keeping her, Nesta and their servants safe from the townspeople.

“So there will be no meeting here,” Nesta said, shoulders stiff. “There will be no Fae in this house.” “Do you include me in that declaration?” I said quietly. Nesta’s silence was answer enough. But Elain said, “Nesta.” Slowly, my eldest sister looked at her. “Nesta,” Elain said again, twisting her hands. “If … if we do not help Feyre, there won’t be a wedding. Even Lord Nolan’s battlements and all his men, couldn’t save me from … from them.” Nesta didn’t so much as flinch. Elain pushed, “We keep it secret—we send the servants away. With the spring approaching, they’ll be glad to go home. And if Feyre needs to be in and out for meetings, she’ll send word ahead, and we’ll clear them out. Make up excuses to send them on holidays. Father won’t be back until the summer, anyway. No one will know.” She put a hand on Nesta’s knee, the purple of my sister’s gown nearly swallowing up the ivory hand. “Feyre gave and gave—for years. Let us now help her. Help … others.”

Acowar- When she is kidnapped to Hyberns camp she is fine when they show up. Even though she is gagged, bound, and hearing all the terrible things going on in hyberns camp around her she is not cowering in fear…

“A nod. "Get ready to run."My heart thundered. Elain glanced between us, but did not tremble. Did not cringe.

Then as they are escaping she helps save briar!

“"Grab onto him!" Elain ordered the wide-eyed human girl as Azriel thundered toward her….”“Elain screamed at her, "If you want to live, do it now!"

“Azriel, catching amongst his wings as he practically tackled her into the sky. But I saw, even as I ran, Elain's pale hands lurch-gripping the girl by her neck, holding her as tightly as she could.”

When Azriel, Briar & Elain are being attacked by Hybern hounds and briar is too scared to do anything Elain fought off the beast w her bare feet..

“The girl screamed, but Elain moved. As Azriel battled to keep them airborne, keep his grip on them, my sister sent a fierce kick into the beast’s face. Its eye. Another. Another. It bellowed, and Elain slammed her bare, muddy foot into its face again. The blow struck home. With a yelp of pain, it released its claws—and plunged into the ravine.”

Later on in Acowar when the IC couldn’t figure out how to protect the humans in Hyberns war it was Elain who came up with the plan on how to save them and how to be able to get to Graysen to do it.

“Rhys considered. "If we get a ship, they can sail—""They will demand their families and friends come."A beat of silence. Not an option. Then Elain said quietly, "We could move them toGray-sen's estate."We all faced her at the evenness of her voice.”…

“"We can set up a guard-" Cassian began.”No Elain interrupted, her voice louder than I'd heard in months. "They ... Graysen and his father ..Cassian's jaw tightened. "Then we cloak—They have hounds. Bred and trained to hunt you. Detect you."A stiff silence as my friends contemplated how, exactly, those hounds had been trained."You can't mean to leave their castle un-defended," Cassian tried a shade more gently."Even with the ash, it won't be enough. We'd need to set wards at the very minimum." Elain considered. "I can speak to him.""No," I said—at the same moment Nesta did.But Elain cut us off. "If-if you and ... they"—a glance at Rhys, my friends-"come with me, your Fae scents might distract the dogs.""You're Fae, too," Nesta reminded her."Glamour me," Elain said-to Rhys. "Make me look human. Just long enough to convince him to open his gates to those seeking sanc-tuary. Perhaps even let you set those wards”

Then during the war she tracks the suriel. Feyre talks about going into Elains mind and even though Elain didn’t have any mental shield up Feyre notes this…

“She had no mental shields, no barriers. The gates to her mind ... Solid iron, covered in vines of flowers—or it would have been. The blossoms were all sealed, sleeping buds tucked into tangles of leaves and thorns.”

Finally in Acowar even though Elain doesn’t care for violence she steps out of shadow, tells the king of Hybern off and then stabs him through the kneck saving Nesta and Cassians life.

“But as a black blade broke through the king’s throat, spraying blood, I realized someone else had. Elain stepped out of a shadow behind him, and rammed Truth-Teller to the hilt through the back of the king’s neck as she snarled in his ear, “Don’t you touch my sister.”

And then we go on to acofas and acosf. In Acosf we see Elain stick up for herself and willing to scry even though no one wants her too.

We haven’t even had Elains pov yet and she’s shown that she is brave, clever and doesn’t mind getting her hands dirty to protect the people she loves. So when people try to see she’s not strong enough, not good enough, she’s weak useless blah. This is not true in canon. Elain has helped everyone since Acomaf and has been pivotal at times too.

People tend to forget Nesta never even wanted to hold a weapon & had no idea how to fight before Acosf. Now look at her. She’s a Valkyrie. A lot changes when you get the characters pov. Just because Elain isn’t like Nesta does not mean she isn’t strong.You can be soft, kind, & feminine and still fight beasts. You can love peaceful things like baking & gardening and still kill a evil king. SJM has pointed out multiple times that Elain is strong, she has a different sort of strength. & I cannot wait for her book!

#acotar #sarah j maas #elain archeron #pro elain #acowar #acosf #archeron sisters

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igotanidea · 1 year ago

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The fear : Jason Todd x fem!reader part 8

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

***

„You good?” Damian asked taking in her pale face and hurt eye expression.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” She muttered, obviously lying. Even despite her experience-enhanced skills in the art of deceiving it was impossible to cover up for the fact that unwanted, unneeded and unwelcomed encounter with Jason took a huge tool on her mentality. And it lasted no longer than an hour.

An hour, that took turn from open hostility to a little unexpected heart to heart that opened old wounds. Reminding of the past mistakes, lost things and casted wounds. Ruined relationship that was doomed from the very beginning.

But even though-

They fought for it.

They fought to the best of their limited abilities, despite the world that was conspiring against them and throwing obstacles their way. Damn that tears that started flowing down her face when she started dwelling in the past. There was no denying she still held strong feelings for him, though couldn’t quite define if they were good ones or the bad ones.

“Y/N…”

“I’m fine, Damian. I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine…” she repeated as some sort of spell. A lie told a hundred times becoming a reality.

“Let’s get you upstairs first. We’ll watch some silly movies so you could stop telling me bullshit.”

“Hey! Language!”

“I’m 15, you can’t tell me what to do.”

“15 my ass. Still the same nasty little boy as always only with a fouler mouth.”

“It’s good to see you again Y/N.” Damian smirked

“Yeah, you too, kiddo.”

“You do realise you won’t be heading back home tonight, right?”

“What? Huh! You’re gonna keep me captive now or something?”

“You voluntarily got yourself in the house full of vigilantes, the heck were you thinking?”

“I could argue on that voluntarily part but-“

Regardless of what she said, it was evident that Damian has grown during the time they didn’t see each other. Not only in height, but also mentally. And it only made her realise the full amount of things she lost.

Not just the man she loved, but also priceless time with her best friends Wayne boys.

While Y/N was getting drunk and laughed with Dick, Tim and Damian upstairs, Jason refused to step a foot out the batcave as long as she was still in the manor.

Fuck her.

Fuck her help, her words, her gestures, her eyes and hair, her smile and her coming for the rescue attitude. Who the hell she thought she was?! Paw patrol?!

The anger started boiling in him again, threatening to take over.

Anger at everything, but mostly at himself for getting so vulnerable and honest with her, to the point when he asked her to fucking take him back.

Pathetic. Foolish. Idiot.

“Aghghhg!” he jumped from the chair kicking it with all the rage he had, nearly breaking the metal.

Fighting the urge to destroy all that stupid batcave – the real reason of his fucked up life and psyche. He could have been a normal boy being in a relationship with the girl of his dreams. Instead he had to die (leaving her in tears), come back (leaving her in tears), suffering from the Pit madness (leaving her in tears) and due to this fucking fear gas incident loose her again (leaving her in tears)

“FUCK!” he grabbed the chair and threw it on the floor “FUCK!” he yelled, throwing all the stuff from the nearest desk “FUCK!!!” he pulled at his hair, hard enough he could be left bald.

He had no idea what he wanted.

So fucking angry, horn-mad, charged with hands itching to punch something, someone, to destroy, hurt, kill…

Stop…

“Huh?! Get the fuck out of my head Y/N!!” he yelled in the air, his voice echoing through the empty space.

Stop, Jason…

Right. Stop. He was past his killing days. He was not a monster. Not a beast.

He changed. He grew up, matured, became a man and not a boy.

He had to get a hold of himself.

Move past the past.

If he couldn’t have her he might as well spend the evening with his crazy asses brothers, giving them his attitude, using the bad mood to banter and bicker and pick up on someone else to make himself feel better.

So he emerged from the batcave, almost in the same way he did emerge from the Pit.

Slowly heading upstairs.

To the main room, filled with surprising silence. Deafening silence that formed goosebumps on his arms and immediately put him on alert, searching for some kind of threat.

Vigilante instincts never fail.

There was some movement on the couch.

Two people, a man and a woman judging by the silhouettes.

Girl sitting on man's lap, straddling him, their hands all over each other, their lips moving together, the room filled with soft whines of pleasure and sweet whispers.

“Y/N…” the man whispered.

THE FUCK!?

Jason stomped inside without a care in the world, making the couple break the intense make-out session and look at him with terrified expressions.

“Grayson!!!” he yelled taking in the scene, his fury immediately raising head again. “Y/N!!!”

He was right.

There was someone else in her life already.

And that someone was the fuckboy - his older adoptive-brother.

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iknowher · 6 months ago

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⠀⠀⠀⠀🍬ㅤ۫ ⠀𝓣rick or 𝓣reat 𝓓ick ࣪ ᚐ ִ

art by @ baobei_bu on tmblr.

🎃ㅤ♰ ㅤ˙ㅤsum. ㅤbored before a halloween party, you summon a demon for fun. to your surprise, incubus!gojo appears, offering you a tempting choice: "trick or dick?" 👻ㅤ♰ ㅤ˙ㅤcw.ㅤsmut (18+), squirting, semen.. reader is described female, mentions about demonic rituals 😈ㅤ♰ ㅤ˙ㅤwc.ㅤ1,1k 𓉸 𓈒ㅤmy* note: the person who drew the art is so goated fr

you looked at the clock.. still a couple hours to go till the halloween party officially began. you decided the best way to endorse your time was to do a dare, of course! you went on google: how to summon demons… you figured out that it was probably fake, but it wouldn’t hurt to try. first step was to kill a stranger?? yeah no. you still had a couple of red crayons from kindergarten, and you drew a baphomet symbol. safe to say it didn’t even look remotely to what you were supposed to draw. now you just need 4 candles! good thing you hoarded bath&body candles like no tomorrow. wow, you were finally done— and the aroma spread through the whole house! time for the actual incantation… te invoco a profundus inferni… no response.. wait— is there seriously an earthquake? the whole vicinity shook around you, you were sure the earth was gonna collapse at how hard it was shaking. good thing it only lasted a few seconds. it was a strange occurrence, sure, but something else was in front of you. did it actually work?! but it was no ordinary demon now that’d be boring. you noticed a man in front of you with a sly smirk. he had white, frosty hair and blue eyes. not to mention the slutty outfit he had on. a latex bodysuit with a heart cut-out, there were no sleeves— so you could see the absolutely toned arms. his horns were a gradient of purple to black and the tip of his tail was heart-shaped. actually, you both were kind of matching— you had the same outfit, but with fake horns and tail of course. you guys were giving couple goals! anywho, his eyes dropped from your boobs heart cut-out back to your face. ‘’what? you decided to dress up as me for halloween?’’ he teased you, ‘’i’m quite endeared.’’ you furrow your eyebrows, you just found the costume at a walmart. ‘’no? i didn’t even know you existed.’’ you couldn’t help but admit he was certainly attractive, and the bulge in his probably-too-tight bodysuit was a bit too noticeable… ‘’well, human, since you summoned me and awakened me from my eternal slumber..’’ he thought for a moment, placing one finger on his chin. ‘’trick or dick?’’ you were confused, what type of question was that? normally it was trick or treat. however.. you couldn’t help but consider that he didn’t look like an ordinary demon, he had a purple and pink color scheme— instead of the normal black and red. ‘’what are you?’’ you asked blatantly. ‘’oh.. mortals nowadays�� i’m an incubus.’’ what did he just say? in-cum-us? you clenched your thighs together, rubbing against your core. ‘’omg.. are you stupid or stupid. i’m a sex demon, silly.’’ he slowly stepped up to you, ‘’so, answer me.. trick or dick?’’ you gulped, looking around.. it wouldn’t hurt to do it once, and you’d have to wait for that party anyways.. so, ‘’dick.’’

now, somehow, you’re here on the couch with him on top of you. you were stripped of all your clothes, besides your horns, since he said that it was ‘’cute’’. surprisingly enough, for a sex demon, he took things gentle in the beginning. but it wasn’t long before you pleaded him to go faster. ‘’faster.. ‘s too slow.’’ he rolled his eyes, ‘’foolish.. okay.’’ he picked up the pace by quite a lot, his thick and long shaft reached every area, as if your pussy was practically molded for him. he couldn’t help but also pay attention to your tits, fondling them. you couldn’t keep in your moans, your neighbors probably heard.. whatever, you whimpered.. ‘’i’m close..’’ his smirk turned into a grin. as he started rubbing your clit, it didn’t take long till you cummed. cum x1. oh.. how did we get here? you were on your knees, begging him to let you suck him off. he agreed hesitantly, but that’s ‘cause he didn’t wanna moan more than you. your tongue licked the sides, and he already let out the most sluttiest mewl ever. you finally began sucking him off, his hand coming on top of your head to pull on your hair. sure, it did hurt, but you kinda liked it..! the tip of his cock kept hitting the back of your throat, and let’s just say your gag reflex is absolutely ass. soon enough, he let out a mewl, putting his hand on the back of your head to make you go faster. he cummed in your mouth.. he offered you a tissue to spit it on, thank god because you didn’t wanna swallow up his seed.

cum x2.. and now he was sitting between your thighs, your legs spread out and all. he wondered how many fingers you could take. he put his index finger in your hole, quickly clenching around it. your pussy reacting to him, i mean— he was much better than you masturbating to cringe hentai, you got shivers remembering. he pulled out his finger to replace with his tongue, and it felt extraordinary, you weren’t good at having intercourse at all, he already figured it out. he swirled his tongue around your sensitive nub, it sending electric currents throughout your whole body. you kept letting out groaning, till the point he had to tell you to quiet down ‘’a little bit’’. the moment he put two fingers in and hitting your g-spot.. you knew you were doomed. he was bringing you immense pleasure, till the point that you.. cummed.. well, it felt a lot different.. it felt wetter. the wetness came onto most of his face, and he was shocked, for a moment. ‘’did you.. squirt?’’ before you could apologize, he let out a chuckle.

cum x3...?

well, the story goes like this… when an incubus makes a girl cum 3 times.. he can collect your soul, in old demon fashion. you didn’t even have time to react, you sold your soul for some good ol’ sex, and now god knows what happened to you. a few hours after the halloween party began, your friends knocked on your door, i mean, you had planned to meet up with them. knock.. knock.. knock. but alas, no answer— your body was an empty husk now. all for a little dare!

TRICK OR TREAT DICK?

♡ㅤ˒ㅤ666ㅤwork by @ iknowher ,, do not plagiarize! ..ᵗʰⁱˢ ʷᵃˢ ˢᵘᵖᵖᵒˢᵉᵈ ᵗᵒ ᵇᵉ ˢᵘᵏᵘⁿᵃ

#jujutsu #jujutsu gojo #jujutsu kaisen #jjk gojo #jjk x reader #jjk #gojo satoru #satoru gojo #smut #jjk smut #kinktober #oneshot #fem reader #iknowher #art by baobei-bu

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dioslesbianwife · 3 months ago

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Hi I think your villain headcannons are well thought out. I’m not too familiar with the other vaillains frame of thinking but I could talk for hours about Dio’s brain because I think too hard about stuff like this 💀 anyways I think your writing is great and I get excited whenever I see you post and I look forward to things in the future ^-^ (I was referencing your crushes one for some fanfic I’m writing at the time too).

My question for the villains is how would they react to snow/cold/winter? I was wondering how Dio would feel about it and I’m on the fence between not caring enough to have an opinion and hating the cold. Maybe he would like. I don’t know.

Of course! This is a great headcannon idea. Also thank you so much for the kind words :) , I’d totally love to check out that fanfic! Also you’re my first headcannon request so thanks again, tried to make these a bit longer than my usual headcannons, (totally agree that dio’s one of the most interesting characters to analyze)

Jofoe Winter Headcannons 🤍

Dio

Loathes the cold. He’s already cold all the time, so winter weather feels like an insult to his existence. He sees it as nature’s cruel mockery of his frigid, undead body. He dramatically declares that the weather conspires to weaken him but cannot succeed, yet refuses to step outside unless necessary.

If he has to go out, he wears the most extravagant fur lined coat imaginable, looking like a 19th century aristocrat. He treats the occasion like a royal event and expects everyone to admire his impeccable taste.

He’ll complain that “humans are such foolish creatures” for building civilizations in places where it snows.

To compensate, he’ll demand a roaring fire in every room and might even force “convince” some random person to keep it going 24/7. Complains constantly about drafts in the house, though he never fixes them himself. Instead, he demands the others tend to his comfort.

Despite his distaste for the cold, he secretly finds snow beautiful. He’ll stand by the window at night, admiring the way moonlight reflects off the snow.

Spends long winter evenings in front of a roaring fire, reading old books or sipping blood/wine.

Kars

Kars is unimpressed by cold weather. He views it as just another part of Earth’s natural cycles, just another challenge for lesser beings, and adapts without complaint.

He doesn’t feel the cold like humans do but finds snow mildly inconvenient for walking or hunting.

Secretly appreciates the beauty of untouched snow and might spend a quiet moment observing snow covered landscapes.

He doesn’t feel too strongly about cold weather though he does enjoy seeing some of the others not being at their best due to the low temperatures.

He appreciates the hushed serenity of winter nights, where everything feels still and timeless.

Yoshikage Kira

Kira finds cold weather to be peaceful and enjoys how it makes everything quiet and still. Winter appeals to Kira’s love of quiet and order. He appreciates how snow blankets the world in stillness, muffling the noise and chaos he dislikes.

He meticulously layers his clothing to stay warm, dressing impeccably for the cold, with perfectly tailored coats, scarves, and gloves. All the pieces match and complement each other.

Prefers to stay indoors and sip tea by the heater, reading or listening to music while ignoring the chaos anyone else may cause.

He despises anything messy, so slush, mud, or salt stains in the house are a nightmare for him. He’s particular about keeping the house clean during winter, and he’ll passive aggressively remind everyone to “wipe their shoes properly.”

Kira enjoys winter traditions in moderation, such as watching an old film or reading by the fire, but dislikes overly festive activities like loud holiday parties or messing around in the snow.

Enjoys watching snowflakes fall while standing outside, feeling a rare moment of calm and connection with the world.

Diavolo

Diavolo is not a fan of winter. He finds the cold annoying and views snowy conditions as nothing but a hindrance. Sees it as yet another obstacle in his already convoluted life. Snowstorms, icy roads, and freezing temperatures are just disruptions.

He refuses to dress for the weather, insisting on wearing his usual clothing, even if it means freezing.

Diavolo despises the festive cheer of the season, avoiding any holiday gatherings or traditions.

Enjoys the eerie silence of snowstorms. It reminds him of the isolation he prefers.

Doppio

Doppio enjoys winter a lot more than Diavolo. Doppio is practical and down to earth about winter. While he doesn’t love the cold, he handles it with a quiet sense of responsibility.

He’s bundled up despite Diavolo muttering that he looks ridiculous.

He probably slips on ice a lot but laughs it off quickly. Snow doesn’t tend to settle long where he’s from in Italy (as far as I know), so he’ll take advantage of it and try to enjoy himself.

Doppio enjoys winter for the moments of peace it brings. He likes sitting by the fire with a cup of coffee, catching up on personal projects or reflecting on the year and business in Passione.

Enrico Pucci

Pucci views winter as a time of reflection and spiritual renewal. He sees the snow as a metaphor for purity. He finds a lot of meaning in the season’s challenges.

He remains calm and composed, unfazed by the cold weather. If anything, he uses the season as an opportunity to deepen his faith through prayer and meditation. He may even take some time to fast.

He maintains his composure in all weather, dressing appropriately but without extravagance. His winter wardrobe is simple yet elegant.

Prefers to spend winter evenings reading religious texts by candlelight or sitting by a fire, contemplating his plans. He dislikes excessive holiday celebrations, seeing them as distractions, but he might participate minimally.

He greatly enjoys the solitude of snowy evenings as it’s perfect for introspection.

Likes the way snow transforms the world, making everything look clean and untouched. A visual metaphor for his ideals.

Funny Valentine

Valentine treats winter like it’s a symbol of resilience and pride. He gives rousing speeches about the strength of enduring cold weather for the greater good. He embraces the season as an opportunity to showcase strength and perseverance.

He’s well prepared for winter, dressing in layers of elegant coats and scarves. He oozes an air of authority even in the harshest snowstorm.

Enjoys hosting grand dinners by the fire during the holiday season, using the occasion to strengthen alliances or spread his patriotic beliefs.

Valentine dislikes the inconvenience of icy roads and sidewalks but won’t complain openly, considering it beneath him.

He’ll talk everyone’s ear off about how when he was younger, he’d shovel snow or how back in the military he’d gone through cold weather training. These things build character, strengthen the spirit, etc etc.

Secretly enjoys writing in the snow with a stick, leaving messages or symbols that only he understands.

My Dumb group Headcannons:

Doppio starts a snowball fight, having always wanted to try one, but Dio escalates it into all-out war. Kars refuses to participate but critiques everyone’s aim. Kira and Pucci go back inside. Funny Valentine builds a military grade snow fort but by the time he’s done everyone’s already gone inside.

Pucci insists on a tasteful, minimalist approach to holiday decorating, Dio adds gaudy decor after Pucci leaves the room, but Kira and Diavolo don’t want any decorations and team up to take them down.

Kira quietly takes charge of cooking, ensuring everything is perfect, while Valentine waits till Kira leaves the kitchen to make some dishes he’s personally familiar with because he’s extra like that. Dio complains if his preferences aren’t catered to.

Diavolo refuses to shovel the driveway, leaving Doppio to struggle with it while Kars criticizes his technique, explaining how easily a superior lifeform like himself could do it much faster, making Doppio’s eye twitch in irritation.

•••••••••••••

Hope you enjoyed! I love these weirdos.

#jojo's bizarre adventure #diavolo #dio #dio brando #doppio #enrico pucci #funny valentine #kars #kira #kira yoshikage #jjba headcanons #pucci #yoshikage kira

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sorrel-leaf-vespers · 10 months ago

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Good [timezone] DoaI Sitcom AU Tumblr, have some Simon (recommend you read this post beforehand if you want context!

Alex had found a way to climb up to the roof of the house near the barn. They had been sitting up there all night, using the moonlight to try to jot down their asylum-raid plan. Clyde was getting more restless by the day, worried sick about Winfrey. Alex knew they had to get Winfrey out of the asylum soon. It might have been the only way to keep Clyde from charging headfirst into a fight they might not have been able to win. Alex didn’t doubt its abilities, but one Veldigun against countless caretakers was a fight they didn’t want to risk.

There was also the issue of Alex’s Veldigun sickness. They had noticed their fingers had started developing stripes similar to those on Clyde, Simon, and Flock. They had started having some back pain, maybe from where spines would start to grow in. They were starting to get more energetic at night and lethargic during the day. Other than that, there had been no negative side effects, miraculously. They had already discussed things with the other three- er, two, since it wasn't like the Flock could contribute much to the discussions. It was an oddity. The working theory was that Alex’s prolonged exposure to Clyde had made them immune to the side effects. There was no way to prove it, but it was enough of an explanation for Alex.

“What are you doing?” someone asked.

Alex turned around. Simon was climbing onto the roof. “Oh. Hi, Simon. I’m working on the breakout plan.”

Simon looked over Alex’s shoulder at the notebook. “Mm. I see.”

“Are you still sure you don’t want to come?”

“Even if they are caretakers, I don’t want to risk hurting a human.”

Alex nodded. “You know, I don’t know too much about you, despite the fact that I’ve been in your barn for a while. What’s your story?”

“My… story?” Simon chuckled nervously. “Well, what do you want to know?”

“Mostly about you. Why do you wear the costume?”

Simon stared at Alex for a few moments, then sighed and sat down next to them. “Well… you know what Veldigun look like. Most humans find them intimidating. Terrifying. The costume makes me more approachable. I can hide in plain sight. There are a few more... personal reasons... but it’s how I’ve been able to learn so much about humans.”

“Why do you want to study them?”

“The same reason you want to study Veldigun. They’re a fascinating species, and I want to learn all I can about them in order to understand and coexist with them. I’m vehemently against harming them, as you know.”

“Why is that?”

Simon went silent. “... I regret doing so.”

“You what?”

“There’s a question I’ve been dodging since we met. I…” Simon heaved a sigh. “Hell. You remember when Clyde called me a hypocrite?”

Alex nodded.

“It sees me as such because I did originally target humans. In my earlier days, I was wandering through these woods, starving and alone. I came across this house and this barn. I thought maybe I could use this place for shelter. It was the middle of the night, so I felt safe. I snuck into the house and started exploring. I went upstairs, and I found…” Simon’s posture shifted, making him appear much smaller. “There was a young boy in one of the bedrooms. I was young and inexperienced, and naive and foolish as all Hell, and… God, this is going to be hard for me to say…”

“You killed him?”

Simon nodded. “I didn’t fully understand the consequences of my actions back then. I was starving, and I just… without a second thought, he was gone. In the next room, I found his parents, and… they suffered the same fate.” Simon wrapped his arms around himself. “I was content for a bit, but then I got to delve into their minds, as you can figure. What I discovered about them was not what I expected. These were unique creatures, with complex lives and fascinating experiences. They were curious, perceptive, intuitive. They were… a lot like us. Like Veldigun. I immediately began to regret what I had done. I saw that humans needed to be protected. I swore off hurting any more. That’s also why I decided to settle on this farm. So their minds can remain here for as long as I can allow.”

Alex didn’t say anything. What could they even say? Simon very clearly regretted what he had done, treating it like a genuine mistake. He clearly loved humans. “So is that why Clyde called you a hypocrite and treats you like a rival?”

Simon was silent for a few moments, then nodded. “It sees humans as nothing but a food source. Though, with you entering the picture, I wonder if its perception has changed. If there’s one thing that Clyde is motivated by, it’s food. Maybe giving it a pre-prepared meal and a source of shelter got you on its good side. That is what you wanted, no?” Simon chuckled a little. “I am the protector of humanity, and Clyde is its adversary. I’ve accepted it at this point.”

“What about Winfrey? Clyde has refused to talk about them in detail, but Winfrey seems to be a pretty big motivator.”

“Winfrey?” Simon glanced around at the surroundings. “I feel bad talking about Clyde behind its back, but… yes, I suppose that Winfrey would also be a big motivator for Clyde to take action.”

“Are they close?”

“You could say that. They’re… I suppose there’s no other way to say it. They’re romantically involved.”

Alex almost fell off the roof. “They’re WHAT?”

“Yes. Winfrey is the most important person in the world to Clyde. No doubt if it didn’t have you to restrain it, it would have raided the Asylum already. And to be honest, I think we should stop the discussion there. If Clyde doesn’t want to talk about it, it may not appreciate me disclosing this information.” Simon paused. “Although, as much as Clyde and I may bicker, thank you for keeping it safe.”

“It’s no problem.” Alex turned back to their notebook. The stakes had just been raised.

Simon stood up and stretched inside his costume. “The sun is coming up. I think I’ll go wrangle the Flock and get it inside to sleep.”

“Seeya.”

“I’ll report back soon.”

Simon slid off the roof and down into the house. Alex leaned back. Wow. What an evening full of discoveries that made this mission even more important.

#doai #doai sitcom au #sitcom au #dreams of an insomniac #doai alex williams #alex williams doai #simon doai #doai simon #clyde doai #doai clyde #winfrey doai #doai winfrey #fic #au

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forgedroyalseal · 1 month ago

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Life a bit to the left:

TW: outdated and negative views of PTSD and alcoholism

Halt hesitated at the threshold of the dungeon. He could turn around. He could turn and go back to Will’s bedside, where he had been sitting like an armed guard for hours. Not that there was anyone who’d dare lay a hand on him, Halt’s presence or not. The only person foolish enough to harm the boy was currently locked behind bars.

Halt shook himself. He was many things, but a coward would never be one of them. He stepped forward and approached the cell with his shoulders squared. He knew he wasn’t the largest man, but he also knew that with his hood drawn as it was now, he still cut an intimidating figure. He wasn’t sure how coherent Daniel would be, if he’d be able to understand what Halt wanted to say to him, or if he’d make more progress talking to a stone wall, but he had to try.

“Daniel Blackwood?”

The man shifted off his cot and approached the bars. “What do you want?”

Halt glad to see clarity in the man’s eyes. From the minimal pieces of information Will had let slip, Halt knew that Daniel’s “good” days were few and far between. Though in retrospect, having your home burned down, knocking your own son unconscious, and then landing yourself in the dungeon couldn’t exactly be described as a “good” day, for anyone.

“I am Ranger Halt O’Carrick. Your son is my apprentice.” He wasn’t sure how much Will had told his father about his apprenticeship, if anything. Though, even if Will had said something, Halt doubted the man was ever sober enough to retain any new information.

Daniel’s red rimmed eye narrowed, anger seeping into his features as he frowned. “O’Carrick you say?”

“Yes.”

Daniel’s frown morphed into a snarl. “You’ve got a hell of a lot of nerve comin’ down here and talkin’ to me.”

“I’ve come to speak to you about Will.”

“Keep away from my boy Ranger.” He growled, slamming his palms against the bars.

Halt held his ground. “I am doing right by your son. I’m giving him the opportunity to have a future, a life outside this.” Halt gestured to Daniel’s stained and tattered clothes. “But he cannot progress with you holding him back. I know you’ve faced troubles, more than most-“

“TROUBLES?” Daniel bellowed. “How dare you! How dare you come to me as if you aren’t the reason for these troubles! As if you didn’t ruin my life!”

Halt dropped his eyes to the cracking stone’s beneath his feet. He had always wondered if Daniel knew the truth. He had hoped not, seeing as Will appeared to have no knowledge of the matter, but it would seem that his father simply hadn’t shared the truth with him.

“And now you tell you’ve, what, taken Will on as an apprentice? What do you think he’d say if he knew the truth? If he knew that you were the reason he doesn’t have a mother?”

“What happened to your wife was horrible, and I’ll carry that guilt with me until the end of my days. But I am not the reason Will never had a father. That’s on you Blackwood.”

“You destroyed my life.” He spat.

“No, you did that. You may have lost your wife, but you still had a son. You were the one who turned your back on him.” The months of buried anger at Will’s father began to bubble to the surface as flashes of every bruise and cut and scar flooded Halt’s vision. Every self deprecating comment Will has ever made echoed in his ears. “Do you have any clue how remarkable your son is? How strong and brave and intelligent he is? No, of course you don’t. Because instead of nurturing him, you became the monster that haunted his house. You have apparently done everything you possibly could to ruin your son. But you failed. Just like you have failed at being a father.”

Daniel reached through the bars, desperately trying to claw at Halt, who stepped just out of arm's reach. “You will never be his father Ranger! Do you understand? I am his father!”

“Then for once in your sorry life act like it!” Halt matched his booming volume. “Your son is lying unconscious in the infirmary!” He roared in Daniel’s face. “You sent him there when you slammed his head into the ground. His back is covered in burns from where you threw him into coals! He could die, and it would be your fall. Your hands would be drenched in his blood!”

Daniel jumped back from the iron bars as if they had burned him. “Will’s fine. He’s- he’s always fine.”

Halt barked out a laugh. “Is that what you think? That he isn’t hurt by what you do to him? What you say to him? He’s a child, Daniel, your child. And you treat him worse than a dog.”

“Why are you saying this? I love my son! I wouldn’t hurt him!” Daniel curled his arms around himself, clutching at his back.

“You just did! You-” Halt stopped himself suddenly. He took in the scared, confused look on Daniel’s face. “You don’t remember. You don’t remember hurting him.”

“I already told you ranger, I’d never hurt my boy.” Daniel’s anger began to return.

Halt stepped back. There was no point in arguing with Daniel. Whatever was wrong in his head, whatever scars the war and the death of his wife had left, his mind was split. The man didn’t seem to have any memory of his fits. He was mad. And Halt knew better than to waste his time arguing with a madman.

“I’m going to take care of your son Daniel. I’m going to make sure he gets everything he deserves from this life. But you need to let him go. Let him go and find his potential. Because Daniel,” Halt softened his voice, “your son is capable of greatness. But he can’t become the man he’s destined to be if he is worried about you. So please, let him go.”

Daniel blinked slowly at him, a confused glaze settling over his eyes. Halt sighed and wondered if the man had heard anything he said before his mind retreated in on itself.

“Drink?” The man asked, his voice now child-like and small.

“Good night Daniel.” Halt said.

“Good night Daniel?” He echoed back to him.

Halt just shook his head and turned out of the dungeon. The conversation had given him whiplash and left him exhausted. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like to live with someone like that, to grow up with someone like that. Someone whose emotions were so erratic, you never knew what to expect. Daniel’s personality had turned on a dime mid conversation. That kind of instability must have left Will constantly edge. For what must have been the hundredth time, Halt’s heart broke for the boy. He quickened his pace, desperate to get back to Will, to make sure he’s safe and cared for. To make sure that he didn’t wake up afraid and alone. Because if Halt gets his way, Will will never feel afraid and alone again.

#life a bit to the left #rangers apprentice #ranger's apprentice #will treaty #ranger’s apprentice fanfiction #rangers apprentice fanfiction #fanfiction #halt o'carrick #fanfiction friday

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cloudemojisworld · 11 months ago

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Greetings all, I have no idea what I’m talking about!

I was raised on Star *Wars,* but have recently picked up a fixation on Star *Trek.*

I’ve seen the first few seasons of Strange New Worlds and all of Lower Decks.

That is the extent of my knowledge.

(I do intend to further this knowledge greatly, but this is where I’m at, now.)

I’ve comprised a list of questions, and thoughts, progressing from most genuine to most unhinged.

Do I expect or demand answers? No! Not at all, you may simply laugh as you wish.

Enjoy:

•How do stardates work.

Also can I have a calendar.

•WHAT is the mirror dimension. (I mean it’s obviously a bizarro alternate universe thing but STILL)

•I keep hearing about a guy named Bones. I’m pretty sure he’s Scottish. I know nothing about him other than I’m gonna love him

•I’ve yet to decipher if Spock is babygirl or mothering. It’s one of the two

•How did the Gorn build working spaceships. They’re literally the ravenous dog things from ghostbusters

•Why are the good guy ships pancakes

(I don’t know how the warp core works, I imagine it’s that shape for Project Manhattan type reasons, but that’s just a guess)

•What is different about Vulcan blood that makes it green. Jolly rancher coded species

•I know it’s for a good reason, but I feel like most actual aliens wouldn’t be humanoid. Our bodies are NOT efficient enough for this to be the default

•I’m like 94% sure that Klingons are Japan and Romulans are Russia. I know the original thing was made in the 60s, and given the general adversity those two countries had to USS ships, plastering your fictional advisories with those stereotypes seems like a pretty good way to appeal to US audiences.

•also Vulcans are house cats

(Sorce: triangle ears, generally seen as uncaring, can purr.)

[Counterpoint, yet to see a Vulcan intentionally knock a glass off a table]

•Can you guys tell that Spock is my favorite

•The one and only hard stance I will take is that if Christopher Pike isn’t bisexual then they’re wrong

(Evidence: I mean, look at him. Also straight men aren’t allowed to be that sassy)

•WHAT are sonic showers.

My thought process is this:

I know that Sonic means fast because Sonic Waves, and also that hedgehog. Do they just blast you with sonic sound waves???? I mean I doubt it, but what do I know-

That’d be super loud, though. You’d have to wear hearing protection, but what about the rest of the ship? Do they just have something at a frequency nobody can hear, and the grime just vibrates off of you?

Wiggle dirt??????

I HIGHLY doubt that’s even close, but I imagine the dramatic irony is worth my foolishness.

•Is there some alien teen out there making a “21st century earth aesthetic!” tutorial.

(“Save the planet” baseball cap, with 20’s feather. Marvel tee. Pettycaot under jean skirt. Knee high tango boots. Facemask.)

#star trek strange new worlds #spock #Pike #Im so new to this I don’t even know what a baby Star Trek nerd is called #Dwarf star? Maybe? If not then in should be #uss enterprise #Nerd alert #Star Trek #baby nerd #Seriously though what are stardates

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starryeyedjanai · 2 years ago

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Be still, my foolish heart part 4

@steddie-week day 4

familiar: 1114 words

part 1, part 2, part 3

Steve finds out that Eddie's not doing well from Dustin.

He’s been avoiding him - avoiding Eddie, who’s also avoiding him.

He didn't want to think about it, about why Eddie’s avoiding him, so he started avoiding hanging out with everyone when he knows Eddie will be there. If he doesn't see him, he doesn't have to think about the fact that Eddie doesn't want anything to do with him.

But then Dustin shows up.

He shows up at Steve's house, begging him to help. He doesn't know what’s wrong, but something is wrong with Eddie, he says.

He says Eddie won't eat, won't drink any animal blood, and Dustin doesn't know what to do.

Steve's heart is firmly in his throat as he listens to Dustin talk about how Eddie’s wasting away inside his house instead of hunting, instead of feeding.

Dustin apparently brought Eddie a squirrel he caught and he turned him away, said he wasn't hungry, but he’s so pale his skin is nearly translucent.

This is happening because of him.

He’s avoiding drinking because of what happened with Steve. Was he so horrified by Steve's reaction that he can't even stomach blood from animals anymore? Was he so turned off by the thought of Steve liking it that he’s hurting himself this way, depriving himself of the one thing he actually needs to stay alive?

It makes Steve's head spin, thinking about Eddie being so utterly disgusted by him.

But he has to help. He can't sit by and let Eddie continue to not get what he needs to survive and he hates seeing Dustin so sad, not understanding why it’s happening. So he goes to him.

He shows up outside Wayne and Eddie’s house, the new government-bought property that sits on the outskirts of town. He doesn't knock, knows Eddie leaves it unlocked when he’s here during the day, and his van is parked outside.

He barges inside and goes into Eddie’s room, feels his heart thump loud in his chest at the sight of Eddie curled up in his bed, looking pale and weak from the hunger, a sheen of sweat on his face.

He almost wants to ask, wants to know if he’s the reason for all this, if Eddie was so repulsed by Steve that he’s refusing to eat. He knows the answer, so he doesn't ask, doesn't want to hear the words come out of Eddie's mouth.

He walks up to his bed, says, “You need to drink. You can't go on like this or you’ll die. That’s what Owens said. So I can go try and find you a squirrel or something or you can drink from me, but I’m not leaving until you drink something.”

He hopes it’s enough, the threat of Steve sticking around until he eats. It has to be enough.

Eddie looks at him with bruised eyes, looks at his neck, where the marks from his mouth have faded a little. It bruised like hell the day after it happened, the skin shades of red and purple. It looked like a hickey, kind of. Like someone wanted him so much they had to mark him up. Steve looked at it in the mirror for days after and sighed wistfully for things he’ll never have. It’s faded since then, the bruise and the small marks from Eddie’s teeth. He mourned it, the last reminder he had of Eddie's mouth on him.

Eddie reaches a hand out like he’s reaching for Steve. He doesn’t say anything, but it’s enough for Steve.

He comes closer, kneels by the bed, and says, “You look awful. Please let me do this for you. Dustin’s going insane. I need you to eat.”

“I’ll eat,” Eddie croaks out, licking his dry, cracked lips.

Steve reaches out for him, helps him onto his side and crawls onto the bed beside him. He’s nervous, doesn’t want the same reaction that happened last time to happen this time, doesn’t want to further make Eddie uncomfortable.

He just wants to help. So he tries to keep a lid on the loud beating of his heart as he gets as close as he can to Eddie.

He holds his wrist out in front of Eddie’s mouth because he doesn’t know if offering his neck in this position will work. And maybe being bit there was the problem. Maybe if it’s like this, Steve can control his reaction more.

Eddie opens his mouth and Steve’s blood sings in his body, remembering the way it got pulled through his veins last time by Eddie’s mouth.

He wants this. He doesn't know how not to.

He wants to help him so much, but he can’t deny that he wants this for other reasons too. To be close to Eddie, to feel that same pleasure as last time. But he’ll be better this time, he won’t make Eddie uncomfortable.

He lowers his wrist and tries to conceal his gasp as Eddie’s fangs dig into his skin. It wasn’t just that it was his neck last time. He though maybe since he’s more sensitive there, it would be different, but it’s the same now. The same, familiar pleasure coursing through his body as Eddie closes his mouth around the bite marks and takes pulls of Steve’s blood into his mouth, gulps it down.

He hopes Eddie’s hunger and weakness will be distraction enough from how much Steve is enjoying this. Because he is. As much as he wants to fight it, wants to make sure he’s not making Eddie uncomfortable, it feels good. It’s a sharp feeling at first and then the dull pain sets in and Steve likes the feeling of it so much. There has to be something supernatural about this, the way that feeling Eddie feed from him has him feeling. Or maybe it’s something simpler than that, that Steve likes knowing it’s his blood filling Eddie’s mouth, that Steve likes the pain. He likes everything about this.

Except how much Eddie seems to hate it.

He doesn’t look like he hates it now, voraciously sucking the blood into his mouth, but Steve knows it’s just the hunger. It has nothing to do with him. Eddie’s just hungry.

He hopes Eddie doesn't hate him when he’s done eating. He just wants to help, because even if it’s maybe not what Eddie wants - if he’s not what Eddie wants - it’s what he needs right now.

He refused what Dustin brought him and he reached out for Steve - that has to be enough, enough of an excuse or a reason that Eddie will listen to and not be upset about when he’s not actively dying of hunger.

#steddie #stranger things #st ficlet #eddie munson #steve harrington #janai.doc #kas!eddie #blood cw

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intothefairiesland · 7 days ago

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Chapter VIII ― willow

Life was a willow and it bent right to your wind Head on the pillow, I could feel you sneaking in As if you were a mythical thing Like you were a trophy or a champion ring And there was one prize I'd cheat to win The more that you say The less I know Wherever you stray I follow I'm begging for you to take my hand Wreck my plans That's my man

Masterlist

Previous Chapter — Next Chapter 🖌️

I don’t know how tags work, but if you want to be tagged, leave me a message. - Abby xx

————————————————————

"Are you alright, brother?"

Benedict had given his word to his mother that he would fulfill his social obligations this season, but more than anything, he had promised his sister Eloise to be by her side at every ball, to protect her from the “foolish suitors,” as she liked to call them. That also meant being more present in family life—something he had never truly resented, as there was no company he cherished more than his family. But that company took on a different meaning after a sleepless night, plagued by confused thoughts and the lingering taste of alcohol.

The night before, Emma had left him a little too soon for his liking, and he could still feel the imprint of her hasty departure on his lips. He hadn’t expected her leaving to affect him so deeply, nor that her general absence would create in him a void he was not prepared for. He had misjudged himself, and he realized it bitterly. He sought nothing more than her simple presence—a presence that calmed him instantly. She could have simply stayed there, silent and focused on her drawings, and that would have been enough.

That was, in fact, exactly what he wanted at that very moment. Breakfast had just been served at Bridgerton House, and the conversation was in full swing, everyone speaking at once, their voices blending into a joyful and familiar cacophony. But Benedict, caught in this whirlwind of voices and laughter, felt that nothing could soothe his mind like a single glance from Emma. But she wasn’t there. How could she be? He knew well that, even if he held no contempt for those of lesser social rank, he himself, by virtue of his family name and wealth, had never had to concern himself with societal constraints. Yet, he was keenly aware of the world’s cruelty towards such uncertain and undefined connections.

But what kind of relationship did he truly have with Emma? He had no idea. What he did know, however, was that he adored her presence, her sharp wit, her contagious humor, the delicacy of her hands when she drew, and her lips—and he suspected that he would grow to adore much more of her.

Benedict, his gaze slightly lost in space, seemed out of sync with the lively atmosphere around him. His thoughts were far from the noisy, sunlit breakfast.

It was then that his brother, Anthony, observed him with amused, slightly mocking eyes.

— "If I didn’t know you so well, I’d say something’s troubling you," he said with a smirk.

Benedict, as if pulled from his thoughts, vaguely raised his eyebrows and muttered distractedly as he reached for his fork:

— "I’m fine, thank you."

Then, without another word, he resumed eating, quickly swallowing a bite of scrambled eggs, as if trying to keep his mind busy with something else. Anthony watched him, amusement flickering in his eyes, but said nothing.

Just then, a light, insistent cry rose from the other end of the table. It was drowned out by the complaints of their sister Hyacinth, who excelled in the art of speaking fast, loud, and often. Benedict felt momentarily relieved to be freed from his brother’s attention and allowed himself to sink back into his reflections.

But the peace was short-lived. A few moments later, Eloise emerged from behind her book, toast in hand, and with a near-innocent tone, asked:

— "Do you know Emma Watts?"

The question struck him like an intrusion into his inner world. Benedict, mid-motion, about to pour some tea, nearly spilled the cup. He caught himself and, with subtle caution, replied quickly:

— "Yes, I…I’ve seen her around."

But already Hyacinth, ever eager for gossip, cut in before he could take another breath:

— "Who is this Emma Watts?"

The conversation immediately caught the attention of their mother, who, without saying a word, listened closely.

— "She’s Miss Louise Braybrooke’s maid, but she also takes evening classes at the Academy," Eloise explained casually.

At those words, a curious smile tugged at Anthony’s lips, and he raised an inquisitive eyebrow:

— "Since when can women paint at the Academy?"

Benedict, momentarily frozen, said nothing, but Eloise, always ready to defend any cause she found just, fired back without hesitation, her mouth still full of toast:

— "What’s the problem, brother? Afraid women might outshine men in painting?"

The remark made their mother twitch slightly, who, without abandoning her dignified expression, exclaimed sternly:

— "Eloise, mind your manners!"

Eloise rolled her eyes in exasperation but sat up straighter, her eyes alight, ready for debate, and replied with conviction:

— "I think it’s an excellent idea to open the Academy to women. I’m sure she’s very talented."

All eyes turned then to Benedict, who, despite his apparent indifference, had already seen Emma’s work. He had even, on several occasions, allowed himself to leaf through her sketchbook—an act he knew was forbidden, but couldn’t resist.

— "She is."

The words fell, clear and sharp, into the air. His gaze remained fixed on his plate, but his answer, almost imperceptibly steady, did not go unnoticed. — “How do you know that?” Eloise insisted, intrigued. “You said you only knew her by sight.” Benedict hesitated for a split second, then added, in a hesitant, awkward tone: — “I’ve seen her work.”

A subtle tension filled the room, everyone trying to decipher the meaning behind his confession. Eloise raised an eyebrow, ever so slightly, piqued by her brother’s reply. Her eyes, locked with his for a moment, returned just as quickly to the pages of her book, as if the conversation had been nothing more than a passing breeze between two chapters. Her voice, light and almost indifferent, rose again without the slightest quiver: — “Very well. If you see her, give her my regards.”

Benedict remained still for a moment, caught in the fleeting glint of his sister’s gaze. He understood then that she had seen right through him — that she had uncovered the lie before he’d even had a chance to disguise it. And yet, she said nothing. She was offering him the silent luxury of choosing the moment for his truth. However, many days or weeks it might take, it didn’t matter.

Later that day, as he walked the long corridors of the Academy, bathed in the pale afternoon light, Benedict couldn’t stop replaying Emma’s words in his mind. She had told him she would see him today — he was certain of it, would have sworn it. And yet, there had been no sign of her silhouette, no spark of her laughter around any corner.

As the hours passed, a dull frustration began to gnaw at his calm, like a rope pulled taut in silence. It wasn’t just the waiting that troubled him, but that faint tightening lodged somewhere between his throat and his stomach — a worry he refused to name, but that crept in with every heartbeat.

The unease lingered even as he stepped into the Flynn reception hall. The hushed conversations, polite laughter, clinking of glasses: all of it slid over him, never quite touching. He was there, but not really — a figure passing through a painting he hadn’t chosen. He knew Emma wasn’t one to lose track of time or let the day slip by without cause. She didn’t have the luxury to dawdle. Every piece of her time was accounted for — between her work, her responsibilities, and the rare slivers of freedom she devoted to her art. But she never missed class. And it was precisely that “never” that fed his growing unease.

Benedict spent most of the evening with his sister’s arm tightly looped through his, like a limpet clinging to its rock — or rather, like a sister clinging to her escape plan. He silently thanked her for every tour of the room, every dodged curtsy. Thanks to her, he avoided endless dances, calculating glances from young ladies, and — worst of all — the mothers. Ah, the mothers — armed with affable smiles and marriage strategies sharper than blades. The word marriage alone sent a cold jolt down his spine, as if someone had poured ice water down his back. He wasn’t ready. He didn’t want to be. He couldn’t even see why he should be. It all felt so... foreign.

He had danced only twice that evening — a distracted quadrille, a lacklustre cotillion. So, when the first notes of a waltz rose into the air, he decided it was time. With a composed step, he approached Miss Louise Braybrooke, bowed with grace, and offered his hand. — “May I have this dance, Miss Braybrooke?”

It was not a love for the waltz, nor a desire to become acquainted with Miss Braybrooke that brought him to her. But she knew Emma, and that single thread — however thin — was enough to justify this dance.

It was the only thing tonight that might bring him closer to her.

Louise wasn’t surprised by the invitation. In truth, she had seen it coming from the first moments of the evening. Benedict Bridgerton, who in two entire seasons had never granted her more than a polite greeting, now looked at her with calculated attention.

She understood. She didn’t take offense — on the contrary. This renewed interest wasn’t for her, but for what she represented: a bridge, perhaps, to Emma.

As they began to dance, she locked eyes with him, and without giving him a chance to start the conversation, she said with sly confidence: — “You know,” she said, eyes fixed on his as they followed the rhythm of the waltz, “you didn’t need to invite me to dance in front of half the room just to ask about her.”

Benedict furrowed his brow slightly, caught off guard, but twirled her without saying a word too many. — “I beg your pardon?”

Louise lifted her chin with a graceful poise. Her voice, soft yet pointed, held steady. — “I’m sure I’m a fine dancer and, indeed, perfectly decent company… but don’t pretend this invitation was purely social. You’re not going to try and explain the rules of courtship to me, Mr. Bridgerton. If you’re here, dancing with me, it’s because you have a very specific intention.”

Benedict stayed silent a second too long. She had seen through him — completely, neatly, without malice but without mercy. He had prepared it all: an innocent conversation opener, a delicate approach, phrases vague enough to hide his true motives. He’d rehearsed every word in his head.

But he hadn’t prepared for Louise Braybrooke. She knew. How? He had no idea. And he wasn’t sure yet whether to be worried… or relieved.

She ended his silent struggle with a calm, almost weary voice: — “She told me everything.”

Then, lowering her eyes, thoughtful, she added in a whisper: — “Well… not everything, I suppose. But enough to know that if you asked me to dance tonight, it wasn’t for the pleasure of my company, but to get information about my lady’s maid, Mr. Bridgerton.”

Benedict gave a sheepish smile and let out a quiet laugh, caught red-handed: — “Caught in the act, it seems.”

— “Forgive my bluntness, but you’re not very subtle,” she replied with a wry smile. “I can already see tomorrow’s headline in Lady Whistledown’s column.” — “Forgive me,” he murmured, sincerely. “I didn’t mean to draw attention.”

Louise gave a quick glance around them. A few eyes were indeed watching their exchange, some amused, others speculative. — “Mmmh… I fear it’s already too late,” she said lightly. “So, we might as well make the most of it. What did you want to know?”

Benedict hesitated a moment, searching for his words. When he spoke, it was with raw honesty, stripped of pretence: — “She was supposed to meet me at the Academy today… But she didn’t come. I just wanted to know if she was all right. That’s all.”

At these words, Louise seemed more moved than she expected. Her gaze softened, and when she answered, her voice had lost some of its earlier mischief. — “Yes. Miss Watts had a bit of bad luck, you see. She’s been assigned to one of the most coquettish debutantes of the entire season. I’m afraid I made her run ragged today…” — “I see…”

Louise, without hesitation and with a steadiness nothing seemed able to shake, spoke again, her eyes gleaming with resolve: — “I won’t claim to understand your intentions, Mr. Bridgerton, but I know your reputation well enough to form an idea. And while I may be young, and perhaps a novice in your eyes, that does not mean I lack judgment. As for your interest in Emma… know this: I would not hesitate to follow you into the darkest corners of your dreams and nightmares if any harm were to come to her.”

Benedict looked at her, stunned. In a flash of clarity, he realized just how deeply he had misjudged her. He had naively imagined that Louise Braybrooke would offer nothing more than a simple reassurance — that Emma was fine, nothing more.

But in front of him stood a young woman who, far from being naive, was fully aware of the games and schemes men of society played. The realization, both surprising and comforting, brought him a sense of peace. He was reassured to know that Emma was not alone — that she was surrounded by people worthy of trust.

In fact, in that moment, she seemed even more precious, more admirable to him, in the light of the fierce protection she inspired.

At a loss for words, he fell silent. The waltz, already nearing its end, seemed to end, and with sudden clarity, he realized that Emma’s absence was not an act of avoidance, but a forced one. Louise, observing his silence, gave him a mischievous smile before speaking again, her tone light but tinged with irony: — "Sometimes, I begin to understand my mother, who says I shall never find a husband unless I learn to hold my tongue. But... I fear my nature is stronger than good sense."

Benedict, unwilling to dwell further on Emma, chose to steer the conversation away. — "You would get along famously with my sister, Eloise," he said, trying to find safer ground.

Louise turned her gaze toward Miss Bridgerton, her expression bright with amusement. "I adore your sister’s company. Beside her, I almost seem demure," she replied, a glint of mischief in her voice.

A moment of silence passed between them, and as the waltz drew to its close, Louise, with unexpected seriousness, added, "Promise me, you won’t hurt her."

Benedict immediately understood her meaning, and discomfort stirred within him. The idea of promising he wouldn’t hurt Emma felt odd, even unnecessary—of course, he’d never act with bad intentions. But such an absolute vow? He couldn’t quite bring himself to utter it.

—"I shall do my best, if that brings you any comfort," he said, hoping to ease her concerns.

Louise, however, didn’t seem entirely reassured. She raised an eyebrow, her expression sceptical. "That’s not a very convincing answer, Mr. Bridgerton," she observed with a subtle irony.

"But it is an honest one," Benedict replied with a faint smile, aware of the simplicity of his words, yet also of their truth.

The dance ended on this note of subtle exchange. Louise, after offering him one last smile, turned toward him, stepping a little closer. "Very well then, follow me," she said, and with determined steps, she walked toward one of the ballroom doors.

Benedict, momentarily puzzled by this invitation, took a few seconds to think. He knew he couldn’t follow her immediately. If they were found together without a chaperone, a scandal would surely follow. So, he left the dance floor, made a loop through the room to greet a few gentlemen, and after a few minutes, made his way to the same door Louise had taken.

Upon entering the entrance hall, he found her already by the door. She turned toward him, ready to leave, and said plainly, "Very well, I shall go now. You can leave the ball in twenty minutes and meet Emma at the corner of the street with your coachman."

She turned briskly, prepared to slip away.

Benedict, somewhat thrown by this unexpected plan, raised an eyebrow and stepped toward her. "I… I beg your pardon?" he asked, his surprise unmistakable.

Louise turned back, a fleeting smile on her lips. "You still want to see Emma, don’t you? She’s not asleep, she’s waiting for me to come home so she can help me. I’ll tell my mother I came home early because I was feeling unwell, and then I’ll tell Emma that you’re waiting in the carriage."

Such a bold, yet strangely reassuring plan began to form in Benedict’s mind, and without a word, he followed her into the shadows, confident now in the quiet friendship that seemed to be blossoming between them.

————————————————————

Emma was slumped in the servants’ small drawing room by the fire, on the brink of well-earned sleep, when Emily burst in: "Miss Louise is already home, she’s waiting for you in her room." Without a second’s hesitation, Emma pricked the needle into the dress she was mending and rushed upstairs.

Louise rarely returned early from a ball—or any social gathering—and a strange premonition made Emma wonder what might have brought her back so suddenly. Not that she minded. She welcomed the prospect of an early night.

As soon as she entered the bedroom, Emma saw Louise, visibly more excited than ever. The young woman was already undressing, casting aside her jewels, gloves, stockings, and delicate shoes. Louise walked quickly toward Emma and, without a word, turned her back to her friend, clearly indicating she wanted help with her corset. Emma obliged without hesitation, though part of her wondered what was going on.

—"Right. Grab your coat and anything you need to paint... though I suspect that won’t matter much. And—" Louise’s voice was hurried as Emma finished loosening the corset’s laces. She suddenly turned around, eyes sparkling with excitement. "Benedict is waiting for you at the end of the street, in his carriage. Hurry."

Emma frowned, confusion written all over her face. "I’m sorry?" she said, slowly realizing the situation. "What have you done, Louise?"

Louise shrugged, feigning nonchalance, though her smile gave her away. "Weren’t you meant to meet him for painting tonight?"

"Yes, but—" Emma couldn’t finish her sentence, her surprise giving way to rising confusion.

"Exactly. So hurry before my parents return and the house is swarming with people again," Louise concluded with cheerful urgency, already pulling Emma toward the door.

Emma, caught off guard, let herself be led while still protesting. "I don’t understand..."

Louise, visibly impatient and in a rush, sighed. "Honestly, no one understands anything tonight, it’s maddening!" She suddenly blocked Emma’s path, giving her no time to think. "We danced together, he asked about you—well, no, not really, I guessed it myself," she said as if pondering the memory. "And I remembered you were meant to teach him painting tonight. So go!"

Emma, swept up in Louise’s whirlwind energy, barely had time to respond. They were already in the hallway, heading for the staircase that led to the Braybrookes’ front door. Louise, without a second thought, grabbed her cloak and threw it swiftly around Emma’s shoulders.

Emma, surprised, offered a soft protest. —"Louise, I’m not sure this is a good idea. Your parents may notice I’m gone, or worse my parents."

"Oh, come now!" Louise said with confidence. "I’ll tell them you went to bed early after helping me. And tomorrow morning, you’ll have nothing to fear. Benedict’s coachman will bring you back whenever you like, I’m sure of it."

They reached the door. Louise clasped Emma’s hand with a reassuring, conspiratorial smile. "Go on!" she urged, her excitement tangible.

Emma, smiling slightly, quickly opened the door. Before stepping out, she looked left, then right. At the end of the street, she faintly spotted a carriage, and a smile spread across her lips. Whether it was the heaviness of the evening, the rush of the moment, or the anticipation of seeing Benedict again, something made her heartbeat faster. Whatever it was, the air suddenly felt lighter.

Emma climbed swiftly into the carriage, and no sooner had she settled than Benedict’s silhouette emerged from the shadows, his smile glowing like moonlight. He looked at her, his smile widening just a touch more, and Emma shivered slightly. There was in his gaze a rare warmth, a sincerity that left no room for doubt. This quiet tenderness, paired with his natural elegance, unsettled her more and more. She couldn’t tire of watching him, as if each detail, each movement, were its own kind of enchantment.

His attire was flawless—a deep blue that highlighted the clarity of his eyes, a cravat seemingly chosen just to complement it, and a waistcoat embroidered with gold thread that shimmered faintly in the light. He was stunning.

—"You… here?" he said, his voice light, touched with jest.

Emma smiled, her gaze locked in his. —"I don’t know what sort of spell you cast on Louise, but bravo." Her voice trembled slightly with emotion, though she tried to keep her composure.

—"My exceptional charm, perhaps," he answered, mischief dancing in his eyes.

Emma, amused despite herself, gave him a look. "You’re rather full of yourself, Mr. Bridgerton. Don’t get carried away."

"Indeed not. Louise frightens me almost more than my own mother," he said, a genuine smile curving his lips.

"And you are right to fear her," Emma replied, perhaps a little too seriously. She glanced briefly out the window, her mind still flooded with questions.

Benedict was quiet for a moment. Then, in a gentler voice, he resumed, "I’m sorry. None of this was planned, but I took the chance when it came." There was a slight hesitation in his tone, as if every word was weighed carefully.

"What did you say to Louise?" Emma asked, raising an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued.

"I could ask you the same." The smile on his lips grew just a little more enigmatic.

"That’s none of your concern." Emma’s reply was sharp, though she knew it wasn’t entirely true. Louise had intervened for a reason.

"No, it’s not." Benedict shrugged, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "But judging from what she told me, I can only imagine what you must have said about me."

—"You shouldn’t have asked her to dance. Now everyone will talk, including Lady Whistledown. I don’t want her tangled up in my affairs." Emma shook her head, her gaze lost again in the darkness outside. She knew once rumours started, they spread like wildfire.

—"I needed to know if you were all right." Benedict’s voice was softer now, almost a murmur, as if he wished to soothe her.

Emma finally looked at him, a glint of irony in her eyes. "I am fine, as you can see. Don’t take it personally, Mr. Bridgerton. I don’t have the luxury of meandering through life."

A smile of relief ghosted across Benedict’s lips. He sat a little straighter, visibly more at ease. It was as if a weight had lifted from his shoulders.

—"Where are we going?" Emma asked suddenly, curiosity in her voice as she glanced out the window to guess their destination.

—"To my home." Benedict answered simply, his gaze resting on her with such calm certainty that it seemed perfectly natural.

—"Your home?" Emma raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised. She hadn’t expected that.

—"You didn’t think I could paint dressed like this, did you?" he replied, his smile growing more impish as he gestured to his impeccable attire.

Emma, slightly thrown, let out a soft laugh. There was something more in this exchange—a quiet complicity weaving itself between them. And despite the odd circumstances, she felt strangely content.

—"You have no regard for rules, nor for my sleep, apparently..." she said, half-serious, half-amused.

A mischievous smile played on Benedict’s lips. "First of all, no. And secondly, Louise assured me you’d have the whole morning to recover from the sleep I intend to steal."

—"Fair enough," she murmured, resigned.

The easy silence between them was broken by the carriage’s sudden stop. Without a word, Benedict stepped out with graceful assurance. Once on solid ground, he turned, arm outstretched, palm open—a silent invitation.

Emma placed her hand in his without hesitation and allowed herself to be guided down.

No sooner had her feet touched the cobblestones than she tried to slip her fingers free. But Benedict gently tightened his hold—not roughly, only to convey, with that masculine delicacy he mastered so well, that he had no desire to break this quiet bond. Emma didn’t protest. She simply followed his lead, hand in hand, to the door of his home.

Or rather, his bachelor pad. A man’s lair, an elegant jumble filled with the heady scent of leather, brandy, and dried ink. The place held that indefinable charm of rooms inhabited by tormented souls: richly decorated but subtly neglected, seemingly in order yet cloaked in a tender chaos. The servants surely did their best to maintain the illusion of tidiness. Yet wherever the eye landed, it found signs of life—clothes draped over a chair, open sketchbooks, books precariously balanced on armrests.

The sitting room opened into a modest library, and further on, a large half-open door revealed a bedchamber—his bedchamber. He stopped on the threshold, turned back toward her briefly.

"Don’t move."

Then he disappeared inside, closing the door with a soft click. Probably to change.

Emma found herself alone, enveloped in the muted warmth of the room. She took the opportunity to step closer to a table cluttered with papers, ink and charcoal sketches, and half-finished canvases propped against the walls. She brushed her fingers lightly over the still-fresh lines of a drawing, lingering on the details. Some paintings seemed barely begun, others nearly complete, but all carried the same unfinished fervour.

When Benedict reappeared, he had exchanged his elegant attire for simpler clothes—though no less refined. His step remained confident, his gaze bright. He ran a hand through his hair, deliberately tousling it—a calculated gesture, almost theatrical, as if to better fit the image of the artist.

Emma glanced at him, then gestured toward the scattered canvases.

��"Either you’re incredibly impatient… or perpetually dissatisfied with your own work."

A smile spread across Benedict’s face as he gave a slight shrug.

—"Both, I’m afraid."

Emma moved closer to the canvases, scanning them with focused curiosity. What she discovered surprised her: only landscapes. Sun-drenched countryside scenes, glimpses of cities at dawn or dusk, solitary trees, forgotten paths. Not a single face. Not a single gaze.

—"No portraits, I see," she remarked, slightly intrigued.

Benedict, already rummaging through a polished wooden box, replied without turning around:

—"When I said I was hopeless… I meant it."

Emma smiled faintly.

—"Very well. Let’s get to work."

As she spoke, she slowly removed the cape draped over her shoulders—Louise’s cape, sumptuous and clearly precious. Her gaze swept the room for a safe place, far from paint splatters, charcoal dust, or oil stains. She finally laid it gently on a sofa near the window, sheltered from the creative chaos. Then, in one fluid, unselfconscious motion, she gathered her hair into a loose bun, with strands already slipping free to frame her face.

"We need a battle plan," she said, hands on her hips. "I can’t promise I’ll be available every day. Between my work at the Braybrooks’, my classes, and my hours posing at the Academy… I’ll soon be leaving for—"

"Kent," Benedict cut in from across the room.

He had stopped, a brush in hand. "Louise told me. But we’re not there yet. What days’ work for you? I can be more flexible than you."

Emma didn’t respond immediately. She watched him silently as he moved with quiet yet confident efficiency. He had cleared a corner of the room, set up a second easel, arranged a set of brushes and palettes where colors blended into deep, rich shades—far more refined than those she was used to. Every movement betrayed a habit, a mastery, but also a barely concealed nervousness.

"I think Louise might allow me a few hours if I ask," Emma said, crossing her arms, her gaze still on the freshly arranged brushes. "But the simplest would be to meet after my evening classes at the Academy. Would that suit you?" She paused briefly, then added with a sly smile: "There will be exceptions, of course… like tonight. But I suppose you’re also doomed to attend those dreadful balls, aren’t you?"

Benedict rolled his eyes theatrically, a weary smile on his lips.

—"I fear I won’t survive the season if I don’t show my face..."

Emma laughed softly—a light, intimate sound that melted into the warm air of the room.

—"Very well. Then it’s settled."

Her gaze drifted around the room, across the canvases, the furniture, the dim light falling diagonally through the window. Then, in a gesture both casual and deliberate, she nodded toward the room.

"And if the opportunity arises… in other circumstances, we can always meet here."

There was no overt insinuation, no clear promise. Just an opening. A sliver of possibility.

Benedict simply nodded, gently, as if sealing a pact.

"Very well."

Emma’s eyes wandered around the studio, then settled on a portrait of a woman hanging above a dark wooden chest of drawers. Intrigued, she stepped closer, her brow slightly furrowed.

"Who is she?" she asked, pointing at the painting.

Benedict looked up, then shrugged with nonchalance.

"No idea. I bought it at a salon recently."

Emma moved closer still, captivated by the painting’s aura. She placed her hands on the frame, trying to take it down despite its height. The piece was clearly heavy, firmly attached—and far too high for her to reach.

Seeing her stretch precariously, Benedict rushed over to help.

"Are you planning to redecorate the entire room?" he asked, laughing.

"Put the portrait on an easel, please. Since we don’t have a live model, we’ll work from this one."

Caught off guard but amused, Benedict complied. Under Emma’s amused gaze, he set the painting on a free easel, moving a few things around to make space. When he straightened, the two artists found themselves side by side, facing blank canvases. Arms crossed, expressions focused, they stood in silence for a moment, like two generals surveying a battlefield.

"Alright then, let’s get to it," Emma said, picking up a pencil with confidence. "The most important part of a portrait is the proportions."

Benedict watched her with near-reverent attention. His gestures, usually somewhat clumsy, were now calm and precise. She drew with an ease that betrayed experience and control. This was a different Emma—focused, methodical, almost solemn.

"You need to structure the face with guidelines: an oval for the head, a vertical axis for the nose and mouth, horizontal lines for the eyes and ears," she explained as she drew. "Only after that can you add your style, your intention."

He nodded slowly but said nothing. It wasn’t the words he was absorbing—it was the way they formed on her lips, the way her fingers brushed the paper. She was beautiful when she painted. Beautiful in a different way.

And he felt, even before he had made a single stroke, that he was already learning something precious.

Benedict followed Emma’s instructions with dedication, though he noted—half amused, half frustrated—that his sketches had none of her grace or precision. But he was no fool: one didn’t surpass the master in a single evening.

The hours slipped between them like whispers—quiet and swift—until neither noticed how time had passed. It was only when Emma stifled a yawn behind her hand that Benedict, fingers smudged with charcoal, set down his pencil with an apologetic smile:

—"I’ve kept you far too long. Forgive me."

Emma shook her head softly, her eyes still bright with concentration.

—"It’s nothing… I lose track of time when I draw."

"So do I." He replied with a frank, slightly weary but contented smile. Then, after a moment:

—"Would you like me to walk you home?"

She stood, stretching lightly like a cat waking from a long nap.

"No, thank you. I’m just nearby."

Benedict watched her for a moment, as if another idea had already taken root in his mind.

—"You could sleep here."

She raised an eyebrow, half-surprised, half-amused. He quickly clarified:

"I mean… you can take my room. I have everything I need to sleep here, in the salon."

Emma smiled and shook her head, mock exasperated.

—"Be serious. With my height, I could sleep ten times over on your sofa. You, on the other hand..."

Benedict glanced at the infamous sofa and had to admit, laughing:

—"You’re not wrong. But I insist. Take my room. I’ll fetch you something to change into."

She narrowed her eyes, teasing.

—"Let me guess… a nightgown left behind by one of your past conquests? How sweet."

He burst out laughing, genuinely amused, though slightly wounded by the jab.

—"Alas, I fear all I have to offer are my own shirts."

Emma shrugged with feigned nonchalance.

—"That will do just fine."

They washed their hands in a small basin of clear water, a remnant of the impromptu studio. Emma cleaned and tidied her workspace with quiet precision, unable to stop herself from smiling at Benedict, who left everything as it was, as if tidiness never crossed his mind. Of course.

He returned a few minutes later with a white shirt in hand—slightly wrinkled, but clean.

—"Here. You can change in my room. I’ll close the door," he said softly, handing her the shirt.

Emma thanked him with a simple look and made her way to the bedroom, the shirt clutched to her chest. As she crossed the threshold, she turned slightly—just enough to see him keeping his word: he had turned his back and was tidying his brushes.

With a quiet, meaningful gesture, she closed the door behind her.

Inside the room, Emma was struck by the contrast between the salon’s lively chaos and the quiet intimacy of Benedict’s bedroom. The space was spare but warm—dark wood, thick drapes, a few books stacked by the bed. There was a chair with a half-buttoned waistcoat draped over it, a cravat tossed nearby, and the faint scent of paint lingering in the air, blending with something subtler—soap, perhaps, or the faint musk of worn linen.

She hesitated for a moment before slowly unfastening her dress, folding it carefully over the back of the chair. She slipped Benedict’s shirt over her head; it hung loosely on her frame, the fabric brushing her bare thighs. The collar was wide, the sleeves long, and she had to roll them up a few times to free her hands. It was far too large, and yet oddly comforting—like being wrapped in something that still held traces of warmth, of breath.

Emma caught her reflection in the small mirror above the dresser. Hair half-loose, feet bare, skin pale against the crisp whiteness of the shirt—she looked like someone else. Or perhaps she had never looked more like herself.

She stepped out of the room with quiet steps, holding the edge of the shirt so it wouldn’t trail on the paint-splattered floor. Benedict had changed, too—now barefoot, sleeves rolled up, seated on the armrest of a chair with a sketchbook resting on his knees. He looked up when he saw her, his pencil pausing mid-line.

His gaze flicked briefly over her—the way the shirt fell, the lightness in her step, the strands of hair escaping her bun—but he didn’t stare. Not exactly. His eyes held something softer. Something still.

—"You look..." he began, but stopped himself. A smile ghosted across his lips instead. "Very artistically dressed."

Emma rolled her eyes with a huff of amusement, crossing the room to the sofa.

—"I expect a new portrait of me like this by morning, then."

—"Only if you promise not to laugh at it."

She gave him a long, considering look.

—"I wouldn’t."

Silence settled again—an easy, natural quiet. The kind that stretches comfortably between two people when the night is late and the world has softened.

—"Do you do this often?" she asked eventually, her voice low. "Invite women to sleep in your bed while you take the sofa?"

He let out a quiet laugh. "No. In fact, I think this might be the first time."

—"Mm. A scandal, then."

He looked over at her, expression unreadable for a moment.

—"Only if someone finds out."

Their eyes met, and something unsaid hovered in the air between them. Not a question. Not yet. Just a flicker of awareness—delicate, deliberate.

Emma yawned again, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. The fatigue was setting in now, heavier than before.

—"You should sleep," he said gently. "I’ll be here in the morning."

"You’d better be," she murmured, already shifting onto the sofa. "Or I’ll steal your brushes."

He smiled. And she suddenly thought of his lips on hers, and the image struck her as both familiar and distant. Like a dreamed memory.

Then, in a rush that surprised even her, she asked, her voice barely above a whisper but steady. — "Benedict… would you sleep beside me?"

————————————————————

Emma climbed silently into the bed, settling without so much as brushing the covers—whether it was the warmth of the room, or perhaps the more subtle heat of the moment, it seemed enough. She curled into a foetal position, arms folded against her chest, her breath already soft and even. The gentle glow of the moon filtered through the curtains, casting a pearly light across her figure, tracing the silken sheen of her hair and the quiet curves of her skin.

Benedict entered the room and climbed in on the other side of the bed and turned toward her. She already seemed far away, almost unreal in that silvery light.

He hesitated. Should he simply lie down, keep a respectful distance, let sleep come without disturbing the silence? Or yield to that quiet, irresistible pull drawing him toward her, steady as a tide?

Every part of him longed to be closer—to hold her, to feel her breath against his chest. And so, without a sound, he inched toward her. He nestled behind her, moulding his shape to the curve of hers with restrained tenderness. His arm slid around her waist, and his fingers sought hers in a natural gesture. Emma, wordless, laced her fingers through his, as if the gesture had been waiting for her. As if she had missed it.

They stayed like that, unspeaking, their breaths aligned.

Benedict gently buried his face in her hair, breathing in her scent—a mixture of soot and something else, something that belonged only to her.

A rare peace settled over him. A stillness so deep, it almost ached.

Silence now wrapped the room. And yet Benedict could feel, against him, that Emma’s body had not fully surrendered to sleep. Her breathing, though steady, carried a subtle tension—barely perceptible.

He whispered, his voice like a breath: — "Will you come visit me in Kent?"

She took a moment to reply, as if she were weighing the exact weight of her words in the delicate balance of the moment. Then, just as softly:

— "Yes. Gladly."

A smile, unbidden and boyish, touched Benedict’s lips. One of those rare smiles reserved for suspended moments, for tender beginnings.

He replied simply: — "Goodnight, Emma," and, without waiting, pressed a kiss to the back of her head, just where a few strands had slipped free from her bun.

— "Goodnight, Benedict."

He froze for a second. That name—spoken in the dark—resonated through him with the quiet force. It was the first time she had said it.

And in the silence that followed, complete once more, Benedict thought— with the unreasonable, unshakable certainty of a heart in love�� that he could die happy, if only she would grant him, again and again, that simple miracle: to hear his name born from her lips.

————————————————————

Disclaimer: I know Kent isn't next door to My Cottage or Aubrey Hall, but we'll pretend it is

#benedict bridgerton x fem!reader #benedict bridgerton fanfic #benedict bridgerton x oc #benedict bridgerton smut #benedict bridgerton imagine #bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton x y/n #benedict bridgerton x you #benedict bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton fic #benedict bridgerton fluff #benedict bridgerton #benedict x sophie #the bridgertons #bridgerton s4

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myreygn · 2 years ago

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THANK YOU SO MUCH for 500 followers! i came up with a little event for you which i hope you'll all enjoy. the end products will be drabbles of ~ 500 words and requests for this can be sent in until september 15th, 12 pm cet.

The Flower Shop

❁✧✿✧❁

Welcome to the flower shop, we're so happy to see you here! Please pick up to three different flowers so we can arrange your bouquet for you!

Aloe (“Grief can be a burden, but also an anchor. You get used to the weight, how it holds you in place.” - Sarah Dessen)

Angelica (“There is no place for grief in a house which serves the Muse.” - Sappho)

Arborvitae (“Friendship is born at the moment when one man says to another "What! You too? I thought that no one but myself.” - C.S. Lewis)

Bittersweet (“The truth is rarely pure and never simple.” - Oscar Wilde)

Butterfly Weed (“Everything and everyone that you hate is engraved upon your heart; if you want to let go of something, if you want to forget, you cannot hate.” - C. JoyBell C.)

Calla Lily (“Think of all the beauty still left around you and be happy.” - Anne Frank)

Columbine (“Foolishness is more than being stupid, that deadly combination of arrogance and ignorance.” - Paul David Tripp)

Gladiolus (“Once you hear the details of victory, it is hard to distinguish it from a defeat.” - Jean-Paul Sartre)

Heliotrope (“To live in the hearts we leave behind is to live forever.” - Carl Sagan)

Holly (“At the end of the day, it isn’t where I came from. Maybe home is somewhere I’m going and never have been before.” - Warsan Shire)

Marigold (“A lot of people get so hung up on what they can't have that they don't think for a second about whether they really want it.” - Lionel Shriver)

Morning Glory (“If equal affection cannot be, let the more loving one be me.” - W.H. Auden)

Parsley (“Eat, drink, and be merry for tomorrow we'll die.” - Dave Matthews)

Rhododendron (“Oh, but you must travel through those woods again and again, said a shadow at the window, and you must be lucky to avoid the wolf every time. But the wolf... the wolf only needs enough luck to find you once.” - Emily Carroll)

Sage (“From my rotting body, flowers shall grow and I am in them, and that is eternity.” - Edvard Munch)

❁✧✿✧❁

Excellent choice! Now for the decoration - please pick up to two elements!

pink ribbons (fluff)

blue ribbons (angst)

green ribbons (hurt/comfort)

a wooden ladybug (platonic)

a wooden butterfly (romantic)

❁✧✿✧❁

Alright, very nice! And now, last but not least, please fill out these forms so we can deliver the bouquet as quickly as possible! For information on where and who we ship to, please read this list carefully!

address (fandom)

recipient (up to three characters, no x reader)

things the staff should please keep in mind when delivering the bouquet (anything you need to tell me that you couldn't fit in anywhere else)

#500 followers #milestone event #rey writes #the flower shop

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scarletlove2 · 3 months ago

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A Wilted Flower

This is the first chapter of a fanfiction I’ve been writing and finally thought was good enough to publish after going back and forth with myself about doing it. This is an OC work, and I’m putting that out there since I don’t want anyone thinking this might be an XReader. Also, I know not a lot of people enjoy reading OC, so I’m mentioning it here so readers are aware before they start. Anyway, the divider is from @/escritoluar on Pinterest!!

Warnings: Character death, arguing, mention of pregency/ pregency loss. blood, guns, mention of divorce (adding just to be safe), bad spelling and grammar :,<, please let me know if I missed anything.

Also, a quick warning: I promise I’ll stop after this, but I use ---- to indicate a time jump or a switch between past and future. There’s also a switch in POV from my OC to a cop after the first use of it. I think that’s the case, but please let me know if I’m wrong!

“Chris, you promised you’d be home tonight!” I shouted after my husband as I walked down the stairs behind him. He was walking around the house, grabbing things.

“I told you I can’t!” he shouted back, stopping in our living room. I glanced at the box on the wooden coffee table before bringing my gaze back to him. I clenched my hands at the sides of my skirt, trying to stop them from shaking.

“For once, can you think of your family rather than your job? You told me you would be home more often, but you're not!” I lowered my voice as he rubbed his face, shaking his head before walking toward the door. Tears started lining my eyes as I chased after him again. I reached out, grabbing his hand as he turned slightly.

“Please, Chris,” I pleaded, my voice soft, trying to get through to him. But I knew it wouldn't work. I tried to think back to a time when it would have, but that damn job he promised he’d change for, the one he was at 24/7, had torn us apart. It felt like I wasn’t married anymore, with how many nights I spent sleeping alone in our bed.

He glanced at me, his face twisted in an expression I couldn’t quite place. Was it regret mixed with anger? I couldn’t tell. Then, he ripped his hand away from mine and walked toward the door, stepping out. The tears I tried so hard to keep from falling began rolling down my cheeks.

“If you leave, I won’t be here when you come back,” I remarked foolishly, hoping that by saying it, he would turn back into the house, come back, and comfort me. But he stopped, turning his head slightly to the side.

“Then leave your rings on the table,” he answered coldly, his tone devoid of love. No turning back to wrap me in his arms. Was this how he wanted it to end? He swore his job wouldn’t tear our marriage apart, but it seemed I was wrong. My father always said I was a foolish young girl, and that it would ruin me if I didn’t get in check. And now he was right, as I watched Chris walk out the door, slamming it behind him. I stood frozen in time before the full waterworks started to fall.

As I stood there, frozen for what felt like an eternity, I let out a rough, shallow breath before a loud sob tore from my lips. I put my hand on my stomach and shook my head, refusing to believe what had just happened. Wipping my tears from my soaked cheeks, but they kept rolling down, hitting my shirt and the floor. Walking towards the living room, grabbing the arm of the couch to steady myself as the tears didn’t stop, and the sobs ripped from my mouth as I tried to regain control of my breathing.

I opened my eyes and glanced down, trying to hold on to a little bit of the sanity I had left. That’s when seeing the wooden box on the coffee table. My sobs suddenly stopped, replaced by anger seeping into my bones. The tears on my cheeks began to dry as fury started to rise within me.

Grabbing the box roughly, feeling the rough wooden in my hands as I stared straight ahead at the portrait of Chris and me on our wedding day, mounted above the fireplace—the happiest day of our lives. I had worn a soft smile as I glanced at Chris, my eyes hunting him. It felt like a bad dream, one I was forced to confront head-on.

I hurled the wooden box at the picture frame, and the box broke open as it hit the portrait, knocking over smaller picture frames on the ledge of the fireplace. Some of them hit the floor. The contents of the box—medical records and a pregnancy test that I was gonna surprise Chris with that now was never gonna happen—spilled across the wooden floor. My breaths were short, and I looked back up at the portrait. That smiling face was still there. A noticeable crack in the glass formed between the little space separating Chris and me, with fracture lines radiating outward. Small shards of glass lay scattered on the floor, some landing on the fallen picture frames or the small brick ledge.

I rounded the glass table between me and the fireplace, standing on my tiptoes to roughly grab the portrait from its mantle. My breathing grew rough and ragged as I threw the portrait across the living room toward the TV. The realization of what I had just done hit me hard. I looked at the medical records on the ground and the broken glass surrounding the portrait. My breath quickened, and more tears lined my waterline. My hands went to my hair, pulling lightly on the strands as I paced the living room.

"What am I gonna do? What will Chris think when he gets home?" I muttered quietly to myself, the tears rolling down my cheeks again. I tried to think of an explanation, but before I could form one, I heard glass shatter upstairs. Thinking I was just hearing things from how tired I had been from all the crying and throwing things.

Thinking I was hearing things, I walked to the kitchen my hand over my stomach and leaned against the counter. I held my head in my hands before standing up straight, smoothing my hair out, and rubbing my face to clear away the last few tears. But then I heard it again—the sound of light footsteps coming from upstairs. The creek of the floorboards along with the creak of the bedroom door caught my attention alerting me it wasn’t my mind playing tricks on me, the door always creaked when opened I’ve been telling Chris to fix it since we moved in but he never did get around to doing it.

I grabbed a knife from the knife block, quickly snatching the phone off the wall. Crouching behind the kitchen counters, I dialled the police department, trying to keep my breathing steady and my hands from shaking as the footsteps grew louder. I tried pinpointing where they could be upstairs as the phone rang. My grip tightened on the knife before the sound of the woman’s voice from the phone registered in my head, bringing me back to reality.

“This is 911. What’s your emergency?” the woman asked, her voice almost robotic to me, drowned out by the sound of my heartbeat and the footsteps.

“Are you there?” she asked again, and I realized I was still clutching the phone and the knife, my hands shaking.

“I think someone’s in my house. I heard glass shatter upstairs, and now I’m hearing footsteps,” I whispered into the phone, my body shaking as I tried to steady my breath.

“Alright, try and stay calm. Could you tell me your name and address, please?” she responded softly, trying to keep me calm.

“Could you try to tell me your name and address first? Then I'll have someone sent over right away,” she asked, her voice soft as she typed.

“My name is Scarlet. Scarlet Redfield. The house number is 12th on Scott Street, East Side,” I whispered, the sound of the footsteps coming closer to the stairs, making my shaking worse.

“Ah, Mrs. Redfield, just try and stay calm. I’m having people sent over right now. Do you know if the person is armed?” she asked trying to get more information

“Does it seem like I know!” I quietly shouted into the phone as I heard the footsteps reach the bottom of the stairs, praying whoever it was would check the basement first

_________________________________________

A knock at the door a little while later. With no response trying the doorknob which caused the door to creak open. The police entered the entryway noticing the blood leading to the living room. The coats and coat racked knocked over as they reached for their guns. Giving each other a silent nod as they walked through the house, one went upstairs while the other noticed the phone discarded on the ground with a bloody handprint on the handle.

“Mrs. Redfield are you still there?!” The woman shouted through the phone getting no response

“Mrs.Redfield is everything okay!?” Her voice filled with panic before the police officer dispatched to the scene picked up the abandoned phone from the ground between the kitchen and living room

“She’s not here no one is?” He spoke confusingly, as he looked around

“What do you mean!” She shouted back her fingers clicking at her keyboard

“It looks like a crime scene in here but no bodies” he replied as his partner started coming down the stairs, as he looked at the large puddle of blood on the carpet with glass around it. The blood soaked into the light colour carpet tinting it red as it pooled out around the carpet.

This kind of feels like a fever dream, finally getting around to posting it. I have a Red Dead Redemption work that's a couple of chapters long that I could grab from my AO3 account and post here while anyone who enjoys this waits for the next chapter. If anyone would be interested!

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