#i’m really taking a gamble with this post

[disneyprincemuke]

you look like... * tlo

pairings: max verstappen x fem!driver

word count: 1.7k

notes: i'M SORRY I COULDN'T RESIST POSTING IT BUT I PROMISE I'M STILL WRITING PRINCE LOGAN.. AND AAAALSO, THIS IS AN X READER FIC K? FELICITY AND THE NAME FLEUR IS ESSENTIAL TO THE STORY SO CAN U PLEASE

(series masterlist)

🚨 | FORMULA 1 BREAKING: Red Bull reserve driver signs to race for Red Bull in 2025.

max has to be honest: he hadn’t expected the team to take a gamble on a rookie to be in the second seat so soon. though if he were to admit to anybody, he’s incredibly impressed at the return on investment that felicity has brought about for the team.

she’s producing results, helping the team in the overall championship run for the year.

but he has a confession that he’s starting to feel guilty about, one that he hasn’t been brave enough to tell even his closest friends. he’s been avoiding felicity as much as he could, even when she’d only been their reserve driver.

that’s about a year and a half of an attempt to not get too close to the young driver at all. his conscience has been eating away at him, but he just could not get himself to be cordial and pretend outside of media commitments.

there is something about the young driver that tugs at his heartstrings.

felicity passes him in the back of the garage, tossing her helmet onto the countertop not too far from him. she tears her balaclava off as she mutters under her breath, “stupid. how could i be so damn stupid?”

she pays max no mind. she passes him and disappears into one of the private rooms in the back.

max tilts his head in curiosity. stupid?

he slowly trails behind her to where the girl resides. he peers over the doorframe, curious and slightly concerned. she paces back and forth in the room with a hand scratching the back of her neck.

she halts in the middle of the room for a moment, turned away from him. she whirls around and immediately catches his eye, making max flinch slightly. “can i help you with something?” she frowns, “i’m having a moment here. do you mind?”

max blinks. he steps away from where he hid behind the wall and leans against the door frame. “is there anything i can do to help you?”

“i really doubt you could help me,” she shakes her head and raises a hand politely. “i just wanna be alone right now. thank you, and please close the door on your way out.”

he slumps his shoulders, his stare boring into hers from across the room. it’s a look he’s seen before — in every single person in the sport at one point or another.

the rookie seems stuck, but he’s just not sure about what.

her results have been good for someone racing alongside him, which he could say is never the easiest spot to be in.

“if it’s about your practice time, don’t worry about it,” max hums, pressing his lips together to form a polite smile. “you know qualifying is always different from today. take it easy.”

truthfully, he isn’t expecting the young driver to confide in him at all. not when he’s been anything but cold and distant to her for a year and a half.

she narrows her eyes in a glare. “it’s not about the track. i’m not worried about that.”

max tilts his head again. “i’m sorry. i really wish i could help in any way.” he pats the wall and pushes himself off. “but i’ll be outside if you change your mind.”

she simply nods at him. “thanks.”

he closes the door behind him and takes a deep breath. wow, the new generation of drivers sure are not afraid to speak their minds.

though, some argue that he’d started that revolution in his younger years in the sport. it’s hard to debate against it when his friends could easily pull up evidence of his reckless and harsh words from what seems like forever ago.

there is something about the interaction with felicity that triggered something in his mind.

he takes a moment to have a seat, hand over where his heart is. beads of sweat start to form on his forehead when an image flashes right before his eyes and he’s faced with the annoying truth.

felicity reminds him too much of you.

at least when you were still around.

he isn’t left with his thoughts for too long. a figure towers over him, prompting him to look up with raised eyebrows.

“actually,” felicity starts softly. her hands are clasped in front of her as she purses her lips. “you knew fleur personally, didn’t you?”

max blinks. “i’m sorry, what?”

it isn’t like max has forbidden any mention of you to his face. it’s just that everyone simply knew better than to bring you up.

he knows everyone still tells the legend of how you disappeared, still whispering and conspiring reasons as to why you’d abruptly left all your fortune and fame. and arguably, in the middle of the peak of your career.

he always notices the stares thrown in his direction and the utter of your name.

it’s like he’d been part of your identity; your legacy. and it doesn’t help that he’s your literal ex-boyfriend.

“i’m sorry if i’m crossing a line. i’m sure you don’t wanna talk about your ex-girlfriend,” felicity sighs. she reaches back for a stray chair and pulls it beside max. she takes her seat and leans back, resting her head on the wall behind them. “i’ve just been thinking about her lately.”

max turns to look at her. “well, it seems that everyone thinks of her at some point. it’s like some urban legend some of the guys tell their rookies.”

she shakes her head. “not like that.”

“what do you mean then?”

felicity purses his lips before she moves her gaze to her car, swarmed by mechanics and engineers. “i understand it now — why she did what she did. leaving her fortune and fame for a little peace and quiet.”

max furrows his eyebrows. this is why he refuses to partake in conversations that speak of you at all.

nobody knows how you felt leading up to your disappearance.

hell, even he still doesn’t know what came over you to allude to simply run into hiding. it’s been years, and nobody can trace anything back to you.

your apartment in monaco had been sold way before your disappearance, your car’s title was transferred over to your sister, and your retirement was announced by mercedes shortly before the new season was set to start.

you hadn’t even said goodbye.

it doesn’t even help that you’re his literal ex-girlfriend.

max stands up and turns on his heel. “don’t talk about fleur to me at all. i’m not interested in your conspiracy theories as to why she disappeared.”

felicity scrambles to follow max into the paddocks, waving her hands in the air. “i’m not conspiring.”

“not interested, kid. there are plenty other people who used to know her personally too. go ask carlos or something. or, if you want, i can get you in touch with daniel.” he looks over his shoulder. “but not me.”

“i’m just saying that i get it–”

max halts and whirls around, towering over her. she takes a step back, lips pressed together with her head hung low. “i don’t care if you think you get it.”

she sucks in a deep breath, “i’m sorry.”

“you should be,” max mutters, whirling back around towards the redbull hospitality. “i don’t care if you think you understand why she did what she did. nobody does and i’m not the person you should be saying that to.”

felicity nods and takes another step back. “of course. i’m sorry i crossed a line,” she says softly. “i didn’t mean to piss you off. i just– well, i’m rethinking my place here in formula 1. i’m thinking of retiring for good at the end of the season and go back to school.”

max, for a moment, is washed over by clarity. he doesn’t speak of you much, or even think of you.

in front of him stands a girl, completely feeling like she doesn’t belong in the sport. it’s odd, because she’s in conversations of being his predecessor if he were to retire or leave the team. considering retiring is just absurd to him.

perhaps he’d been a bit harsh on the young driver. he just doesn’t allow himself to reminisce about you for too long.

he still misses you.

years ago, he’d wonder every day what drove you to a silent retirement. he knows that you would have sniped the championship from him at some point in the future.

he’d always been half the driver you were and he knew that.

some days, he would overthink himself into the thought that something bad had happened to you. at the end of the day, he drew the conclusion that you had just grown tired of the brutality of the sport and took off.

and as bitter as he is, it’s a decision he respects you for. personally, he could never leave this life of adrenaline.

there is not a day that goes by that he doesn’t regret not reaching out to you sooner. because maybe, just maybe, had he not been blind and stubborn, he would have been there for you enough to make you stay.

“oh.” max puts a hand on felicity’s shoulder and presses his lips together. “don’t make any rash decisions you’ll regret. this is a big step you’re thinking of making.”

he moves towards their team’s hospitality again.

felicity shrugs. “fleur did it. why can’t i?”

“i like to think it wasn’t just a decision she made overnight,” max shrugs with a small grin. “we used to joke that we’d retire eventually and live completely off the grid. maybe make some appearances here and there.”

felicity smiles, nodding as they enter the air-conditioned room. “do you still think about her?”

every waking moment. “sometimes.”

she tilts her head and looks up at him. “do you still love her?”

absolutely. max pats her back firmly. “don’t push your luck.”

taglist: @dreamauri @annimausi @kassieesworld @angelluv16 @mendes-bae @capsiclesworldsblog @scuderia-piastri

[mythallia]

shout out to colm greer

[ali3nboyfriend]

obviously “therapy talk” can be really annoying and patronizing when used incorrectly but i’m ngl there’s something very satisfying about hitting my friend who has a tendency to verbally self-flagellate when they’re having a meltdown with “how can we express these feelings in a way that’s more constructive?” and watching those thought patterns unravel in real time as they have to sit there and actually think about what they’re feeling and why without being mean to themselves

[aesculapiansnake]

i need you all to know that i referenced the piss poor post for a english graduate course discussion board today and entitled it “‘pissing on the poor:’ art, interpretation, and critique” okay that’s all thank you for your time

[chuluoyi]

𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇 𝐌𝐄 𝐈𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐂𝐀𝐍

- sylus x reader

when your husband went away without so much as a proper notice, you thought you wouldn't forgive him so easily. but he tries everything to capture your heart back: spoiling and indulging you… little do you know that he expects a reward in return

genre/warnings: 18+ suggestive content—minors do not interact!—rotten fluff, domestic bliss, explicit smut, cunnilingus, fingering, mating press, taking elements from sylus' card night of secrecy, secret times approaching dusk and spoilers! from myth beyond cloudfall

note: my first sylus x mc fic! with this i'm spreading the soft!sylus agenda and that spicy 4-star approaching dusk has destroyed me :') loosely based on this post

Sometimes, you do wonder... does Sylus really think you're that easy to placate?

On one chilly morning, you woke up only to discover your hunk of a husband gone... and in his side of the bed, a sticky note.

Your eyebrow twitched as you read the audacious message scrawled on it:

Hey, kitten. I need to leave for a few days. There are things I have to handle on my own. Take care of yourself while I’m away. I’ll come back soon.

That was it. No clear explanation, no further details. Just those vague words in such short notice. The day before, he’d seemed like his usual self, not a hint of this sudden departure in sight.

It irked you. It made your heart clench at the same time. Because even after marrying you, Sylus remained elusive, playing his cryptic games. It was beyond you how he didn't even stop to consider how you were left worrying about him while he drifted in and out of his dangerous world without a second thought.

You understood the reality of your lives—that you were a hunter and he was the Onychinus leader, and that to be with him meant you had to walk that fine gray line between light and dark.

And you'd already made your choice. You had accepted it—accepted him—wholly. Even when your marriage had been a rushed affair and registered under false names to protect both your identities.

Things couldn't go on like this. You had to teach him a lesson too.

As your irritation simmered into determination, a devious plan began to take shape in your mind—a way to spite him just enough to make your point crystal clear.

Two days later

Sylus was done with his dirty business faster than he thought, and to appease you, he had come bearing gifts.

The precious little thing that is now his wife, of course he missed you too. But your safety was a price he wasn’t willing to gamble. If going away to take care of those pests meant your peace would be unperturbed, then he would leave without hesitation.

However, as he stepped inside the base, his relief quickly turned to unease. The space was eerily empty, the usual hum of activity conspicuously absent.

Normally, you’d be at the center of some commotion, locked in a spat with either Mephisto, or Luke and Kieran. But now—

“What do we do?! She’s gone!”

Sylus immediately rushed to the source of the ruckus, thinking something bad had happened to you. He found his henchmen standing in a tight, anxious circle around the coffee table.

“What happened?” he demanded.

Without a word, they stepped aside, revealing the object of their concern: a single note lying on the table.

He snatched it up, scanning the words. Then, he let out a sharp exhale of relief, a smirk began tugging at the corners of his lips.

Catch me if you can.

Typical. Absolutely typical. And maddeningly you.

. . .

That night, you had a very strange dream, it felt almost felt like stepping into the pages of an ancient tale.

You were a fallen princess wrongfully accused as a sorceress, who began consorting with the fearsome fiend from the Abyss.

The sorceress and her dragon. Together, you were an infamous pair, a dark legend whispered across generations. Your union had ignited Doomsday itself... and yet, amidst the turmoil and destruction, the sorceress fell in love with the dragon... deeply and irrevocably.

The dragon, in turn, was utterly bewitched by his little witch. He indulged your every whim, no matter how mischievous or perilous, and though he rarely spoke of his true feelings, he always found ways to show his affection.

The lucid dream felt as though it might go on forever, but you were pulled from it by the soft brush of lips against your forehead. The warmth lingered, blurring the lines between dream and reality, until your eyes fluttered open.

“Sylus...?” His features, fresh from your dream, now materialized in your reality. It took you a few seconds to realize that he had come here—

“Morning, sweetie.” His voice was rich and smooth, with that familiar, mischievous edge. A smirk curled on his devilishly handsome face as he leaned in, garnet eyes gleaming with playful intent. “Caught you now, hmm?”

The haze of sleep vanished in an instant, and you were suddenly wide awake. In a flurry, you shoved him away and turned your back on him, trying to regain some semblance of control.

You’d left the N109 Zone for one of his safehouses in suburban Chansia City, thinking it would take him some effort to track you down. Clearly, you’d underestimated him.

“Oh. The kitten is in a bad mood, it seems.” Sylus’ gaze lingered on you, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Well, what do I owe the ire for?”

“...”

“Silent treatment, huh? The lady of the house is getting better at our little games while I was away.”

“...”

“Remember, sweetie, there’s no divorce in our relationship, hmm? If you’re tired of me, keep taking naps.”

You felt the weight shift as he rose from the bed and stalked away. The door clicked shut, leaving you in the silence of the room.

You wanted to resent him for coming and going on his terms, for never offering even an apology. Yet, no matter how much you tried, a part of you remained hopelessly tethered to him. The part that couldn’t ignore the reminder of the dragon from your dream—captivating, powerful, and infuriatingly hard to resist.

You love him, really you do.

. . .

When you didn’t come down for breakfast some time later, Sylus barged into the room once again, and this time he came up with a different approach.

“My lady,” he began, his voice sickeningly low and sweet, but his eyes gleamed with a touch of mischief. “You haven’t had breakfast yet. Please come down.”

You shot him a look, unamused, and decided to play his game as you crossed your arms together. “What if I don't want to?”

His smirk only grew, his tone dripping with mock formality. “And what must I do to change your mind?”

Despite yourself, you couldn’t help but notice his persistence. He had chased you here, given you more time to sleep in, and now stood before you to get you to eat. You felt your resolve beginning to soften—maybe just a little.

“Carry me there,” you said with a hint of defiance, lifting your chin high, daring him to follow through.

Sylus tilted his head, failing to restrain his snort. “As you wish, my lady.”

He placed his arms around you effortlessly, one hand beneath your knees and the other supporting your back, lifting you into a flawless princess carry. You instinctively put your arms around his neck, and he turned to you.

You opened your mouth, ready to fire off a sharp retort, but before you could, he dived in—

Smooch!

—and planted a bold, wet kiss on your lips. You, wide-eyed, punched his chest in retaliation. “Sylus!”

He chuckled, entirely unfazed. “Careful now, sweetie. Wiggle too much, and you’ll fall.”

He carried you downstairs, effortlessly navigating each step with you still in his arms. Once there, he gently set you down onto the dining chair, and that was when you noticed the table.

Salad, slightly burnt toast, scrambled eggs, milk—simple dishes by all means, but the thought the big, bad Sylus making them?

Wait. When you arrived last night, this place was a dusty shell, and the refrigerator had practically nothing—

“You cleaned the place?” you asked, your tone laced with surprise as your turned from the spotless room to him.

He shrugged nonchalantly. “Why is that so surprising? I can cook and clean just like everyone else.”

It sent a wave of warmth through your chest. He’d prepared food and cleaned the place knowing you’d be hungry and uncomfortable with dust all around.

You huffed, trying to hide how your heart fluttered. “No, your cooking skills are questionable at best.”

As if to prove you wrong, Sylus disappeared into the pantry and reemerged with a tray of warm, freshly baked dough that filled the room with a heavenly aroma.

“You are... baking?” You approached him, mystified at the sight of your husband, who usually at the scene of crime, behind the counter and started frosting the cupcakes.

He set the frosting bag down and picked up a cupcake, holding it to your lips with a teasing smile. “Here. Open up.”

Dutifully, you nibbled on the cupcake, and the sweetness immediately spread into your mouth. “It's tasty,” you mumbled, blinking at him. His eyes crinkled with satisfaction as he gestured toward the tray.

“Go have some more.”

Grinning, you grabbed another cupcake and eagerly took a bite. Munching away, you missed how Sylus’ gaze softened, his bright red eyes focused solely on you.

He couldn't resist pinching your full cheeks at that moment.

“Sy-wus!” you protested, glaring at him. His laughter broke free that instant, warm and unrestrained.

Utterly funny, utterly precious—that’s what you were to him.

Indignant, you scooped up some icing from the cupcake and smeared it right across his face. The stunned look he gave you was priceless, and before he could react, you burst into a fit of giggles and bolted out of the kitchen.

But as you reached the base of the stairs, a strong arm caught your waist from behind, halting your escape. You squealed in surprise, “Noooo!”

Sylus leaned closer and pressed you to his chest, his voice rumbling in your ear. “Ha. Did you really think you could get away that easily?”

He lifted you up with one arm and brought you back to the kitchen, setting you down on the counter and trapping you in place with his arms braced on either side. His eyes sparkled with mirth as he leaned in, and with a grin, he bumped his frosting-smeared nose against yours, leaving a sticky smudge.

“This is unfair!” you protested, still caught in a fit of giggles as you looped your arms around his neck for balance. Sylus chuckled along with you, his gaze steady and warm, never leaving yours.

Being with Sylus in the kitchen like this, savoring simple meals and smearing each other with frosting, it made you realize that you craved this domestic bliss more than you thought.

As the laughter subsided and you both settled into the quiet, your expression softened, all your previous grievances forgotten. The tenderness in your eyes said everything you didn’t need words for, and Sylus could see it clearly—you adored him, just as much as he adored you.

The one who gazed into his jewel-like eyes, embraced his burning soul and sang to him in the night wind... is once again in his arms. A part of him was almost sentimental at the thought.

Instinctively, he closed the distance between you, his lips hovering just a breath away from yours. But as they were about to meet, he paused, as if hesitating, leaving you puzzled.

Then, without a second thought—

To hell with it.

You chose to abandon all senses. You seized the moment—yanking him to you and capturing his lips, claiming him for yourself.

“…!” Suck, suck, bite, suck— You were relentless, and you didn't really know why. At first, even he was taken aback, but then his hand slipped behind your head, fingers threading through your hair as he deepened the kiss, his tongue tangling with yours in an intoxicating rhythm.

“Mmm...” You sneakily began to undo the buttons of his shirt one by one, your fingertips grazing his warm skin with each deliberate motion. Feeling it, Sylus broke the kiss just enough to smirk, his voice husky. “Getting bold, aren’t we?”

But before you could respond, his hands trailed down your sides, firmly pulling you closer, leaving no space between the two of you. His gaze burned with desire, as if daring you to keep going.

Then, without warning, his lips began their descent, grazing your jaw softly before trailing down to your neck and chest, leaving a trail of warmth and shivers across your skin. The feeling was intoxicating, even as his hair tickled you, making it hard to focus on anything but him.

“Ahh,” you couldn’t help but sigh, pressing him closer.

His lips left wet marks on your neck, and he whispered, “Now tell me... what made you so upset that you left home?”

When you didn't answer right away, one of his hand slid beneath your blouse, unhooking your bra and grazed your skin—

“You... keep coming and going as you please...” you stammered, feeling him begin to cup and squeeze your breasts, your breath growing erratic.

Sylus bit down on the skin at the nape of your neck, and you almost gasped.

“It's almost as if— Mmm—” The way he fondled your chest made the space between your legs grow warmer. “—you wouldn’t... miss m-me at all...”

How untrue. He stopped his ministrations, and the steel behind those eyes you loved so much met your gaze once again.

His wife was a mess of sweat already. He swiftly hooked your thighs around his waist and claimed your lips once more. With effortless movement, Sylus guided you to the long recliner in the room, laying you down there, still lost in the heat of the kiss. His hand intertwined with yours, pinning you to the soft surface.

“So...” he rasped, breathless against your lips, “You’re upset that I didn't miss you when I was away...”

His other hand worked to unzip your skirt. “But don’t you know? I... was worried about my wife getting into trouble when I wasn’t with her too... That’s why I was in a hurry to go home...”

Sylus pulled away, both of you panting for air, and he took a moment to savor the sight of your glazed eyes.

“But then I couldn't find her anywhere.” His voice was low and taunting, trailing his fingers on your belly. “I made it back as soon as I could, just like I told you and you are the one who misbehaved... Don’t you think I deserve something as a compensation?”

It took you three solid seconds to realize that the lower half of your body was now exposed. Your husband parted your legs and settled his face between them, pressing a kiss on your knee.

“So I believe at the very least... I deserve this.”

He dived straight for your clit then and you let out a loud gasp.

“Ngh! Aaah...!” You let out incoherent moans as he devoured your folds, lost in the cloudy haze of pleasure. It didn’t take long to unravel you at all.

“Mmnh—!” Your eyes almost rolled to the back of your head. Ticklish, hot, wet— all in all, it felt like a sin, but you just had to get this heavenly taste. “…a-ah!”

Sylus felt how you were this close to get your orgasm, so he moved faster, licking and sucking your clit, while adding a couple of fingers to bring you to the peak faster. You unconsciously moved your hips against his face— too far gone to be thinking anything else, grasping the leather of the sofa and pulling his hair—

“Ahh— S-Sylus!” And then you came hard, screaming his name, feeling how much it was— were you squirting?

You didn't know, didn't care either, as it was the sight of his ruby eyes that grounded you. You were spent, spread on the sofa (most probably ruined it, even), your chest heaving to catch your breath.

Sylus let out a low rumble as he wiped your juices off his lips with a thumb and tasted it, looking so sinfully sexy like a forbidden fruit while at it.

“You said... I wouldn't miss you.” He traced one finger on your face with such tenderness. “Now, I'm going to show you, and you'll be judge of it. Are you sure you don't want me to stop?”

If you said no, he would comply. That was the kind of person he was and you knew it. Sylus had always looked out for you since the very beginning, no matter how nonchalant he made himself to be.

“No.” You met his eyes, your voice steady. “Show me.”

It was the only affirmation he needed. He began unbuckling his belt and pants, keeping his unclouded gaze on yours, and soon he too was bare before you.

He was thick and long, and while you had taken him many times, it was never fully easy to ease the intrusion. His tip was already slick with precum, and he spread it along his length.

“You know the rule,” he murmured with a meaningful smile. “If it becomes too much, you scream, and I'll stop.”

He positioned himself at your entrance, sliding in slowly. The sharpness of the stretch seeped into you bit by bit, and you couldn't help but groan.

“—!” A sharp hiss escaped you as he fully sheathed himself inside, hitting that sensitive spot. Had your eyes deceived you, or was there a slightly noticeable bulge in your belly from where he was?

Sylus seemed to notice it too, but he folded your knees, spreading you further. His gaze intense and filled with something deep, something possessive. The room seemed to narrow, your entire focus consumed by him as he settled in close.

“Eyes on me, kitten.” He gave you a smile, and with that, he started pounding you—

“Ah, hah, ahhh!” You couldn't stop moaning beneath him as he thrusted into you. The feeling of him so deep inside, coupled with the way you tightened around him, sent waves of blind pleasure through you.

Sylus’ eyes darkened, his jaw clenched as he watched you squirm under him. Your skin glistened with the heat of the moment, and the sound of your breaths, frantic and needy, filled the room. His control slipped, just a little, as he pushed deeper, his movements faster, chasing the release that quickly building within both of you.

A pretty mess, his wife is. Your face contorted in a mix of pleasure and pain as he bred you, and he swore, of everything he had gone through, this look in your face was always worth it.

“Sylus—!” you almost wailed, nails digging into his back, and he growled, knowing full-well that he was finally losing it.

Just like that he shot his cum straight to your womb, his own body shuddering, thoroughly rutting into you. You cried, tears falling from your lashes as you too reached your climax.

Full, too full... Yet you knew that you wouldn't have it another way.

. . .

It felt warm and comforting.

Your eyes fluttered open hours later, and the first thing you noticed was Sylus' sleeping face, and that you were now in the bedroom.

He looked so vulnerable like this. You couldn’t help but be drawn to how serene and unguarded he was, a side of him that only you got to see. Even in his sleep, his arms were wrapped around your waist, as if to protect you from anything that might disturb your rest.

Your lover... and then husband. He was rough around the edges, sometimes didn't make any sense at all, and often reckless enough to burn himself playing with fire.

“You sly crow…” You gazed at his profile, still in awe that this elusive man was your husband.

Sylus was easy to read sometimes, and you couldn’t help but smile at your earlier doubts about him. How could you not see just how deeply he was attached to you?

Just like the inseparable pair of dragon and sorceress in your dream, you knew you’d stay by his side until the very end.

Out of a playful surge of affection, you tapped his nose, and he grunted softly but didn’t wake, instead nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck, seeking more of your warmth. It was cute, how he was so worn out that he sought comfort in your embrace.

You pressed a soft kiss to his forehead then, vowing with everything you had that you’d never let him go, and that with him by your side, you would definitely made this life you shared a happy one.

Several weeks later...

“Thank you, miss!”

The boy bowed his head with a wide grin as soon as you handed him the red pocket money for Linkon New Year. You waved at him, smiling warmly as he skipped away, clutching the envelope in his hands.

The festive occasion inspired you to pay a visit to a nearby orphanage, driven by a desire to share more of the joy and blessings. You brought small gifts and red envelopes, hoping to bring a little light to the children’s lives and make the celebration even more meaningful for them.

Of course, Sylus tagged along too. He was the benefactor, after all.

“Sir, thank you for your generosity.” The headmistress approached Sylus, who looked effortlessly sharp in his red suit, and gave his hand a shake. “The children are really happy with the cupcakes and pocket money.”

He merely chuckled and pointed at you with his chin. “Thank her, my wife is the one with the idea.”

You joined the conversation shortly after, and it didn’t take long for the topic to shift from the orphanage to your personal lives.

“So, do the two of you have plans to start a family soon?” the headmistress asked, her tone warm and curious. “Both of you are still young, and you're so good with kids. Having children of your own might bring even more joy into your lives.”

You mustered a polite laugh, the words to gracefully deflect her comment forming on your lips, when—

“Soon,” Sylus interjected smoothly, his arm slipping around your waist, pulling you closer. “Very soon, in fact.”

You blinked at him, startled by his bold declaration, while the headmistress’s face lit up with approval. You nudged him discreetly.

As soon as the headmistress went on her way, you turned to him with a frown. “Why would you tell her that?”

Your gaze met his, clear and utterly clueless. Sylus snorted, so tempted to pinch your cheeks, but settling instead for a tender pat on your head.

“You'll see soon enough, sweetie,” he replied, his tone laced with playful mystery.

Epilogue

It was the dead of night when a sudden wave of nausea overtook you. Stumbling out of bed, you rushed to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before retching up the contents of your stomach.

Your body trembled as you stood, dizziness threatening to topple you. Leaning heavily on the sink for support, you rinsed your mouth, trying to steady yourself. The effort left you shivering, your legs almost buckling beneath you.

Before you could even comprehend the blur in your vision, a pair of strong arms got a hold over you. “S-Sylus...?” you murmured faintly.

Without hesitation, he lifted you into his arms securely as he carried you back to the bedroom, his expression shadowed with concern.

As he settled you onto the bed, he held you close, pressing your face against his bare chest that peeked from his unbuttoned shirt. “Take deep breaths,” he urged softly, his voice grounding you.

You inhaled shakily, letting the familiar warmth of his scent calm your frayed nerves. Slowly, your breathing steadied, though the nausea still lingered in the back of your throat.

“Is it the first time?” he questioned, smoothing your hair. “Have you thrown up before?”

You shook your head. “No... I get dizzy spells but that's it... This is the first time.”

Nausea, dizziness, vomiting. It wasn't hard to piece together what it was. Amidst your dazed thoughts, the realization hit you, and you turned to your husband almost in wonder. “Sylus... a-am I...?”

Sylus broke into a smirk, ruffling your hair. “Told you. I know your period is late.”

Your heart skipped a beat—and it was the only thing you could hear in that moment. The thought that a baby would enter your lives left you briefly speechless.

“Yeah, at the rate we're going, it’s like we’re bunnies,” you quipped sullenly, trying to regain a sense of control as you leaned into his broad chest.

You really thought he would poke fun at you for your highly possible pregnancy, but instead you were taken aback when he pressed a fond, lingering kiss to the side of your head. His arms tightened around you, his soft chuckle reverberating through his chest.

And when you found his gaze again, his jewel-like eyes softened into such an extent that made your heart soar.

“Well, aren’t I the luckiest man— having this fair lady be the mother of my child?”

[vigilskeep]

hey harker! very much enjoying the lucanis/illario/general crow posting, and im gonna encourage more: now that you’ve had some time to sit with the game i was really curious to hear more about your opinion on lucanis becoming first talon. i can’t help but feel like it’s completely glossed over that lucanis is definitely going to get chewed up by this job in most save states. i have mixed feelings about it personally - but setting those aside because i’m asking about yours.

i TRULY cannot express this enough: that villa is a tomb and if we do not get him out of there we are burying him in it

lucanis does not want this job. he has straight up canonically always avoided thinking about this by assuming he would die before it becomes something he has to deal with. he reacts with paralysed disbelief to being given it and seems to have barely registered it for the rest of the game. and even if he did want it, lucanis is not capable of this job. none of his skillsets are managing people, or making ruthless calls, or watching out for himself. the only driving force behind him being pushed into this is caterina, who will not be around to do the admin and protect him from external threats forever. and she only wants him to do it in the first place because she had a good heir—his mother—and has needed to project that dead daughter onto lucanis for his whole life, to believe she hasn’t already gambled and irrevocably lost her family’s future decades ago. but lucanis’ incapacity to ever say no to her, which is what lets him stay that eternal teacher’s pet, is one of the most obvious shining examples why he would be so bad for the job!

it would be an uphill battle for anyone to recover control of an assassin house that until last week was being run by your cousin who tried to kill you. it would be an uphill battle for anyone to lead the crows in the aftermath of the antaam occupation. it would be an uphill battle for anyone to cope with the fact that relying on viago and teia—which lucanis with his resources and skills has no choice but to do here, even if he didn’t simply like them and make choices based on liking people because he is not a strategist—presents them as an alliance that any other ambitious talon must cut down to get anywhere. three out of eight of the talons is such a ludicrously dangerous number. it does not take an overwhelmingly brilliant mind to notice that there’s more of us than there are of them

the best man for the job would still be fighting for their life, and lucanis is far from the best man. caterina was! and she still lost five children and six grandchildren holding it! that’s so many! have you guys ever seen that one post about people who kept getting a new outdoor cat every time the last one got eaten by cougars and it was pointed out they were basically just feeding cats to the cougars. that’s what caterina dellamorte was doing having kids

the points in lucanis’ favour off the top of my head are the weight of the dellamorte name and reputation, that his victory over illario was decisive and public, and simply the fear factor that he is a god slayer and, lest we forget, a fucking abomination. is that enough to keep him alive? for how long? under what level of constant anxiety and moral degradation for his very soft over-caffeinated heart? all for the questionable gain of several large and empty villas and the privilege of dragging out the slow and lingering death of a family that, you guessed it, you love it, it’s the thedas favourite: has no! next! generation! heirs! at all!!!

(unless illario has a bunch of kids somewhere. i think that would be objectively pretty funny, a sentence i managed to type most of before feeling ill. oh god we need to get them out.)

i apologise that my tone here is somewhat hysterical but i have been living in the mind of my rook, a character very aware of the realities of crow politics who loves lucanis very much. it does not surprise me that lucanis was once again incapable of even conceptualising saying no to his grandmother and accepted the title, or that the idea of abandoning her legacy and his family would seem insurmountable to him when he has been raised to believe it’s all he’s for and he is the last one shouldering the weight. but i am saying this with total and absolute confidence: this is another prison and he is going to die in there if nobody gets him out.

[vienssunshine]

Pay Up

pairing: Sevika x fem!reader nsfw: dom!Sevika, bondage/rope, noncon elements wc: 4k author's note: happy i finally got this posted yay! description: oh no, you don't have the money, however will you pay sevika back~?

“Rotten luck, boys,” Sevika gloats, tossing her cards down on the table. An ace and a king. Royal fucking flush.

The cards twist in your grip. You were watching her so carefully, entirely certain she was bluffing. Damn it, the booze must’ve gotten to your head. Or maybe it was her. You last remember admiring the shimmer-infused scars that crackle up her dark skin rather than searching for tells. 

With pressed lips, you reveal your hand to the table. Only a jack and a nine.

The other men who had folded look pleased with their decision, frustratingly so. The only other player dumb enough to bet against Sevika splays out his cards and brings his cup up to his rat-like snout to soothe the pain of losing. 

Sevika’s mechanical hand sweeps your mountain of chips to her side of the table. What were you thinking, going all in for a jack and a nine? 

One of the men who folded uses his metal cane to stand up and hobble over to the liquor cabinet. It was tradition that after every night of gambling, the final game would be rounded off with a shot of abergin, a mix of Zaun’s best hard liquor and a drop of shimmer. It tastes like battery acid.

The other loser pulls a brown pouch from his coat pocket and counts out ten golden coins. He slides them over the table. 

Sevika recounts the payment as the rest of the group cheer at the arrival of a bottle and complimentary shot glasses. 

Sevika takes the abergin and messily pours all the drinks full. Together, you clink glasses and take the shot down. The hot liquid pours down your throat, burning it, but does little to distract from the anxiety tightening up in your chest. 

“Let’s hit The Last Drop,” one of the players calls out. 

“Or just down the street,” the rat-man slurs, “I could use some special company after tonight.” 

“Hah!” The other one pushes the drunken loser’s shoulder. “And how will you pay with all your money gone?”

“I suppose I’ll have to ask nicely.” 

The group erupts into drunken laughter, smacking each other hard on the back as the abergin floods their system with good feelings.

It doesn’t do the same for you, however. You’re sweating, fingernails digging into your knees as you force a grin to keep up appearances. Maybe if you sit here smiling like everything's fine, Sevika will forget you’re yet to pay her.

What a naive thought. She chuckles along with everyone else, but her gaze soon settles back on you. It’s predatory, like an alligator watching its meal from an inch above the waterline. “Still waiting on you, pretty,” she says, “How else am I going to treat us to a round at The Last Drop?” 

The group whoops at the idea, glasses in the air.

“Right,” you agree, awkwardly laughing. 

You pull out your pouch from your bag and shudder at its light weight. Not bothering to open it, you slide it over to Sevika. “I’m…I’m sorry, but I’ll have the rest later.”

The laughter dies down immediately. 

“You don’t have the money?”

“No, I do, I do have the money. I get paid tomorrow, really.”

Sevika’s mouth twists into a scowl. 

You try again to placate, “I’ll have it all to you by next week. I promise, you have my word.”

“Next week?” she snarls. She turns to the rest of the table, “Have I not beaten it into you all yet?”

The other players are all looking down at their drinks.

“Debts are always repaid the night of,” she states, her mouth in a hard line.

“I know, Sevika, I know…and I’m sorry.”

Sevika pushes her chair back away from the table. “Everyone, out.” She walks around the table to your chair, placing a heavy hand on the back of it. Your fingers tightly grip the bottom of the wooden seat. 

The rat-like man grins, tilting his head. “Aww, c'mon Sevika, you’ll let us watch, won't ya?”

Sadistic freak.

Though, it was typical that Sevika beats the shit out of anyone who owes her money right then and there. It’s meant to make an example out of those who tried to fuck over Silco’s people. 

Yet, Sevika denies his request. “Go get a table at The Last Drop. I’ll be there soon.” She leans down next to you, her face close to yours, “Depending on how stubborn this one will be.” 

The men file out, and as they pass, you don’t fail to notice how each one has a scar, wound, or bruise staining their skin, all from gambling, betting, and promising money they didn’t have. Those marks are supposed to be a lesson, and it’s clear you’re about to learn it. 

Sevika drags you out of the room, down a hallway, and through a door you’ve never been past before. It’s a bedroom, evidenced by the cot with unmade sheets piled atop of it sitting in the corner of the room. There’s an armchair with a side table and a light in the other corner, and right by the entrance, next to a coat rack, is a wooden desk filled with paperwork. Sevika pulls off her red cloak, revealing a tight black tank that hugs her upper body, and drapes the fabric over the coat rack. It’s Sevika’s bedroom.

One step and she’s reaching for the chair under the desk, spinning it around, and pushing you down into it. The door slams behind you. 

“Sevika–” you start, but then she’s rummaging around in one of the desk drawers and pulling out rope. “What are you–”

She gets behind your chair and pulls your arms back, bonding your wrists together with the coil of rope.

“Hey! Not so tight,” you complain, but she finishes the second knot anyway. Then, she begins going through the drawers again. 

“Sevika, I really think we can talk this out, okay? This isn’t necessary.”

Sevika finds what’s she’s looking for and sits down in the arm chair diagonal to you. It’s a small case, and from it she pulls out a stone and a knife. 

A knife? Sure, you can take a few punches, but what the fuck was she planning for with a knife? She’s really that mad?

Sevika runs the knife along the whetstone in slow, rhythmic movements, sharpening it to a finer point. Each grind of the knife sinks your heart deeper into your stomach. 

“Come on, Sevika. You don’t need to do this.” 

She doesn’t look up.

“I thought we were friends,” you try. That’s one way to describe it, though it leaves out the crush you’ve developed since you started running in Silco’s circles. 

“Doesn’t matter,” Sevika responds, “You know the rules.”

Her uncloaked bicep flexes as she moves the knife over the stone. It’s almost fully sharpened. Crush or not, you’re not letting this woman slice you up. 

“Yes, I know, but I will pay you! I just need more time.” 

She brings the knife up off the stone and runs her finger along its edge. Satisfied with her work, she puts the whetstone back in the case and closes it. 

“I need to be repaid tonight.”

Sevika walks to the desk and opens the drawer. The knife remains in her mechanical hand.

Fuck, you’re so fucked. You got caught up in the drinks, the gambling, your idea of a night out on the town with Sevika. You should be partying with the rest of the group at The Last Drop, not strapped to a chair and cut til you bleed out all over Sevika's floor.

She places the case in the drawer. 

That’s if they even made it to The Last Drop, usually the snouted drunk and Sevika get side-tracked at the brothel. 

The drawer slams shut. 

An idea pops into your head. There’s another angle you could try.

“I can pay you tonight,” you blurt out.

“Yeah? With what money?”

“I’d be paying you…in another way.” 

With her back to you, she stills. Then, she scoffs. 

“You’re really desperate, aren’t you?” She turns around and leans back onto her desk, palms flat on its surface, fingertips brushing the handle of the knife. “You don’t even know what you’re saying.”

“I know what I’m saying,” you respond, looking up at her. You don’t let your eye contact waver, you can’t.

“No, you don’t. You’re—you’re not like that, sweetheart.”

“What, you don’t think I would be good?” You frown. “Am I not pretty enough?”

“No, no, you’re plenty pretty. I just don’t think you know what you’re doing, offering your body up like this. To me.” 

“I know what sex is, Sevika.” You roll your eyes. 

Sevika crosses her arms, leaning back on the desk. “Sure, but you don’t know what sex with me is like.”

“Well, I’ve thought about it before,” you quip.

That might’ve tipped your hand too much; this deal doesn't work if you get something out of it too. You shut your mouth and wait. Maybe she won’t realize your mistake. 

Sevika smirks. “You’re bolder than I thought, pretty. Should’ve realized that when you went all in on a jack and a nine.” 

“Fuck off,” you say, eyes dropping down to the ground. 

Sevika takes a step forward and crouches down in front of the chair. Blade in hand, she brings the point to the bottom of your chin, forcing it up so you’re back to looking at her. “Tell me what you thought about.”

Her mouth snarling curses into your neck, biting and sucking on the tender skin. Her hand on your back, pushing your face into the mattress as she fucks you. Crying out her name as she greedily laps at your dripping cunt. 

“Well?” she asks. You take a breath, face hot. It’s disorienting, how the same person in your fantasies is waiting to hear about them in real life. 

The knife presses up into your skin. 

‘Bold’ she called you. You can be bold.

You open your legs and wrap them around Sevika’s waist, pulling her into your lap so her face is level with your rising and falling chest. “One thing I’ve thought about is…”—your eyes flick down to hers—“how it would feel to…have you kiss me here,” you say. 

Sevika holds your gaze, her eyes darker than they normally are. They look dangerous, similar to when she found out you didn’t have the money. Though there’s a difference this time, but you need to be watching closely to notice it—the undercurrent coursing beneath her gaze, something fierce, something that wants.

Sevika’s eyes break from yours to wander back down to your chest. Her right hand releases the blade—it clatters to the floor—so her fingers can find your waist. She runs them up your side, past your ribs and breasts, to find the neckline of your shirt. She pulls it down slightly, exposing a few centimeters underneath your collarbone. “Right here?” she asks, running her thumb over the skin in slow circles.

“Yes,” you whisper back, body stiff and hot. Your chest is tight like the rope around your wrists. It’s hard to breathe, to speak. 

She moves closer and you can only squirm—away or towards her you don’t know. God, you do really want her to kiss you, want to know what it’s like to have her lips on your skin. 

Then she laughs, a dark, slow chuckle. “You really are desperate, aren’t you? Either to get out of your punishment, or to fuck me.” 

“Sevika,” you say.

“Which is it?” she drawls, playing with your neckline. 

Brain fogged by desire, you’re in no condition for mind games. So, rather than trying to figure out what the right answer is, you respond truthfully. 

“Both. I want both.”

“Honest girl,” she coos, “I have to reward that, don’t I?”

“Mhmm,” you get out, “Please.”

Sevika leans forward, hot breath ghosting your chest, and kisses her lips to your skin. It’s a light touch, but the effect is significant, a warm tingle spreading through your entire body. Your legs slacken, releasing her waist, and your feet return back to the floor.

She retreats and looks up to your face, her lips curling when she sees you looking back down at her, mouth slightly ajar, panting.

“Was it like you fantasized?” she asks. Her voice is lower and deeper than before, the sound coated with desire. 

“Sevika–fuck–that was–”

“I only kissed you,” Sevika says, chuckling softly as she runs her hands along your thighs. The touch makes your skin buzz. 

“I know, I know just, please, Sevika,” you say, “Untie me.”

Her eyelids lower. “You’re the one who owes me, right? So we’ll play by my rules.” 

Sadistic freak, she’s enjoying this. 

Yet, you are too. It’s hot that she’s getting off to your struggle, even if it is, at the end of the day, still a struggle. You groan, shoulders falling. “Right…okay,” you respond. “Your rules.”

“I’m curious now, how you’ll react to other things.” She leans down and presses a gentle kiss right underneath the end of your shorts. You gasp quietly, leg tensing up.

“Guess you’ll have to find out,” you goad, shifting your weight from one hip to the other, desperate to have some agency in this interaction. You want to touch her, feel her skin on yours, run your fingers through her hair. But there’s nothing you can do with your hands behind your back.

She returns to your chest, pressing wet kisses along your collarbone and down to your neckline. The lower she goes, the more your hands strain against their bindings, desperate to break free and wrap around Sevika’s broad shoulders and pull her further into you. 

Her human hand finds your waist as she kisses you, running up and down your side, while her mechanical hand grips the back of the chair, its mechanisms whirring in your ear. 

Sharp breaths leave her mouth every time she pulls back from her sloppy kisses, a small groan as well as her fingers squeeze your waist.

“Sevika, please…this is—fuck—” 

“Damn it,” she mutters, and then her hand pulls down one of your sleeves, and then the other, so your top pools around your midsection. Instantly her face is buried into your chest again, kissing the exposed space between your bra. Her hand falls from your shoulder to your right breast, squeezing and massaging it.

You groan, eyes fluttering as she sucks a mark onto your chest. Each press of her lips does more to soften to core in your stomach. Then she’s kissing along the border of your bra, which doesn't remain an obstacle for much longer, her fingers lifting the straps over your shoulders. Her right hand reaches behind your back and unclasps the garment from your torso. 

The bra falls from your breasts, and Sevika sits back to look at them, eyes roaming over your panting chest in admiration. 

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” she breathes. Her right hand travels over your breast, thumb circling your peaked nipple. 

You moan, pushing your chest into her hand. You just want to keep touching her, to keep ‘paying her back.’

“Can’t believe you were hiding such a pretty body all these nights,” she comments, hand running down your ribs, making you shiver. 

“It was always yours for the taking,” you respond, “Like it is tonight.”

A strangled noise comes from Sevika’s throat, and her hand tightens on your side. “Wish I'd known that.” She kisses your nipple. “Would’ve done this ages ago.” 

Sevika makes her way down your torso, touching and kissing as low on your belly as your folded-down top allows. Then her hand is on your shorts, unbuttoning and tugging them off by your waistband. You raise your hips so she can pull the shorts and underwear off, leaving you bare on the seat. 

Sevika brings your knees up so they rest on her shoulders. The metal of her left shoulder is a cold underneath your leg, though the small air vents of the mechanism ghost your leg with puffs of warm air. Her hands cradle your ass, protecting you from the discomfort of sitting on the wooden chair—the metal of her mechanical fingers somehow the preferred alternative. 

With you in her hands, Sevika’s able to lean down and press a kiss to the top of your hip, bringing out a gentle roll of your lower body. You’re enjoying how much closer her attention has gotten to where it needs to be. 

She licks down the V-line of your pelvis, lighting up your skin with her wet tongue. 

“Shit–ah,” you groan out, “Please go lower.”

“Fuck,” she swears back, “You’re so—” she doesn't finish the sentence, instead inhaling through her nose, indulging in the scent of your dripping cunt. “Fuck,” she repeats.

She kisses the bottom of your mound, just above where your lips split to encircle your pulsing cunt. Only a few more centimeters south and–

Sevika turns her head, instead kissing your quivering inner thigh. 

“Sevika,” you whine, fingers curling into fists behind you. How you wish you could do something about this.

She smiles against your flesh. 

“Who’s paying?” she reminds you and your pleas fall silent. 

She returns to your inner thigh, using her big, calloused hand to push your legs open. Then she presses a few more messy kisses to the skin, her eyebrows furrowed and her dark eyes closed. Her hot breath and wet lips are encroaching on your warm center.

A few more kisses and she’s at the part where your leg meets your body. You hold your breath.

Then, her eyelids flutter open and she looks over your glistening folds. Her mechanical hand moves to your lower back, taking on your weight, so she can draw her human hand from beneath you to right in front of your cunt.

Please. Please please please pleasepleaseplease—

The pad of her thumb runs over your folds. You gasp. “So needy,” she says, eyes connecting with yours while she gives you a crooked smile. 

“You’re making me like this,” you say. Your hips grind into the contact her hand provides until she suddenly pulls away. You bite your complaints back and watch her with desperate eyes. She’s testing you again. 

Her eyes roam over your poor, squirming body. She notices the sheen of sweat covering your half-clothed torso, the gentle pants leaving your lips, and the way your hips continue to roll into a phantom hand. You’re a pathetic mess for her. 

“This isn’t even for the money anymore, is it?” she observes. 

“No,” you get out, voice cracking. “If I had the money, I would pay you to continue.” 

“Hmm.” She moves her face to your cunt, pressing a gentle kiss to your folds. “You don’t need to worry about money with me anymore.”

Silco’s right hand, sweet on you. This changes everything.

Your tightened mouth opens and a breathy moan comes out. “T-thank you.”

Sevika pushes her face deeper into you, bringing her tongue out from her plush lips to lick a line up your warm center. You throw your head back, letting out a strangled moan of her name.

Her mouth is warm and wet, and her tongue rolls over all parts of your vulva, stimulating every nerve. Tingly pleasure seeps into your lower body, spreading up through your stomach and down into your legs. 

Sevika’s human hand wraps around your right thigh, fingers pressing into the flesh, ensuring your legs stay open for her. 

Her hold proves helpful as the stimulation becomes more intense, hindering your inclinations to push the growing pleasure away. It’s like a fierce vine rapidly growing up a ladder, tangling within every organ and bone, tying itself up into you. You writhe around, trying to shake it free, but its grip only grows stronger, tendrils thicker and more twisted. 

Sevika tilts her chin up and licks and sucks on your clit. Your whole body tightens in response to the shock wave it sends through you. 

 “God, Sevika…feels so…ah, fuck…”

How does she know how to make you feel this way? It's never been like this before. Not with yourself, or any of your past hook-ups. Her mouth is superhuman. 

“Right there, please, yeah right there,” you moan, gyrating against her grasp on your lower body. Heat clouds your head, burning away your thoughts. 

She groans into your folds. She’s too good at this, fuck.

“Taste so fucking good,” she says into you. She feels so fucking good.

You wish you could knot your fingers into her hair, be the one pulling it back out of the way instead of the hair tie. But all you can move is your lower half, so you focus on it, grinding your hips against her mouth, pushing your center into her lips and tongue. It smears your wetness all over her chin and nose, but she doesn’t care, keeping her face buried into you, fucking you with her mouth. 

The vines threading through you tighten and throb, and with each lick of her tongue and jolt of your hips, brick by brick you’re being built to your peak.

“Fuck, Sevika, oh my god,” you moan her name out sweetly, begging for what you need her to give you. “I’m gonna–”

You rut into her mouth, chasing that building feeling that’s pressing forcefully up into your insides. 

“Give it to me, baby,” Sevika commands.

It hits you in fierce, undulating waves. Your arms lock up behind the chair as your hips thrust up into the warmth of Sevika’s mouth. 

You cry out, cursing her name, eyes pressed shut. The pleasure is hot and violent, taking over your body in a way you didn’t know possible. It flows through your muscles, flexing and releasing them as your body endures the storm of pleasure.

Sevika moans into your cunt, the vibrations only adding to the intense sensation. “God-fu-how my-” you moan nonsensically. 

Your hole throbs, pushing the pleasure out through our body until the fierce wave retreats back into the ocean. It leaves you buzzing. Your jaw hangs, hot breaths rushing out. The world around you doesn’t feel real. 

Sevika lowers your legs back to the ground. They’re entirely limp and fall open. You don’t have the energy to bring them back together. 

“You okay, sweetheart?” She pulls up her black tank to wipe her mouth, flashing her hardened abdomen.

“Fuck,” you gasp, “yeah…yeah I guess so.” You throw your head back, chest heaving. 

Sevika puts her hands on her knees and stands up. Then she walks behind you, fingers running over your shoulder as she passes by. You go to lean into it before it’s gone, and the ropes around your wrists slacken, falling to the floor. 

You bring your hands into your lap, slowly rubbing the angry indentations left on your wrists. They’re uncomfortable, but the pleasure has faded the pain. 

Sevika’s eyes watch your face. “Still up for The Last Drop?” She grins. 

With effort, you sit back up in the chair. “Yeah, okay,” you say, attempting to pull your top back over your breasts, “Just gimme a sec—”

“Don’t know how you’ve made it this far,” she says, scooping you up in her big arms, “believing everything someone says.” She walks you over to the cot in the corner of her room and lays you down on it. “We’re staying here.”

You crack a smile. “But they’re probably losing a bar fight right now without you.” Sevika joins you on the mattress, and you turn onto your side to face her. 

“They’ll have to figure it out,” Sevika says, “‘Cause I wanna be right here.” Her hand hovers over your face, hesitant for a moment, but then she runs her knuckle down your cheek. “With you.” 

You place your hand on her waist, dipping underneath the fabric of her tank. “What if it costs you?” you tease. 

She smirks. “I would’ve paid triple what you owed me.” She brings your hand up to her lips, pressing a kiss to your fingers. “Just for this.” 

“Stop it,” you say with a smile, pulling your hand away and giving her a playful push. “I will pay you back.”

“You already did,” she says, drawing you into her arms.

“Okay,” you snuggle into her chest, “Then, next time I’m actually going to.”

“I look forward to it.” 

[shezzabee]

I can’t stop thinking about In-ho’s, “I sincerely hoped you’d have a good life,” and Gi-hun’s, “I didn’t think you worried so much about me.”

It makes me wonder: how closely did In-ho monitor Gi-hun after he left? Did he keep tabs to make sure Gi-hun didn’t cause trouble? Was he curious about how someone like Gi-hun would handle the money? Would he pay off his debts, invest it, or waste it gambling?

Was it a detached, almost dismissive order to a pink guard—“Keep an eye on him”—or something more personal? Did he obsessively check the tracker himself, his attention flickering to the blinking dot on a screen whenever he had a moment? Did he go as far as using surveillance cameras to see what Gi-hun was up to?

We know In-ho was invested. That final call at the end of Season 1 was proof enough. He urged Gi-hun to board that plane, his voice cold and composed, but I’d bet my left cheek (and my right one for good measure) that he wasn’t as unaffected as he sounded. Gi-hun heard it as a threat, but wasn’t it really a plea? A desperate, unspoken “Take the chance I never could. Live the life I lost.”

But how far did the stalking really go? Even after Gi-hun removed the tracker, it’s impossible to imagine In-ho simply letting it go—“Welp, connection lost. Guess that’s the end of that.” That’s not who he is. In-ho doesn’t move on. He’s the type to hold on too tightly, to obsess, to watch from the shadows even when there’s nothing left to see.

We’ll probably never know. It’s such a minor, insignificant detail in the grand scheme of things. But alas, this was the first thought that crossed my mind when I woke up.

I’m obsessed with these two idiots (someone save me, but don't)

P.S. If there is a post that talks about this further let me know, I'd love to read it!

[cleo-fox]

Close Quarters

Part 1 of 2

Summary: “You don’t have to like it,” says Fury, “you just have to do your job.”

Your job, as it turns out, is to go undercover at a luxury resort.

The only problem? Your fake husband is Loki Laufeyson—the infuriatingly handsome Norse god turned Avenger who delights in making you flustered. What could go wrong?

Pairing: Loki x Reader

Warnings: Smut, 18+ (Minors DNI), dirty talk, praise kink, fingering, elevator sex, semi-public sex, multiple orgasms, a hint of dom/sub, Dom Loki.

A/N: there will be a part 2. Also have a handful of related one shot ideas, so if people like this, I may post those. This is also posted on AO3.

Your self-sufficiency has always been a point of pride for you, both personally and professionally. The highlight of your career was overhearing Nick Fury say that he didn’t need to send in a team of people for a mission so long as he had you on the payroll. You are calm, competent, and ruthlessly efficient; you are used to relying only on yourself.

So it comes as something of a surprise when Fury informs you that Loki Laufeyson will not only be accompanying you on this undercover mission, but will also be taking the lead.

It takes a lot to render you speechless these days, but this does it. You gape at Fury for a moment before you’re able to speak.

“You never send me in with anyone,” you say.

“This mission requires a unique skillset.”

You scoff. “He can’t do anything that I can’t.”

Fury raises an eyebrow and folds his arms across his chest. “Really? How’s your conversational Sokovian?”

There’s, of course, no argument to be made with this. Your lips press into a thin, hard line. “I still don’t like it.”

“You don’t have to like it,” says Fury, “you just have to do your job.”

*

Your job, as it turns out, is to play the part of Nina Pine.

Nina Pine is bubbly and vivacious, the sort of person you’d see in the society pages. She wears designer clothes and owns jewelry that is so ostentatious and expensive that it looks like it must be fake. She is not particularly bright or talented; she is the product of good luck and generational wealth.

Three weeks ago, Nina married Jonathan Pine, who she met six months ago at the home of a mutual friend. Jonathan does something in finance that sounds like it’s just a tarted up version of gambling, but with more complicated rules and less oversight. It is Jonathan’s higher tolerance for risk (and healthy trust fund assets) that has him considering an investment in KorolCo, a company owned by Ivan Litvinchuk. Litvinchuk uses KorolCo as a front to launder money from illegal arms deals.

Loki would be going undercover as Jonathan. Your new husband.

You are not particularly happy about this little detail (a detail that Fury mysteriously failed to mention when you met with him), in no small part because Loki has already started leveraging it to annoy the shit out of you.

“How are you already this annoying when we’re still in prep?” you say after a particularly exasperating meeting.

“I’m simply overcome by my love for you,” says Loki with a cloying faux sincerity that makes you yearn for the sweet release of death.

Fury, you note, is suspiciously unavailable during all of this. After ignoring three of your (admittedly lengthy) emails on the subject, he sends you a frustratingly short reply:

Do your job, Agent.

Maybe you’ll take up meditation.

If there’s a bright side to what appears to be a massive clusterfuck in the making, it’s that you’ll at least get a free vacation of sorts

The mission will be taking place at The Indigo, an absurdly expensive and exclusive hotel on a private beach not far from La Jolla Cove. The Indigo is the sort of place that you’d only read about—the kind of hyper exclusive resort that is only ever mentioned in damning Pro Publica reports about the questionable actions of high ranking public officials. Rooms start at fifty thousand a night and you are staying in one of the suites, which likely costs more. Your room information was included in your briefing materials and it all sounds too good to be true: a soaking tub and waterfall shower. Private terrace with an infinity pool. Private bar. In-suite chef and spa services by appointment. Ocean view.

One Norse god who delights in irritating you (non-negotiable).

You suppose you’ll try and make the best of it.

*

The first problem is your sleeping arrangements: there’s only one bed. Granted, it’s a big bed, but still—it suggests a level of intimacy that you had not thought about and are not at all prepared for.

“Well, Agent, this isn’t how I envisioned taking you to my bed, but I suppose it’ll have to do,” says Loki on your first evening there.

You chuck a pillow at him, which he easily dodges.

“Keep it up and you can magic yourself a pillow and sleeping bag and sleep in the hall,” you say.

“Even if that were an appropriate accommodation for someone of my rank and title, I rather think it would do some damage to our cover.”

He has a point and you don’t like it. You decide to ignore him and start getting ready for bed.

The pajamas that had been packed for you are a little fancier than what you’re used to—satin and lace instead of cotton tees and shorts. Normally, you’d relish the opportunity to feel a little fancy—it’s an unexpected indulgence, a splurge on the company dime.

But with Loki now thrown into the equation, you are suddenly hyper aware of the fact that the fabric will likely cling to your curves, that the hem of the skirt is just a little too high. You choose the most demure one of the lot—a pale rose colored thing hemmed with lace—and head to the bathroom to change.

Even with the matching robe, you still feel a little awkward and oddly nervous. You avoid looking at Loki—if his gaze is lingering on your legs or your hips, you don’t want to know about it right before you hop into bed with him—and go about your normal routine. You manage to have a relatively normal conversation about your plan for tomorrow and you read a couple chapters of your book before you start to drift off.

It’s a king sized bed with plenty of room, but somehow you wake up perched near the edge of the bed with Loki pressed up against your back.

He’s got one arm wrapped around your waist so that you’re pinned against him and the deep, even breaths brushing against the back of your neck tell you he’s still asleep. You’re pretty sure this must have been unintentional on his part: Loki doesn’t seem like the sort to willingly allow himself to be seen seeking out human contact. It’s too vulnerable, too soft for the sharp and sarcastic veneer he presents to the world.

He shifts slightly in his sleep, his grip on you tightening. Something hard pokes against the curve of your ass.

You can’t help the responding ache between your legs. You should feel embarrassed—and you do, just a little—but there’s a competing feeling of warm curiosity that makes you press your thighs together. It’s been a while and you miss being held like this. The silk of your nightgown is cool and slippery against your skin, and you feel oddly restless and alert despite the early hour.

You should put a stop to this—that is the professional and sensible thing to do. So you carefully lift his arm from your waist and gently extricate yourself from his embrace. You pad to the bathroom, leaving the light off to spare your eyes.

In the bathroom, you run the tap as cold as it will go. You cup your hands and drink before splashing some water on your face in an effort to quell the restless heat building between your thighs.

It doesn’t really work. You’re not entirely surprised—if you were by yourself, you would simply take care of it, but that’s obviously not an option now. Out of curiosity, you slip your fingers between your thighs to assess the state of things and you immediately regret it: you’re soaked and just the feeling of your index finger glancing against your clit is enough to undo the admittedly minimal effect of the cold water.

You splash your face again and shut off the tap, taking a few deep breaths and smoothing your hands against your hair.

You exit the bathroom and slide back into bed. Loki reaches for you in his sleep and you are only half surprised when you let him wrap his arms around your waist and pull you to him. The throbbing ache between your thighs intensifies and before you can think about it, your back is arching and your breath is hitching.

He pulls you closer and suddenly his breath is warm on your ear. “You know, if you wanted me, all you had to do was ask,” he says, his voice deep and smooth, only a little husky with sleep.

“This is a bad idea,” you say, even as your back arches again and you press yourself against him.

Lips press against where your neck and shoulder meet. “But you want it.” His fingers toy with the hem of your nightgown. “Yes?” he asks, his voice husky against your ear.

“Yes,” you breathe.

“Agent.”

“Yes. Please.”

“Agent.”

Your eyes flutter open. Loki is standing at the foot of the bed, hair wet, and wearing only a towel wrapped around his waist.

“It’s eight o’clock,” he says. “You need to shower and dress if we’re to make it to breakfast on time.”

It takes you a moment to process this information. Partly because he just woke you up from a sex dream about him and partly because wearing only a towel should be fucking illegal when you look like that. You try to keep your eyes trained on his and not let them drift to his flat stomach where you can see a faint smattering of chest hair that gathers in a line that trails directly to his cock. And definitely not to any of the muscles that are on tantalizing display and dotted by drops of water that are begging to be licked away. Nope. Not looking at any of that. Just at his devastatingly handsome face. 

Fuck.

“Agent?”

You shake your head. “Sorry. Bit groggy this morning. Finish up what you were doing and I’ll go jump in the shower.”

He gives you a bit of an odd look, but mercifully walks away without further comment. 

This gives you an opportunity to stare at his broad back as he walks away. Goddammit, even his ass looks good in that towel.

Fuck.

You have a feeling this is going to be a long week.

*

It’s only day one and it’s becoming clear to you that you are not really prepared for some of the practicalities of being Loki’s wife.

Specifically: being the primary focus of his flirtations and little gestures of affection. His hand on the small of your back, his fingers lacing with yours, the brush of his lips against the back of your hand or the shell of your ear—it’s all a little overwhelming in a way you don’t expect. It was one thing when he was razzing you in your prep meetings—he was quite clearly doing it to be irritating. But at The Indigo, he has to appear sincere for your cover and that particular detail makes it a different beast entirely. 

The fact that both his regular appearance and the blond-haired, blue-eyed glamor he’s adopted for the mission are both devastatingly handsome certainly doesn’t help. Nor does the additional baggage of your sex dream this morning.

Unfortunately for you, Loki quickly ascertains that he now has a great and novel way to fluster you. Equally unfortunate is the fact that he seems to find this as hilarious as he did back in prep meetings, which prompts him to be only more outlandish.

“Are you trying to sabotage this?” It’s later that afternoon and you’ve gone down to the pool with the plan of schmoozing with Litvinchuk and his associates. Loki has clearly decided that this needs to be more difficult than it is and has fully committed to the bit, as they say.

(You’ve also gotten very good at whispering threats under your breath and making it look like you’re flirting; the timing of this is not a coincidence).

“I don’t know why you’re so distraught about sunscreen,” says Loki, rubbing a generous amount between his palms.

“It’s not the sunscreen, it’s that you’re going to find some way to be inappropriate about it.”

“I’d never.”

“You are so full of shit.”

“You wound me.” He places his hands on your shoulders and begins rubbing in the sunscreen, going much slower than you think is strictly necessary. “Perhaps this trip is merely bringing out our natural chemistry.”

“You wish.”

“Is it the hair that does it for you, Mrs. Pine? Do you have a particular fondness for blonds?”

“Do you have a fondness for being murdered in broad daylight? Because that’s the fate you’re headed towards, buster.”

He tuts at you as his hands slide to the small of your back. “Temper, temper. You really need to work on that.”

“Have you considered working on not annoying the ever-loving shit out of me?”

His breath is suddenly warm against your ear. “Now where’s the fun in that? And before you answer, be advised that Tarasevich is looking right at us.”

Fuck. Tarasevich is the most suspicious and paranoid of the lot—years in the Sokovian mafia paired with recreational drug use will do that to a guy. You turn so that you’re facing Loki. He looks at you fondly, looking for all the world like a loved up newlywed just smitten with his new wife.

“One of these days, I’m going to drop kick you into the motherfucking sun,” you say in the sweetest voice that you can muster.

“Now, now, Mrs. Pine, let’s keep the foreplay in the bedroom.” He rests his forehead against yours, reaching up to stroke your cheek. “There’s such a thing as public indecency laws, you know.”

You sigh heavily. “Why are you like this?”

“Oh, because it’s so much fun.”

“Is he still looking?”

“Yes and I’m going to kiss you to put him off, so do try to contain yourself.”

“Oh, I’m sure I’ll manage.”

You catch a flicker of a smile before he leans in and brushes his lips against yours. You intend for this to be brief, but his mouth is so warm and inviting and before you know it, he’s gently coaxing your lips open and leading your tongue in a slow and seductive caress that has your mind drifting straight to the gutter.

His hand slides to your thigh and you can’t bring yourself to be mad about it.

“Ah, Pine. Mixing business and pleasure, I see.”

You pull back from Loki to find Ivan Litvinchuk standing in front of you, wearing the smug, congratulatory smirk that you often see men like him trading with one another when they think they’re getting somewhere with a woman.

“Normally I try not to, but I’ve found it rather impossible these last three weeks, haven’t I, darling?” Loki takes the opportunity to loop his arms around your waist and pull you into his lap, nuzzling your neck.

You give a good natured laugh. “You’re insatiable.”

“Oh, I don’t think anyone would fault me when I have such a tempting little wife.”

This, paired with the squeeze of his hand on your thigh, sends an unexpected rush of heat to your cunt. Fortunately, the effects of this are quickly tempered when you notice that Litvinchuk is eyeing you rather appreciatively. The wardrobe team has really outdone themselves with your clothes, but the swimsuits they’ve sent are definitely more revealing than you are used to—today’s choice is a bikini with a split sweetheart neckline that dips a lot lower than you’d like and a fucking underwire in the top. Underwire! The bottom is no better—it’s both low rise and high cut, the perfect way to ensure that half of your ass is exposed at any given time. Even in the matching translucent cover up—which of course you’ve left on the chair that Litvinchuk is standing in front of—you feel a little more bare than you’d like, a fact that Litvinchuk seems to be appreciating, if the path of his gaze is any indication.

“You’re a lucky man, Mr. Pine,” he says, his eyes flicking briefly to your cleavage.

You expertly tamp down your disgust and smile at Litvinchuk before turning around to bat your eyes at Loki.

“You are, aren’t you?” you say, twining your arms around his neck and planting a brief, chaste kiss on his lips.

He gives you a dazzling smile that’s so sincere it makes your stomach flip. “Very much so.”

Another squeeze of your thigh, more heat to your cunt. Fuck.

“Well, Pine, when you are ready to discuss more business—” Here he switches to Sokovian.

This is the part you dislike the most about this particular mission: whenever anything of substance comes up, Litvinchuk and his cronies immediately switch to Sokovian, leaving you in the dark.

To add insult to injury, Litvinchuk still seems infatuated by your cleavage.

Litvinchuk says goodbye a few minutes later and you manage to bite your tongue until he’s out of earshot.

“I really don’t love the fact that he spent half of that conversation sneaking looks at my boobs,” you say quietly.

“Well, to be fair, they do look spectacular,” says Loki. “I’ll have to send a thank you note to the wardrobe team for that.”

Heat stirs hopefully and unhelpfully in your hips at that comment.

“This is what I meant by being inappropriate, you know. Did he have anything interesting to say?”

“He’s invited me to a game of cards this afternoon.”

“Do you need me for that? I could go try and talk to the wives, see what I can find out.”

“Originally, I’d thought no, but since dear Ivan seems so enamored of your assets, it might not be a bad idea to have you come along.”

You sigh. “How am I now at the point in my life where letting an illegal arms dealer stare at my tits is a fucking mission objective?”

Loki laughs quietly. “We’ll keep that out of the final report.”

*

The card game ends up being a lot worse than you thought it would be. And not because of Litvinchuk’s wandering eyes.

They’ve set up the game on the pool deck tables and chairs. As best as you can tell, it’s a Sokovian twist on a combination of rummy and poker. You’re not the only woman at the table: a few of the other men have their girlfriends or mistresses draped over them like strange human scarves, though their roles seem to be largely decorative.

Loki makes a big show of pulling you into his lap, saying how he just can’t bear to be apart from his new wife for terribly long.

“Ah, young love,” says Mikhnevich. “I remember when my Irina and I were like this.”

“Now she begs for him to leave the house!” says Litvinchuk. There’s a hearty round of laughter—it’s not a particularly funny joke, but you suppose that’s one of the benefits of moving up in the world of crime: people will laugh at your jokes because they’re afraid you’ll kidnap their families or something. It’s all very dysfunctional.

Loki makes an effort to teach you the game, but Nina is not the sort who pays very close attention to that kind of thing, so you find yourself giggling and letting him steal kisses or whisper in your ear as he explains some strategy or another.

There are several problems with this arrangement. The first is that you are positioned on his lap in such a way that you can feel his cock nudging your ass or your thigh, depending on how he’s sitting. And it’s close enough proximity for you to ascertain that he is long, thick, and semi-erect.

The second problem is his thigh; specifically, how it presses against your cunt, how every time Loki leans forward to draw a card, he inadvertently rocks you against the firm muscle. Each time, it feels better than the last; each time, you clench and ache and talk yourself out of riding his thigh until you have a screaming orgasm right on the pool deck. Each time, the idea becomes more and more tempting.

The third problem is his hands. Specifically, where and how they are wandering. He plays it off like it’s unintentional, like he’s just absently fidgeting with the part of your suit that lays against your hip or idly drawing lazy circles on your thigh. You can’t help but think that it must be calculated. He’s spent the last twenty-four hours intentionally trying to drive you crazy–there’s no way that he would pass up an opportunity to play his little games without you scolding him or rolling your eyes.

The fourth problem is that the first three problems are turning you on a lot.

Your clit seems to swell with every pass of his fingertips on your bare skin, no matter how casual. It drags against the slick material of your swimsuit every time you shift on Loki’s muscular thigh. You can feel yourself growing slicker and slicker with every moment. Eventually, it becomes too much and you try to shift in his lap, crossing your legs to give yourself a little relief.

This does exactly nothing useful. Instead, your movement causes his cock to twitch against you, which only escalates your growing arousal. He hooks the elastic of your suit at your hip onto his thumb and pulls, letting it snap back against your skin. His expression is playful when you look up at him, but there’s a fire in his eyes that wasn’t there before.

You are throbbing, your cunt practically weeping with slickness. And you’re pretty sure he knows.

And you’re pretty sure you don’t mind.

You lick your lips.

He hooks his thumb back into your suit at the hip, and this time he leaves it there, his fingers splayed along the curve of your hip. It’s casually possessive and ridiculously hot and the polar opposite of helpful.

He definitely knows.

Your heart is pounding. Can you go into cardiac arrest from being too turned on? You wish you could use Google. At a minimum, some sort of visual equivalent of a cold shower would be helpful. Pictures of Henry Kissinger or something. Budget reports. Taxes. Anything to get your mind off your aching cunt and the mess that you’re making in your swimsuit.

“I think you could do with a bit of a lie down, Mrs. Pine.” Loki's voice is low in your ear. “You seem…warm.”

You would have thought that Loki knowing about your current state of arousal would be cause for humiliation, if not irritation. Instead, it only seems to add fuel to the fire, especially with the way he’s talking to you. You’re not sure how he’s doing this, but it feels like his fucking voice is vibrating in the cradle of your hips, sending a fresh wave of slick arousal to your dripping cunt.

“Yeah,” you say. “Very warm.”

It’s perhaps a testament to your current state of mind that you can only manage this sentence and not some smart remark.

“Would you like my help with that, darling?” he asks. The phrasing is innocent, but the question is loaded. And sincere. You take in a shaky breath. You know all the reasons why this is a bad idea, but you also can’t bring yourself to say no. He may be wildly irritating, but you suspect he’s likely a good fuck…and you really need to be fucked.

You nod. “Yeah…I’d like that.”

“We’ll go up to the room after this game ends,” he says. “And then I’ll take very good care of you.”

It takes everything in you not to whine. Fuck. You didn’t think it was possible to be this wet, this turned on. 

Loki shifts slightly, pulling you close against him, his cock now fully erect and pressing hard and thick against your ass. 

“Do you feel me?” he asks, his lips grazing your ear. “Do you feel what you’ve done?”

You nod and wiggle your hips slightly, partly to situate yourself and partly because you want a little bit of payback. His grip on your hip tightens.

“I’d advise you not to play games, little wife,” he rasps in your ear.

More heat builds in your hips. You can’t remember the last time you were this turned on. Maybe never. You throw a look at Loki over your shoulder. “It’s not a game,” you say. “I’m just very warm.”

His eyes are dark. “Burning up, I suspect.”

“You have no idea.” You lean back against him, turning so you can nuzzle your face against his neck. God, he smelled good. “Please,” You say it so quietly that only he can hear, “I’m aching.”

He sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth and you feel his cock throb. He clears his throat. “Gentlemen, I’m afraid I’m going to have to take my leave a little early—Mrs. Pine is feeling quite unwell.”

Fuck yes.

If Litvinchuk and his men suspect there’s anything untoward about your departure, they don’t say so—and you imagine you must look a little unsteady anyway. Loki slides an arm around your waist as you leave.

“Now Mrs. Pine,” he says once you’re out of earshot, “tell me exactly what ails you.”

You let out a shaky sigh. “Are you seriously going to do this?”

“I only want to ensure that we are on the same page,” he says with a smirk.

“Like hell you do. I already told you, you just want to hear—” You cut yourself off, realizing that you’re playing right into his hands.

He smiles like a cat with a bowl full of cream. “What do I want to hear, darling?”

You press your lips together. This is infuriating.

“I’m waiting…”

You blow out a shaky breath. Fuck it. “You just want to hear me say that I’m fucking soaked because you’ve been rubbing me against your thighs and touching me for the last two hours and if I don’t come soon, I’m going to lose my goddamn mind.”

He smirks as you approach the hotel lobby. “Well, I certainly wasn’t expecting to hear you say all that.”

“You absolutely were.”

The air conditioned air in the hotel lobby feels extra icy against your sunwarmed skin and your sandals seem to clack particularly loudly against the marble floors.

“You have a smart mouth, do you know that?”

“You like it,” you say as you approach the bank of elevators. “That’s the reason why you pull half of this shit with me.”

“Perhaps.” He gives you a smile that feels a little dangerous and sends even more heat to your aching cunt. “But do you know what my favorite part of your smart mouth is, Mrs. Pine?”

“I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”

The elevator door opens. It’s empty and your cunt clenches at the possibilities this presents.

“My favorite part about your smart mouth,” says Loki in a low voice as you step into the elevator, “is that it will sound that much sweeter when I make you beg for me.”

The elevator door slides closed and you barely have a chance to react before he’s backing you up against the wall and pressing his thigh between your legs.

“You’re a disobedient, wicked tease, Mrs. Pine,” he growls, sending a thrill through you. “I think you could benefit from a firm hand.”

“You like it,” you breathe, rocking your hips against his thigh, trying to capture some of the same friction that was driving you wild earlier.

“Rutting yourself against my thigh in public like a common slut,” he purrs. “You must be desperate.” He slides a hand between your legs, slipping his fingers under your bathing suit. His expression changes the moment his fingers dip past the fabric—almost like he expected you to be wet, but not this wet.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he purrs as you keen. “You’ve made a mess of yourself, haven’t you?”

“I need to come so bad,” you gasp.

“I know you do.” He reaches over and slams the emergency stop button and the elevator shudders to a halt. “And you’re going to. Right now.”

“I can wait until we get to the ro—”

He spins you around and pulls you to him so your back is pressed against his chest.

“No, you can’t.” He curls his big frame over yours, sliding his hand back into your bathing suit and stroking the full length of your sex and making you cry out again. “You need it too badly.” He starts rubbing your clit with his middle and index fingers. “And I don’t think it’s going to take all that long, darling,” he growls, sucking your earlobe into his mouth, “because you’re already so fucking wet.”

There’s a small, distant part of you that resents the fact that he’s right about anything, let alone anything pertaining to your orgasms.

The larger part of you is focused on the fact that he’s right: you’re going to come and you’re going to come hard.

Your legs are shaking and you brace your arms against the elevator wall to hold yourself up. You moan loudly and arch your back as the feeling starts building in your hips.

“You need this so badly, don’t you?” He nips hard at your earlobe. “You’re desperate for it. I felt you tense up every time your sopping cunt rubbed against my thigh, every time I touched you just right.”

You whimper, pressure rising in your hips as you rock with his hands.

“You’re so close,” Loki purrs in your ear. His hips are thrusting mindlessly against your ass, like he can’t wait to be inside you.

“Fuck, I need to come,” you whimper.

“Oh, I’m going to make you come, darling, but I think what you really need is to be fucked.”

You moan as your orgasm starts to crest.

“You need to be fucked properly and hard,” he murmurs. “You need me to take care of your sopping wet, needy little cunt. You need to be filled to the brim with my cock and my come like the good girl that you are. You need to come over and over on my cock until you can’t take it anymore.”

This is what pushes you over the edge. The muscles of your cunt clench and then pleasure is blooming in your belly as the tension of the last two hours comes to a peak and you come hard. You cry out, your hips rocking against Loki’s hand, chasing the shimmery aftershocks.

“There she is, that’s my good girl,” he purrs. He holds you as you shudder and shake, his fingers still moving, still coaxing out those final waves of pleasure. But just when you think he’s about to pull his hand away, he starts massaging your clit again, one long finger slipping inside you.

“You don’t think you’re going to be satisfied with just one, do you?” he growls in your ear. “Not a needy girl like you, not when you’ve been dripping for hours. You need more, don’t you?”

“Oh fuck—” You can feel that pressure growing again and you know it’s going to be different this time.

“You’re going to come for me again, pretty girl,” he purrs. “And this time, I want to hear you scream.”

Everything is coiling up so tight and tense and suddenly two of his fingers are inside of you and they’re curling just right and the edges of your vision go white as everything inside you fizzes and releases and a sharp cry falls from your lips as you come.

“Good girl,” his voice rumbles low over the sound of your heart pounding in your ears.

His hand finally stills once the final aftershocks roll through you. Your legs are shaking, but his grip on you is still firm. Boneless, you turn to him and he presses his slick fingers past your lips. You suck and lick his fingers clean and then he’s kissing you, sucking your own essence from your lips and tongue.

“Fuck,” you breathe as the elevator shudders to life. “Fuck, that was so good.”

Loki laughs quietly and scoops you up into his arms as the elevator arrives at your floor.

“Oh, we’re nowhere near done, darling.”

Continued in Part 2

[forsaken-headcanons]

I had a simple idea: what if the survivors and killers swapped roles? And that idea proceeded to snowball into a full-blown yap sesh. I’m so silly when it comes to Forsaken, y’all 😋

(This is a VERY long post, so it’s been split up into two sections. Hope you don’t mind, mod!)

“KILLERS”

Noob - Picture a lone noob, lost in the spectre’s domain. No food. No shelter. Nothing. They finally come across another survivor…or should I say sustenance. That’s right. I took Noob’s whole ‘eating snacks’ thing and turned them into a cannibal. How fun! ☺️ Kind-of takes the role of Jason with a hint of Guest 666? That comment will probably change when 666 comes out, but for now, their kit revolves around tracking down survivors one by one. They can turn mostly invisible for a short period, too.

Chance - Two Face with a touch of Jigsaw. Gambling has completely overtaken his life, with his favourite being betting on lives. Never his, of course. And gods forbid he loses… Doesn’t really take the role of anyone. They specialize in ranged attacks, but he has a melee attack, too. He still has the coin flip, but it’s used to give him a random effect (can be anything from speed I to blindness III) and the only way to get rid of said-abilities is Hat Fix. But use it wisely, as that gets rid of the good abilities, too. The only way to earn bullets is by hitting survivors. He can store a max of 3, just like before. No misfiring (🎉), but the gun attack is probably hella telegraphed.

Guest 1337 - Gotta love a corrupt police officer! Well, soldier. But still- I regretfully can’t say who this guy’s main inspiration was, but I can imagine him working closely with Builderman to enact their shared (and crooked) sense of justice. His gameplay loop revolves around running down + stunning survivors. He doesn’t need to block to do a punch anymore. Instead, his block will actually give brief slowness + a highlighted aura to anyone foolish enough to hit him while it’s active. His punch (still) has a delay, but considering how it stuns survivors, I’d say it’s worth it.

Two Time - So obsessed with death/rebirth, they drove themselves mad and proceeded to go on a killing spree to ‘share this truth amongst the nonbelievers’. Mildly inspired by the Cult of the Lamb bishops, and takes the role of Jason (aka the free killer). Bro just runs around with a dagger lol. Though they have a considerably low health pool for a killer, TT makes up for it by gaining access to their second life form upon dying. They move much faster while in this state, so it’s actually advised to NOT stun them all willy-nilly, lest you unintentionally buff the killer.

Elliot - Hell hath no fury like an overworked minimum wage employee. Elliot had enough, and now EVERYONE’S gonna pay for it. Especially vengeful towards c00lkidd, and would play a special theme upon him being the last survivor. Sort of takes the role of John Doe? I mean- he revolves around dropping poisoned pizzas/other pizza-themed traps to slow down and weaken survivors.

Builderman - Oh, shoot! He has his banhammer! Oh no! He’s using it on everyone! Builderman believes that his ticket out of here involves purging the spectre’s domain of evil…but has since developed the morality of a corrupt judge. How lovely! As previously mentioned, he works closely with Guest 1337 to achieve his goals. A mix between John Doe and c00lkidd. He still builds machines, but they act like motion sensors for the most part.

Shedletsky - A self-proclaimed master swordsman, with an ego to match. Shed let the power of being an admin get to his head. He’s the most important person in the room, and will strike down anyone who says otherwise. Takes the role of 1x1x1x1. He’d use different SFOTH swords to do different attacks (Venomshank for basic swinging, Icedagger for Entanglement, Darkheart for Mass Infection,  Illumina for Unstable Eye, and Ghostwalker for Rejuvenate the Rotten). Oh, and someone snatched his chicken. I wonder who? 🤔 

007n7 - Slightly inspired by Bacon General from The Last Guest, this version of 07 wasn’t quite ready to retire, even when a baby was left on his doorstep. If anything, a child meant that he could pass down his skills to someone else. And thus he continued to reign chaos all around him, all the while pressuring his son to do the same. As a killer, he still uses scripts and exploits to give him an unfair advantage. Takes the role of c00lkidd, and uses the same moves as OG kidd for the most part. Instead of summoning clones, he instead teleports to the closest survivor (which briefly stuns him upon arriving, just to nerf it a little).

— Respawn Anon

I think you absolutely cooked on all of these. Specifically Guest 1337, Shedletsky and Builderman. These are so creative.

[rawbin-hsr]

Hiiiiii!! Ehmm are your requests open? If they are, could you share your thoughts about aventurine NSFW headcanons in a romantic relationship? Hope I'm not asking for too much. If you don't want to no worries!! just ignore me hehe. Still, i wanted to tell you that I really love how you write aventurine, you made me wanna listen to all his voice lines again lmao. Anyway sorry for my english, it's not my mother tongue, and have a nice day!

A/N: Ok so I decided to separate this hc into two parts (both parts are in this post just a little separated !!) because half of it is me kinda digging into his brain a little with more general stuff and the other is just more specific kinks and scenarios and stuff like that for people who are only here for the freakiness *smirks* Didn’t go in depth about anything here but feel free to send in another ask if you want me to dig deeper into something more specific 🐺

I had penis-haver reader in mind, but nothing specific is stated so reader is technically gender neutral !!

─ ⊹ ⊱꒰☆꒱⊰ ⊹ ─

CWs first section: Self destructive tendencies, mentions of hard kinks (not enacted), Aventurine not setting up proper sexual boundaries, switch Aventurine but I focus on when he subs

CWs last section: lingerie (for both Aventurine and reader), sex toys, semi-public sex, phone sex, overstimulation

Only slight aftercare mentions because any deeper digging into that will get sad real quick and I kinda wanted to keep this as not-sad as possible, but I’d be happy to talk more about it in another ask !!

─ ⊹ ⊱꒰☆꒱⊰ ⊹ ─

Like most people I think Aventurine is pretty open to a lot of things, but I think he also has a lot of hard limits and a lot of boundaries he hasn’t really thought about himself yet

Hard limits include hurting you, you hurting him, anything with leather, anything that makes either of you bleed, most types of bondage (esp handcuffs), any roleplay that put either of you in a position of authority over the other

(These are limits you discover a little into the relationship, because at the beginning, Aventurine claims he’s okay with everything and he would keep claiming that if he wasn’t in a very loving and stable relationship. He only feels comfortable establishing those boundaries when you’ve made it clear it’s safe to do so. 🙁)

Idk if you want me to go in depth about those hard limits because I have Thoughts about all of them but I’m assuming you want to get your freak on so I won’t go into too much detail about it, if anyone wants me to elaborate on it though feel free to send in an ask !!

I think a really big downside with him is he doesn’t really know himself how far these limits go and he doesn’t always communicate about it either. Like he’ll think light spanking is fine but then you’ll notice he kind of freezes up if you go for it during sex and after he’ll only admit he didn’t like it if you kind of push him to 😭

I think he’s a switch. I hate to say this because I know it plays into the fandom’s tendency of like,, further feminising and sexualising effeminate men and making them “bottoms” and all that but I do think he has a sort of sub lean. Or like power bottom sort of ? A brat basically. It makes me feel kind of gross to call him by these terms considering what the fandom likes to do to him but I’m using it as shorthand forgive me 💀

Or maybe I’m projecting because I have Issues and will only ever read and write dom reader idk

Like I think he likes having control, but with a partner he genuinely loves, he finds so much comfort in sort of just falling back and letting you take the lead. It’s a nice break because in his day-to-day life, he either needs to be in perfect control constantly or, when he does lose control, it’s never something good and/or a sort of loss of control he purposely takes to in order to punish himself (like when he gambles. Sure there’s a good chance he’ll win, but can he be sure? He’s always afraid he’ll lose. It’s ultimately out of his hands, since he doesn’t cheat). With you, he’s safe when he does it. It is not a gamble, it is not a bet. You unquestioningly just take care of him and it just feels nice. 

At the same time, I think he won’t be as eager to let you lead at the beginning of your relationship. He doesn’t fully trust you so he won’t leave himself as vulnerable to you. Again, I think he has a lot of issues with control and power so that really plays into it. 

(Please god don’t take this as me saying that Aventurine is ‘naturally submissive’ or some weird shit like that I will ACTUALLY shoot myself !!!! I will commit I’ll do it !!!!!!)

I imagine his libido is pretty low in the beginning. He’ll go whenever you want to, sure, but he doesn’t initiate a lot. 

Quickly changes when he grows comfortable with you though. Once he actually really does love you he’d be more than happy to go like once a day or something wild like that he’s like an animal in heat for you dawg 😭😭😭🙏🙏🙏

Happy to go at your pace though, because I really really don’t think sex is that important to him. I think he’d prefer to have sex (in the beginning because it’s exciting, and then once you two are closer it’s because the intimacy is nice), but I don’t think it would be a dealbreaker at all if you don’t wanna have sex much/at all. He’s got a hand lol

Freaky part below 😈 ngh

─ ⊹ ⊱꒰☆꒱⊰ ⊹ ─

I think he definitely prefers having more ‘playful’ sex most of the time. Passionate and exciting and high-energy, lots of flirting while you’re doing it too <3

I bet he’s so annoying bru teasing you and purposely saying things to get you riled up with a stupid cocky grin on his face 😒 I need him sooo bad

Enjoys dressing up sexy for you and enjoys it even more when you do it back for him. I knowww everyone says this but he’d love to buy you lingerie as random gifts every now and then. 

Loves toys. Whether you’re using them on him or he’s using them on you he’s game 😇 Fun way to switch things up !!

Ngh imagine using a vibrator on him,,, drooling,,,,,,,, anyways

Not above semi-public sex, but only when there’s barely any risk of really getting caught. Things typical for fanfiction LMAO like getting it on in a janitor’s closet. Just gotta be quiet and it should be safe, since the door’s got a lock.

Lotsss of phone sex for sure. Guy’s away a lot of the time, so if you’re okay with it he’s definitely not above sending/asking for nudes. Has a bad habit of calling you with little to no warning while he’s in the middle of masturbating too. 

Panting into the receiver, saying he needs you, begging you to talk him through it. Happy to switch to a video call if you ask for it. Super good at it too, getting the best angles and everything (unless he’s getting so desperate he doesn’t have the mind to remember things like that <3)

Doesn’t like edging LMAO he’s too impatient for that. Except every now and then and ngh it’s so rewarding once he does want it he gets soo needy so quick

Bet he enjoys overstimulation too,,, somebody put me in a mental hospital the image of him sooo fucked out he’s whimpering and drooling and mindlessly rutting up against you,,,,,,, shoot me like actually

Would fall asleep so quick after that. Barely even awake enough to put on his pyjamas after ugh he’s so cute :((

Would probably not want to wear it after anyways he likes the feeling of your bare skin against his own I bet

Make sure to cuddle and reassure him lots after you have sex tho he’ll need it. Getting him a bath and a meal wouldn’t be bad ideas either

Super sorry about how short this was I definitely think he has a lot more turn-ons and stuff that I just forgot to write here but I’m very bad at answering such broad questions my bad 😞😞 Feel free to send in more asks asking about more specific things !!!

[hazelfoureyes]

A Doe in Fall (Part 3)

⟢HumanAlastor x FemaleBurlesquerReader - A Doe in Fall

Part 1 - Pretty in Red smut💦 Part 2 - Liar smut💦 Part 3 - A Tragedy smut💦 Part 4 - Enough Part 5 - Too Much Part 6 - Learning smut💦 Part 7 - Recognition smut💦 Part 8 - Trust sexual 🥵 Part 9 - Shiny Things Part 10 - Good Deeds Part 11 - Caught Part 12 - Eddie

Part 3 A tragedy 

So enraptured with Alastor, you forgot how you left work on Saturday. Tommy didn’t forget. And he made sure you remembered. Unfortunately for him, and fortunately for you, your paramour made a habit of helping quicken karma’s balancing act.

「warnings/promises: immediate physical assault (let’s be up front about that), allusions to sexual assaults having happened in the past to non-reader characters, HumanAlastor x FemReader, penetrative sex, Protective Alastor, bruises, somewhat graphic descriptions of murder, mentions to coerced prostitution, sex near a corpse (words that have the FBI watching me), stabbing, knife, bad burlesque names, gambling, my own new HC for the Radio Demon’s origins, another deer reference thanks to @n-after-me , chin quivering, Tommy doesn’t know French and it shows, posted early for @jazzmasternot, wrath」

Minors DNI 🤺

You walked into the theatre for rehearsals with a pep in your step, body still humming. It was like the usual adrenaline rush Alastor brought couldn't fade this time.

But it did, when Tommy grabbed you by the hair out of your makeup chair and threw you into the wall. 

You couldn’t react, head ringing after it left a small indent in the drywall. Unlike before, you didn’t try to stand. Make him work for his second hit. And he did. Leaning down he yanked you off the ground by your arm and dragged you to your feet. 

“Do you think you’re funny?” He shook you, you were sure you could feel your brain jostle. It was rhetorical, but you replied anyway.

“No, Tommy.”

“No. Exactly.” He backed you up onto the make up table, head pressed into the mirror. “Mr. Wilson was not happy. He pulled his contribution. I know you don’t have that kind of money. Do you know what you’re gonna do?”

His fingers dug into your cheeks, “No.” You genuinely didn’t. He was talking to you like you had been in the loop on whatever it was he had been doing on the side. All of this was as shocking to you as your actions were, apparently, to him. 

“You’re gonna take whatever meetings I make until that money is back.” He let go of you and turned to leave but changed his mind. Coming back, he swung his fist and clocked you on the left side of your face.

You didn’t see it, but you heard the other girls running and pulling Tommy off of you, yelling and pleading for him to calm down.

“I worked really hard for you!” He shouted, jerking his shoulders out from under the hands of the other performers. What was he talking about? You hadn’t discussed any of this, asked for any thing from him. “I waited for a high roller for you. Real classy guy. Just wanted a private show! That was it!” He spit, “No, every Tom, Dick, and Harry is welcome now to ask for your time.”

You just held your face, unsure if you had the right makeup to hide the bruise before stage call. 

“Well?! Say you’re sorry.”

You considered not saying anything. No response. When you looked at him, you could see the half a dozen other girls staring back at you, just say it. We have to rehearse.

“I’m sorry.” Eyes cast to the floor.

“For what?”

It hurt when you rolled your eyes, “For being ungrateful?” 

He shoulder checked a few girls on the way out. A couple came to you.

“He’s got some gambling debt, he’s just using us to get ahead.”

“I have some stuff to cover that up for tonight.”

“He usually cuts us in.”

Tears stung your eyes, you were angry and humiliated. You could work elsewhere, with a little luck. Take a job at a diner out of the area where no regulars would stir up trouble. Maybe leave until Tommy got his debts paid off or whatever was motivating this recent streak of cruelty. But you didn’t want to run away. No one applauded waitresses. Maybe if you made yourself as unattractive as possible, no one would request you. Dirty your teeth, talk about other men, speak crudely. 

“What exactly was he talking about?” you asked no one in particular. The girls were quiet for a beat.

“Well ya know, private shows for clients who can afford it.” High pitched and nasal, Florence spoke as she searched her make up station.

“That’s it?” Incredulous.

“Sometimes. You know how it is… woman left alone in a room with a man who has too much money or ego or drink. Doesn’t always stop at a dance.” Minnie had much more experience than you, “It isn’t our jobs. It isn’t normal. But, well, ya heard about New York right? They’re trying to make burlesque outright illegal…”

“Gotta enjoy the art while it’s just misunderstood.” Florence wiped down your mirror before setting her supplies down for you. “Come on, let’s get you fixed up.”

By the time patrons began to stream in, you had blood staining the white of your left eye. Nothing you could do, but maybe at a distance it wouldn’t be noticeable. The bruise under your eye from his fist was easy enough to cover. The contusion from where your right cheek hit the wall was a little harder. 

Luckily, the stage offered a buffer of space and the rest of the room was dark. 

During your show, you tried to keep your eyes moving so the red sclera never stayed in one place too long. For the first time, the cheers did nothing for you. You felt your chin quiver, fighting back tears. You wanted to scream, to tell them to hate you and leave. Stop fucking clapping.

Ruth was naturally the first to come to you after your performance, “Want me to do the tour with you? Arm in arm around the hall.”

You took her up on the offer. It lightened the load, her taking charge of the conversation when people approached or bought you drinks. Luckily the bartender always poured the performers weak cocktails and watered down liquor to keep their heads on straight. 

Ruth’s companionship afforded you precious time to plan, to consider how quickly you could find new work or at least a way out of this.

“What a treat. Two for one. Can I buy you both a drink?” 

Ruth turned first to greet the customer, “Ooh yes sir! Gin and tonic, please and thank you. Autumn?” Your stage name drew your attention back to the world, turning finally.

“Alastor.” It fell from your mouth like a lead balloon.

He smiled down at you, his hand offering a little wave, “Hello. Surprise.” 

Your face fell, a frown pulling down your chin. It took you too long to recover, batting your eyelashes and turning the corners of your lips up unnaturally. 

“So you do have a beau!” Ruth slapped your arm, “I’m Skye, Skye Scraper. Pleasure to meet you, Alastor.” She extended her hand, Alastor planting a kiss on the back of it, concealing his smile at the name.

You tried to keep your eyes on the floor, head turned slightly away from him to obscure the neon sign of an eye shouting, ‘Weak!’

Unfortunately for you, Alastor wasn’t an oblivious man. Unless he was dancing or drunk. “May I have a moment alone with her?” Alastor asked Ruth. Ruth looked to you for your okay, and you just nodded. She gave a little nod of her own to Alastor and slinked away. 

“Are you unhappy to see me, dear? Did I overstep by coming by unannounced?” You hadn’t heard him worried before, it pained you. 

“No, no! I am… so happy to see you. I just had a long day.” You scanned the room for the darkest area to bring him. A booth would be best, you could keep him on one side of you. You gestured with a nod of your head.

“Ah, I kept you out too late.” Alastor didn’t move.

“Not at all, come on let’s sit down.” You reached back for his hand without looking at him, but when you pulled he still didn’t move. He remembered the way you pulled at the hand of that man in the alley the first night you met. Desperate to escape somewhere. 

“Is there a reason you won’t look at me?”

Lie. 

“Uh, no, I’m just embarrassed about this heavy stage makeup.” 

Alastor paused, hand slipping from yours to adjust his sleeves. It was a nervous action, an attempt to self soothe, but you didn’t know that. “I should have asked before coming.”

“Alastor, it’s not…,” you kept your eyes down at your hands.

“Then look at me.”

Would he think you were incapable of protecting yourself? His pity would kill you. Perhaps he would decide a second rate burlesquer wasn’t worth making time for anymore.

You could intentionally wound him, say you don’t want to see him so he leaves. But that sword was double edged and you weren’t sure you’d survive that either. You weren’t making it out of this.

You finally looked at him. He leaned in, “What happened to your eye?” A slender finger gently tilting your chin upward.

Lie. 

You thought too long for an answer. Why were you getting worse at lying? It used to be one of your best shields and swords but now you were so slow on the draw you were left defenseless. Vulnerable. His hand took yours, gently pulling you into the lobby and through the glass doors of the theatre.

Under the bright lights of the marquee and the street lamps, Alastor inspected your face. He reached into his pocket for his handkerchief, wetting it in his mouth before wiping the makeup off of your under eye.

“Alastor, people are staring.” 

His eyes fell down, soft hands lifting your arm where a bruise was already formed. You hadn’t noticed that one.

“What happened?” He wasn't looking at you when he said it, instead cautiously wiping the makeup off your cheeks in search of more marks.

“The truth or wh-“

“Always. Never give me anything else.”

You sighed, and explained, “Tommy, the manager, he’s been shifting tactics for bringing in money because he owes some big bads a lot of debt. Private shows with performers that sometimes get hands on…,” his hands stopped moving but his eyes didn’t meet yours, “I never asked to be included in it. I wouldn’t do it. I was rude to a man Tommy introduced me to and I ran off Saturday. Yada Yada. He got me as soon as I got to work.”

Alastor didn’t reply, just turned on his heels and marched back into the theater. You chased after him, “I don’t need you to fight my battles!” You tried to get in front of him but he walked right past you.

“Not about what you need, dear, it's about what he deserves.” 

Alastor asked the bartender for Tommy, who pointed to the short but stocky man talking to a group of guests. Alastor approached so quickly Tommy didn’t have time to greet him, instead just backing up until he fell ass first into a booth. Alastor boxed him in, one hand on the wall and one on the table, towering over Tommy as he sat.

“I hear you sell dancers by the night.”

You paced the lobby nervously. Would you be fired? What would Alastor say? Would Tommy hit him, too?

He re-emerged, “Come to my car, please.” He didn't stop walking as he said it. 

You followed a few blocks down to his car, parked on the street. He opened the passenger door for you and closed it behind you. You wanted to ask if you were going somewhere, but thought better of it. A tight u-turn, he pulled the car into the side street where you’d first met each other.

Wordlessly he got out of the car, you opening your door before he could. Popping the trunk, he set the folded canvas inside a paper bag. Checking first, he placed it inside one of the tin trash cans. 

You stood, waiting for an explanation.

Finally he stopped and made eye contact with you. “You have a date tomorrow, with me. Bring this to the apartment above the theater before Tommy and I arrive.” Opening your mouth to speak, he didn’t stop to let you add anything. “Preferably near the bed.” He closed the trunk, “Wear red, please.”

You searched his face for some kind of discernible emotion but found none. Those constricted pupils again, an animal staring back at you from behind a pair of glasses. There was no reason to ask him, it was obvious what was going to happen. Did you want to stop it? 

Did you want to see it? Alastor at work?

“Okay. On all the points.” You looked back at the trashcan, “Canvas hidden near the bed. Wear red.”

“The extra clothes can go anywhere out of sight.” He leaned down, kissing your forehead, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Your voice cracked a little, “Wait, you’re leaving already?”

He nodded, “I can’t stay here.” Before getting into his car he turned and added, “Don’t cover the bruises tomorrow. He should see them.”

You nodded in return, “Are you doing this for me?” So quiet you almost hoped he didn’t hear it.

He paused, one leg already in the car and his back to you, “No. I’m doing it for everyone.”

You watched his car light up and leave the alley.

It’s not that you felt abandoned, you felt…. Stranded. You had to go back in there, alone, and put on the normal act but under abnormal conditions. 

So it was happening. You hadn’t seen the first time. Just felt it. You didn’t see the second. You were going to actually see a man die. Not just a man, someone you knew. Someone you used to consider a friend of sorts. Before he got into whatever trouble was driving him to act like a flesh peddler. Could you do it? Could you watch a man be killed? Was that even what Alastor had planned?

Tommy found you the second you were back in the room, hand pressing too hard on the bruises he left on your arm. “You have a meeting tomorrow after your show. If you don’t show up,” he yanked you close, putrid breath of dead teeth you’d never been bothered by before this moment and bad booze assaulting your senses, “I will fucking kill you.”

You almost started laughing, bringing your hand to your mouth to hide your smile. “Okay Tommy.” 

Fuck it. He was going to die anyway, might as well make it a date. 

Ruth saddled up beside you as soon as Tommy was out of earshot, “Look at that smile. Quickie in the alley?”

Disgust, “Jesus, Skye, I was gone like, 5 minutes.” She shrugged. “Why does everyone think — is everyone fucking their daddies* in the side street?” She nodded. “Well, I’m not.”

“Prude.” She joshed before linking your arm in hers again, “We’ve got at least another hour of schmoozing. Tits up!”

Your smile came effortlessly that night, a thrum of excitement keeping you light on your feet. Not excitement for death, but for the very concept of being closer to Alastor. Would you see it happen, in front of you? Or would he have you leave? Either way, you were an active participant with a task list.

He trusted you, even if in a small way. Trust was so rarely given from the people who mattered. Men trusted you often; to be sweet when they tell you they were embarrassed about something, to lie when they ask if you orgasmed, to not steal their cash when they blacked out with their pants still on. Pulling it from strangers was one of your greatest pleasures. But it was easy. You were skilled. 

Yet again, like so often now, Alastor was the exception. He didn’t toss himself at your feet. He stood tall in front of you and on his own terms offered you the things you wanted. You didn’t have to pretend to be demure, you didn’t have sit on his lap in silence and nod and laugh. Just yourself, as much as you could allow yourself to exist in the world. No tricks. If his trust was presented wrapped in a bloodied bow, well, you would thank him dearly and wear the ribbon round your neck like a trophy.

Many men spoke to you, but luckily your participation in conversation wasn’t something they really cared about. As they spoke, your eyes were looking past them and into the future. 

However there was a sense of dread when you lied in bed that night. The excitement of getting closer to Alastor had melted into the fear there was no going back from this. 

Something in your chest stung, a thorn growing from somewhere unknown. Three encounters (that he knew of) and already it seemed your thoughts were more Alastor than yourself. No person had ever made such an impression before. You didn’t like it, but it made you happy. Which is why you didn’t like it. Tying your happiness to another person was a reckless thing to do. You’d seen your mother and half sister both use a man’s attention as a replacement for being happy with themselves and it made them brittle and hollow.

Thinking of what would happen the following night, oddly, you were reminded of losing your virginity. You were a “late bloomer” and were terrified you’d never be you again after. Like something would be taken from you. You fell asleep to that thought, of what you’d lose.

Then you woke, uncharacteristically early, feeling none the bit rested. No dreams. No nightmares. A few seconds of darkness and suddenly it was morning. With the extra time you had you wandered into a department store before going to the theater.

When a sales woman approached you, asking what you were looking for, you were too tired lie.

“A red dress.” You didn’t have the makeup at home to cover your marks, and gave up being worried about it. 

Unfortunately, it seemed it wasn’t so odd of a sight; a woman with a black eye.

“What’s the occasion? Apology dinner?” The woman fidgeted with the hangers while looking at you.

You grimaced, “No, a murder.”

She howled, “You are a hoot! Don’t we wish, huh? Let me pull you some options.”

You put the dress on the top of the paper bag, having hidden it under your make up table the previous night. Your fingers were trembling, applying your makeup needing deep breaths and concentration.

“Ruth, can you do my lips?” You turned and handed her the brush. 

“The eye looks better.” She took your chin in her hand and painted your mouth a pretty shade of red.

“Thank you.” You offered her a smile but she didn't let go, “What?”

“You ever seen a cornered raccoon? Like one got in the house and your mom boxed it into a corner with a broom?”

A nod, yes, actually, you had.

“Who’s got the broom?” She asked. You knitted your brow, not understanding. “Who’s got you in a corner? Is it Tommy?”

You took your chin back, deep breaths. “No brooms. No corners. Just rattled still from last night.” Not a lie, surprisingly. “You thought of a raccoon? Really? Is it because of the eye?”

When you took your bow for the evening and turned to escape the stage lights for the darkness of backstage, you found Tommy leaning just outside the dressing room.

“Get changed, doors unlocked upstairs. Room 504.” 

Grabbing the paper bag you ran through your mental checklist. Wear red, take off your make up, hide the canvas by the bed. An odd to-do list for murder.

The theater had two floors of modest apartments above it, the owners keeping two of the open for the theater’s use. One was for the owners should they ever visit New Orleans, and the other was multi use. Storage and a crash pad for performers or Tommy when he worked late.

The bag crinkled as you hugged it, looking over the small apartment. Boxes, decorations, a modest kitchen and a bed. The bathroom was quite large, a tub and shower head. Was this where the other performers went?  

Why hadn’t anyone said anything sooner? Why didn’t anyone leave yet?

Taking a second, you got to work. You opened the canvas and slid it under the bed, the smallest bit of edge sticking out for easy retrieval. Dizzy with the quickly settling reality of what you were doing, you sat on the floor for a moment. Trying to calm your breathing, you closed your eyes.

The fear of the unknown was suffocating you. There was a possibility Alastor failed and ended up hurt. Or, that he changed his mind and Tommy left you two to just hold hands on the bed for a sex-appropriate amount of time.

You patted your thighs and stood up. No time now for a panic attack. Alastor had a change of clothes in the bag, neatly folded and tied in twine. They were set onto the shelf above the closet.

And finally, yourself. Your dress was on and you stopped to wipe the make up off your face in the bathroom mirror. Still bruised, still nasty. The dress was nice though, carrying some of the weight for your battered mug. Red cotton, sailor neck and little gold buttons down the front. Flashy, brighter than the dark number you usually wore.

Would he like it? Most men looked for how a dress accentuated your curves (or hid them) but you had a feeling Alastor didn’t care so much about that.

You took your seat at the edge of the bed, thin mattress sagging from your weight.

The clock ticked, until finally the door opened and you saw something you hadn’t seen before and knew you’d never see again. Tommy and Alastor.

“Here she is. Autumn, this is Mr. Cerf. He's asked I stay in the apartment, apparently word of your attitude already spread among the upperclass.” Tommy wagged his finger at you in a playful way that was entirely out of place.

“Look at her. Pouting. Not very excited, is she?” Alastor smiled at you, softly. You felt for a second that maybe you entirely misunderstood. He looked calm, normal. Even peaceful.

“It’s always nice when they fight a little. But she won’t cause you any trouble.” Tommy patted Alastor’s back, who immediately shirked away.

“Do you like it when women try to fight you off, Tommy?”

A dry laugh, “Ya know how it is. They gotta act like they don’t like it so people still respect ‘em.”

A hum. Alastor’s smile falling entirely. A shadow settled over his face. “I see. That does make things easier.” He slipped on his short black gloves. “I always tell her she looks lovely in red. She rarely listens to me, but I’m happy to see she did tonight. It’s a special occasion.” 

Once, you thought. You didn’t listen once. 

Tommy nervously chuckled, looking from Alastor then to you, “What?” Alastor grabbed him by the back of the neck, pushing him to the ground and onto his knees. Hand fisted in his hair, knife pressing across his throat. 

Alastor dug his knee into the small of Tommy’s back, “Tommy, I think you owe the lady an apology.” You let your feet find the edge of the canvas and slid it out with a kick. It glided across the wood and stopped where his knees met the floor. 

“I’m sorry! Fuck, I’m sorry.” Tommy was staring at the waxed fabric in front of him. 

You felt your eyes sting with tears, a smile breaking out against your will. “For what?”

“I—,” his eyes searched the room for an answer, your words bringing a pulse of Deja Vu, “It’s about yesterday?” He seemed to relax a little, “Come on. I said sorry. ” Looking back to Alastor. “I didn’t know she had a guy.”

Alastor yanked his head back to look him squarely in his eyes, “Wrong answer.” He pushed him down onto his stomach, “Come on Tommy. I like when my victims fight a little, too.” Sensing the taller man towering over him with the knife, Tommy scrambled onto his back to look at Alastor. Tommy started shouting, “Hey!! Someone!” But there was no one to hear him. That was the beauty of the space he always brought his dates to; it was too loud to hear anyone scream. 

Funny how that works both ways.

Alastor shrugged, “Well that didn’t last long.” As Tommy backed up, trying to get traction on the slippery canvas and failing, Alastor straddled him. Tommy’s hands came up, one pushing against Alastor’s face, the other against the arm holding the knife. Alastor put both hands onto the knife’s handle, staring down into Tommy’s eyes as he inched closer to the man’s neck. “You look scared, Tommy. Are you scared?” 

The other man shouted, eyes trembling as he watched the knife come down.

Alastor pushed through, metal sinking into Tommy’s throat. No pause, he withdrew and sank it again and again. Tommy’s hands fell from Alastor’s face, flailing slightly at his neck before slumping down. He was frenzied, stabbing at his chest and upward with wide eyes. You recognized those constricted pupils. They made sense in this setting. Alastor was panting, taking a second to split the skin from ear to ear in the middle of his melee. 

You brought your knees to your chest, watching the crime unfold. Was this anger for you or truly for everyone? No one ever got so angry for you before, if you could be so conceited as to say this was for you. Your mouth opened and you spoke without thinking, no filter. “You look like an angry God. A jazz demon of wrath.” You smiled, the morbidity not lost on you.

Alastor stopped, frozen as he stared at you. For a second, he had forgotten you were there. He was always alone during these hobbies of his. Until recently. You looked like an angel in red and gold. Had he dyed your heavenly robes crimson? Or had you been made that way?

He dropped the knife, peeling his gloves off and stepping over Tommy’s decimated torso before kicking off his shoes.

You scooted back onto the bed and opened your arms, welcoming a strange after-kill cuddle. Your reward.

Alastor took off his bowtie, then his shirt. It took you a second, not realizing what was happening until he began to unbuckle his belt. “Now?!” 

He nodded, “Yeah.”

“What the fuc— okay,” your hands flew to unclasp your stockings and roll down your panties. You mumbled to yourself, “Jesus Christ.”

As he crawled over you, warm gloveless hands tracing along your legs, hips, waist, you looked at up him with your now dilated pupils, “It’s murder? You need murder?”

He laughed, embarrassing you a little, “No it isn’t that.” His face nuzzled into your neck, “You’d go to hell? For me?” 

You froze, you hadn’t really seen it like that.

“You’d damn your eternal soul,” his hips pressed into you, an unfamiliar hardness there that made you gulp, “just to spend time with me?”

How were you so heated over an erection? A dime a dozen, men practically threw them at women who offered them the slightest smile. Yet feeling him so hard against you, something you had been practically praying for, made you weak. A trembling virgin all over again. 

Don’t lie, he always told you to be honest so you decided to try it out even if it made you feel at risk of harm. Your hands slid up and into his hair, gripping gently, enough to elicit a groan from him, “Well I was worried heaven wouldn’t have jazz, so… yeah.” You had to always say something a little in jest, to hide from the vulnerability of honesty, “This seemed like a better option.” The truth was, if you had to state it plainly, you would dive head first into hell in exchange for his smile. To hear his laugh. To feel his breath over your mouth. You were quite sure hell was more your scene, anyway.

“I’ll be sure to fill your afterlife with jazz every day, dear.” 

How could he make hell sound so sweet?

“It’s a deal.” Fingers playing with his hair, basking in the warmth of skin on skin. 

He leaned up, eyes scanning your face as he always seemed to do in these intimate moments. The feeling spreading down his chest was one wholly foreign to him, one he was struggling to put into his own words. You hadn’t run away. You opened your arms for him even still, welcoming your own damnation in exchange for… affection? Attention? Him? The reason didn’t matter, not to Alastor, and not now to his growing need. You didn’t even push him for more than he wanted to give, not yet needled him for details, secrets, sex. Could you really just be there for Alastor? Take him for what he was and what he wasn’t?

His mouth was salivating at the thought you’d give him anything. Reality was, you already had. His finger caressed the purple welt on your cheek. You were given pain and he returned it ten fold to its owner. A demon of wrath. He felt his cock twitching, underwear tented around him. 

You smiled up at him, wiping a little streak of blood from his jawline, “You look quite pretty in red yourself.”

His head came to rest on your collarbone with a shaky sigh.

Had you said something wrong? 

“Please, you’re already pushing me to my limit.”

Making a show of it, you zipped your mouth and pretended to toss the key. You wanted to reach down and pull off his remaining bit of clothing, to rub yourself against his manhood. But, you weren’t sure if that was something he would appreciate. You didn’t want to ruin his experience, to make him regret offering you something he so clearly didn’t need to give.

He removed his underwear, watching you unbutton your dress and pulling your arms free. Your bra, garter, and stockings were still on. Somehow he found it more scandalous than if you were completely naked.

Your breath was shaking, uneven as the excitement took control of you. There was a not totally unfounded fear you'd black out from hyperventilating.

Alastor lined himself up with your heat and pressed in, making a hard to decipher face as his brow knit up and he bit his lip. You were already so wet, not a hand or mouth needed from him. He wondered if you shared more than an acceptance of justified homicide; your body so relaxed and welcoming to him. 

With a few shallow thrusts, he was fully sunk into you. You may have let out a cry. An emptiness you hadn’t clocked was suddenly gone. Was this what Zeus meant when he said the two souled humans were too powerful and tore them apart to weaken them? 

Was this sex, or love? The word made you nervous. But—- if he offered it to you in both palms, you’d suffocate yourself in his hands.

He began to move in earnest, thrusting in and out slowly. You had expected the frantic moves of a horny virgin. Instead he was moving with control, hips rolling into you like waves gentle and steady where the lake met land, not slamming like many men before him. 

Had it been any other dick, you’d whine and begin moving yourself against it for that needed speed. This was Alastor. Dripping pleasure into your open mouth like a drought-breaking summer shower.

You didn’t recognize your own sounds, already panting and moaning as a warmth spread from the place where his cock was sliding around inside you.

Alastor tried to keep calm. Even when his body was sensitive, he wasn’t used to the mental work needed to fight off his orgasm. Usually he had the opposite issue, struggling to stay focused enough to finish. Mind wandering to more productive chores. 

But you were so wet, so accepting in body and mind. He watched your eyes close, one hand gently clawing at the blankets, the other reaching down to touch his lower stomach every time he thrust back in. For the first time in a very long time you really truly wanted to remember who was at the other end of the dick you were enjoying.

Languid moves. Swollen cockhead hitting the bottom of your walls, the top, the end, pushing still a little further.

“I’m sorry,” Alastor leaned down over you, kissing at your jawline, “For making you wait so long for so little.”

His rhythm picked up then, burying himself deeper into your sopping cunt and dragging out enough to pull back that quiver of his release.

You shook your head, lips tingling. “Nothing little here.”

He attempted a laugh, losing his breath. He wanted to last longer, to make the experience worth your while but he could feel you dripping down his balls and it weakened him with alarming efficiency. Finally the frenzied speed you witnessed earlier was turned to you, you brought your legs up, holding at his sides. “Darling I need to-,” he moaned into your ear.

“Please stay.” You clung to his neck, nails grazing at his shoulders.

Alastor’s voice was soft and sweet, a small moan and a gentle grunt. His legs spread more, trying to get every centimeter of himself into you. Hips now grinding in a small circle, but not losing any of the comfort of your warmth. You felt him still pumping that welcomed heat into you, and you tightened around him, drawing out your own moan. He hissed, “Sensitive.” Your legs were shaking like leaves in a storm, no orgasm but the pleasure nonetheless intoxicating.

The front of your brain felt like static, perhaps from the lack of oxygen as you had uncharacteristically lost your breath under Alastor. 

Like losing your virginity, after the fear faded and you were able to find a moment for introspection, you found yourself larger than before. The edges of your canvas expanded out, new parts of yourself unfurling for you to explore. Nothing had been lost, only gained.

Alastor kissed at the dark circle under your eye, at the bruise of your cheek, he lifted your arm and kissed gently at the purple and blue spots there too. He had lied, and he wasn’t sure why, but maybe he’d find the will to admit it to you someday.

He had left yesterday to keep from strangling Tommy in the center of the theater, finding himself in a rage. He rarely felt anger. His killings always about retribution, about karma, about righting the scales. He needed to leave to keep from losing his composure.

He lied to you in the alley, unable to look you in the eye when he did it for fear you’d see it. You always seemed to see him with a clarity others didn’t despite such a short time together. He struggled to hide from you and it was as exciting as it was frightening. A testament to your similarities.

He hadn’t done it for everyone. No. His personal moral code fell to pieces when he saw your bloodied eye and bruised skin. He would have killed Tommy even if he had been a good man, even if you’d been the instigator. None of his murderous rules mattered. And it scared him. 

(Next Part Next Week, orz)

*slang for boyfriend, often a rich one

༻Masterlist༺

∰ Summoning the Horny Little Deer Cult (general tag list):

@cxrsedwxrlds , @nonetheartist , @tsunaki , @janchei , @wettiny-in-smutland , @moonmark98 , @hoebihoeshi , @pansexual-opera-house , @polytheatrix , @lorddiabigmommymilkers , @backinthefkingbuildingagain , @harley2223-blog , @coffee-colored-hopeless-romantic , @poinappel , @midnightnoiserose , @spookieroz , @missmidorima , @ivebeenthearchersstuff , @downbadforfictionalppl , @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx , @sleepylittledemon , @aether-th3-enby , @dontfuckbutimfab , @breathlessaura , @aperfectidiot , @certainlygay , @jth12 , @star-kujo-platinum ,

@ivebeenthearchersstuffn, @rubyninja1 , @simphornies , @alleystore , @readergirlstuff , @berry-demon , @chirimeimei , @fairyv-ice , @olive-frog , @thonethatflies620 , @tiredkiwiii , @ilikemyteawithmilk , @whateverlololo , @psipies , @howabouticallyou , @roxxie-wolf , @ive-no-idea-what-to-call-this , @fizzled-phoenix , @fjorjestertealeaf , @phobophobular , @surusurusuru , @mariaclarade-la-cruz1 , @whateverlololo , @simplyonehellofanotaku , @xixflower , @i-am-nonbinary-bean-deal-with-it , @roxxie-wolf , @a-case-of-attachment , @multifandomfanatic02 , @watereddownmilk , @raynerrold , @crazii-saber-wolf , @valkyrie-expeditions , @bontensbabygirl , @sillyb0nez , @oo0lady-mad0oo , @jazzmasternot , @pseudobun , @fraugwinska✨, @alitaar , @straows , @alastorssimp , @angelicwillows , @b-o-n-e-daddy , @one-and-only-tay /

🏹Alastor stalkers: @celestial-vomit , @amurtan ,@valkyrie-expeditions

[antinousletmehit]

Bad ending

This is NOT the cannon/current ending of Aphrodites gamble.

One of my friends asked me about the bad ending my series was originally supposed to have and asked for me to post something about it, I know that we’re kinda far from the ending but it really doesn’t spoil anything because none of this happens in Aphrodites gamble.

WARNINGS!!: murder, depression, antinous is a major asshole in this

The moon hung high over Ithaca’s palace, its pale light streaming through the windows and illuminating the once grand hall now filled with suitors. Laughter and the clinking of goblets echoed off the stone walls, but it was the murmur of hushed voices from the far corner that caught her attention. She crept closer, her bare feet silent against the cold floor. Antinous’s voice was unmistakable—smooth, commanding, and laced with malice. Her heart dropped as she strained to hear what he was saying.

“…We wait for his ship to return,” Antinous said, his tone calm but deadly. “We’ll ambush him before he even sets foot on Ithacan soil. With Telemachus gone, the queen will have no choice but to choose one of us. And once I’m king, the rest will fall in line.”

Her breath hitched. No…

Telemachus. The man she loved, who had stolen her heart with his quiet strength and kind eyes, who had trusted her with his dreams of a better Ithaca. And now her own brother was planning to kill him. She took a step back, her mind racing. She had to warn Telemachus. Somehow, she had to stop this. But as she turned to leave, the floor creaked beneath her foot.

The low murmur of voices stopped abruptly. She froze, her heart pounding in her chest.

“Who’s there?” Antinous’s sharp voice cut through the air like a blade. She tried to run, but before she could take another step, a strong hand grabbed her wrist. She spun around, only to come face to face with her brother. His expression was unreadable, but his grip was like iron.

“Eavesdropping, little sister?” he said softly, though his voice held no warmth.

“Antinous, please,” she begged, her voice trembling. “Don’t do this. Telemachus—he’s—”

Antinous’s jaw tightened, and his eyes darkened. “You shouldn’t have heard that.” He dragged her through the hall, past the other suitors who watched with raised eyebrows and amused smirks. She thrashed against his hold, tears streaming down her face, but he was unyielding.

“Antinous, let me go!” she cried. “You can’t kill him! Please, I love him! Don’t do this!”

Her words seemed to cut through him for a moment, and he hesitated, but the cold resolve returned to his eyes almost immediately. “You don’t understand, N/N. This isn’t about you or your feelings. It’s about power. About Ithaca.”

“It’s about your pride!” she shouted. “You’re so blinded by your ambition that you’re willing to destroy everything! Please, Antinous, I’m begging you, don’t kill him.” He didn’t respond, only tightening his grip as he dragged her to his room. Once inside, he grabbed a length of rope from his belongings and tied her hands together, ignoring her cries and struggles. He pushed her onto a chair and knelt in front of her, his face inches from hers.

“You’re staying here,” he said firmly. “You’re not running off to warn anyone.”

Her tears fell freely now, and her voice cracked as she whispered, “Antinous… please…”

For a moment, his expression softened, and she thought she saw a flicker of regret in his eyes. But then he straightened, his face hardening once more. “I have to do this,” he said quietly. “You’ll understand one day, you’ll see it’s for the better.”

With that, he turned and left the room, the door slamming shut behind him. She was left alone, her heart shattered and her tears falling onto the cold floor, praying that somehow, some way, she could stop the storm her brother was about to unleash.

——

The door creaked open, and she looked up with tear streaked cheeks. The sight that greeted her froze her heart in place.

Antinous stood in the doorway, his tunic torn and stained with crimson. Blood smeared his hands and face, and his usually composed expression was grim, hollow. His chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, and he looked as though the weight of the world had crushed him.

“Antinous…” she whispered, her voice trembling. She knew before he even opened his mouth, but part of her still clung to hope. He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a heavy thud. His dark eyes met hers, guilt flickering across them, but his lips set into a hard line.

“It’s done,” he said, his voice low, almost a growl. “The prince is dead.”

The words hit her like a blade to the chest. Her breath hitched, and for a moment, the room spun. “No,” she choked out, shaking her head violently. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not,” Antinous said flatly, stepping closer. “It had to be done.”

Her stomach dropped, and a guttural cry ripped from her throat. “No! No, you didn’t have to—” She dissolved into sobs, curling into herself as though the pain was too much to bear. Her love, her Telemachus, was gone. Snuffed out by the one person she thought would never betray her in such a way.

Antinous’s jaw clenched, and he took another step forward, reaching out to her. “Sister, please—”

“Don’t!” she screamed, jerking away from him. “Don’t touch me!”

He froze, his hand hovering mid air. She looked up at him, her face streaked with tears and twisted in anguish. “You killed him,” she whispered, venom dripping from her voice. “You killed him, Antinous! You’ve taken everything from me.”

His face contorted with a mix of guilt and frustration. “I did this for us. For Ithaca. Don’t you understand—”

“Understand?” she snapped, her voice rising with each word. “I understand that you’re a monster! I’ll never forgive you for this, Antinous. Never.”

The words cut deeper than any blade, and for a moment, he faltered, the proud suitor reduced to a man burdened by his choices. “I didn’t want it to be this way,” he murmured, his voice breaking. “I—I thought you’d—“

“You thought I’d what?” she spat, glaring at him through her tears. “Approve of you murdering the man I love? Go back to plotting with the others like none of this matters? You’re delusional, Antinous.”

He knelt before her, desperate now, his bloodstained hands trembling as he clasped them together. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice cracking.

She turned her head away, her body trembling as she sobbed into her hands. “Get out,” she whispered.

“Sister, please—”

“GET OUT!” she screamed, her voice echoing in the small room.

Antinous flinched, his shoulders sagging under the weight of her rejection. He stood slowly, staring at her for a moment longer before turning and leaving the room without another word.

As the door closed behind him, she crumbled to the floor, her sobs the only sound in the suffocating silence.

The days passed in a haze of cold dread. The once lively halls of Ithaca’s palace now echoed with an oppressive stillness. Antinous had claimed the throne, the suitors his loyal council, and the entire kingdom had bent beneath their control. And her life, once filled with freedom and love, was now a gilded cage.

Everywhere she turned, Antinous was there—watching, waiting. If not him, then one of the suitors, all eager to please their new king by keeping an eye on his sister. She couldn’t take a single step without feeling their eyes boring into her, her every movement scrutinized.

At meals, Antinous would sit at the head of the table, regal in his new robes, the crown perched arrogantly on his head. She sat to his right, silent and withdrawn, while the suitors laughed and toasted to their newfound power. Antinous’s gaze would flick to her every so often, as if ensuring she was still there, still under his control.

“Eat,” he ordered one evening, noticing the untouched plate before her.

She didn’t respond, her eyes fixed on the table.

“Sister,” he said, his voice quieter but no less commanding. “You need to eat.”

She looked up at him then, her eyes hollow and rimmed with dark circles. “I’m not hungry.”

Antinous’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing more. Instead, he turned his attention back to the suitors, though his sharp gaze never fully left her. When she wandered the palace gardens, searching for a moment of peace, Antinous was never far behind. Sometimes he followed her himself, his heavy footsteps echoing behind her. Other times, one of his lackeys would shadow her, keeping a careful distance but always close enough to intervene should she try to flee.

“Don’t think about running,” Antinous had warned her one night when he found her staring longingly at the horizon from the palace balcony. His tone was casual, almost soft, but the threat beneath it was clear. “You won’t get far, it’s too dangerous out there.”

One afternoon, she was sitting by the fountain in the garden, her fingers trailing through the water as she tried to block out the oppressive weight of her brother’s rule. A shadow fell over her, and she looked up to find Antinous standing there, his arms crossed. “What do you want?” she asked, her voice weary.

“To talk,” he said simply, sitting down beside her.

She turned away, refusing to meet his gaze. “I have nothing to say to you.”

Antinous sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I know you hate me.”

She didn’t respond, and he continued. “But everything I’ve done, I’ve done for us. For Ithaca.”

“For Ithaca?” she snapped, finally looking at him. Her eyes burned with anger and pain. “You’ve destroyed everything Ithaca stood for. You’ve turned this kingdom into a nightmare.” Antinous’s expression hardened, but there was a flicker of something softer in his eyes. “I’m keeping you safe,” he said. “That’s all that matters to me.”

“I don’t need your protection,” she said, her voice trembling. “I needed you to let me live my life. I needed you to let me love him.” His face darkened at the mention of Telemachus, and he stood abruptly. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, his tone cold. “You’ll thank me one day.”

Before she could respond, he turned and walked away, leaving her alone by the fountain, her heart heavy with grief and anger.

The days dragged on, each one more suffocating than the last. Antinous’s watchful eyes never wavered, and her every move was dictated by his paranoia. She felt like a bird trapped in a cage, her wings clipped, her song silenced. And though Antinous claimed he had done it all for her, she couldn’t shake the feeling that his so called love was nothing more than another chain binding her to his suffocating ideals.

[bonkers-behavior]

@samstarium apparently I am very easily swayed by complements so here’s my Omega Kids Claspect Theory Post!

Do I want them to fill the leftover human classes and aspects? Yes! Have I seen the evidence for that yet? Unfortunately no, If I find something that changes my mind I’ll make another post lol, anyways-

My bases for this theory started with these panels (you’ve probably seen them before, I think someone else came to similar conclusions?), which are only a few pages apart. I thought the colors were super arbitrary at first like, they have assigned colors, but then I realized they were in the fabrics too? And there’s one extra fabric color in there, hmmmm

This is the one im most confident in. Represented by green, Vrissy is always trying to find the best path forward, come up with a plan, strategy, contingency, and notably does not have an obsession with luck. Iirc, she does like gambling and her handle is AdamantGriftress, so she likes to trick people out of their possessions and money, but that takes more planning and skill than luck. Also making her some sort of parallel to terezi? Neophyte Bluehair lol

The left out color from those fabrics is too dark to be time, more of a blood red. We haven’t heard much from Yiffy, but that’s why I think shed be a mage lol. I’m actually pretty sure I saw Sam call attention to the fact that she would complete “see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil” with the mages. She understands relationships and blood to a frightening degree, having the burden of her god families legacy placed on her since birth, along with having a “posse of prepubescent punks” so presumably a lot of friends. Her associations with chains and shackles is definitely blood coded. Also, her demeanor and inner dialogue actually reminds me a lot of Karkat, especially commander Karkat. That sufferer reference is really heavy handed actually

Getting less sure about the classes here, but I think a creative class works for this creative boy. As a theatre kid myself, I can totally see how an aspect all about exploring the self would apply to him, the colors in that panel just made me start looking for it. Playing different roles is very similar to dirks splinters and nepetas role play. Having someone to protect the heart in a fight against someone who destroys the heart. Also scissors kinda make a heart shape

(Edit: I forgot tavvy’s evidence) Ok hear me out hear me out! Why on earth would Tavvy be represented by the color blue, have a flying car, be accidentally heroic, and be starting his arc about breaking free from his family ties and self repression. He routinely has other people making decisions for him and controlling him; Jane, Vrissy, even John just decides he needs to be kidnapped. He also tends to retreat inward instead of making his own decisions. But the tighter that leash is pulled the farther they’ll run when it snaps. You don’t think the first chance he gets he’s running away from it all? And that seeing himself in the bard costume wouldn’t be the biggest gut punch? He’s gonna need some real tight friends to keep him from drifting away. (I also just fucking remembered his name is Tavros I completely fucking forgot that Tavros is a breath player god damn it I wasn’t even thinking about it motherf💥💥💥💥)

Both Yiffy and Vrissy fit into the missing claspect theory for me, but I just can’t see any of them as doom? Idk maybe I missed something in the text. Looking forward to being proved wrong by future updates o7

[bagelbun333]

“The only time a lawyer can cry is when it’s all over” | The real meaning behind this quote and why it means so much to me <3

I made another analysis post of sorts because this is something that bugs me a lot. Over the years, I’ve seen so many people treat this quote as something equivalent to saying “you’re not allowed to cry, ever” when that’s just not true! Lemme explain why.

What it’s supposed to mean is that as a lawyer, you’re not supposed to get emotionally invested in a case. You can’t discover the harsh truth if you let your emotions get in the way. Mia resonated with the meaning of Diego’s words which is why she clung to them so tightly, and she passed it onto Phoenix who then passed it onto Apollo and Athena.

It really irks me that so many people perceive this advice as “toxic” simply because Diego didn’t want Mia to cry at that moment. It also hurts me that the fandom treats it as if Diego started a “manipulative” trend. Like I’m sorry, but he never said that crying is weak. He says, “you can’t cry yet.” Not “you can’t cry, period.” There were two points Diego wanted to get across to her:

1: He doesn’t want Mia to give up.

2: There is always time to cry outside the courtroom.

It obviously hurt him deeply when he saw Mia so defeated. When Mia heaped all the blame onto herself, and was about to give up everything, Diego wanted to reassure her that “it’s not over yet.” The thing about crying is all metaphorical, he doesn’t literally mean you can only cry when it’s all over. It’s simply a metaphor to reassure her that she should keep pressing forward no matter how painful it is. Diego always speaks in metaphors, so why wouldn’t this important quote also be one too? You shouldn’t take everything he says so literally.

Of course, Diego is not the kind of person to show his true emotions at all. I believe it’s the result of dealing with too many harsh truths in his life. Even when he wants to show he’s emotionally in pain, he ends up physically hurting himself by crushing a mug in his hand. Yet he still smiles when doing so. He’s so used to smiling through pain that he forgot how to express himself in a healthy way. Due to his behaviour, I can assume he’s already been through something traumatic several times as a lawyer. Something that the player never finds out.

Now just because he has that flaw, doesn’t mean he’s trying to make Mia do the same. It was a moment of reassurance that he expressed based on his own experience. What Mia picks up from it, is up to her. In fact, she has her own way of saying his advice: “A lawyer is someone who smiles no matter how bad it gets.” She understood the meaning of his words, but she changed crying into smiling, to put a more positive spin on it. Then she went on to say “You can’t smile at the end if you haven’t been smiling the whole way there.” Again, this is specifically advice for a lawyer. This doesn’t apply to her personal life. It’s her own way of saying “never give up, even if it’s bad.” She’s took a liking to speaking in metaphors.

Phoenix sticks by her words just like how Mia stuck to Diego’s. Phoenix is a lot like Mia, so his advice doesn’t really change from hers. But what he adds to this is the gambling aspect. Phoenix always won in poker because he’s good at keeping a good poker face. I believe it’s because of Mia’s advice that he managed to use that skill so well in the first place. I absolutely love the way this quote evolves over time, and it shows how it all links back to Diego; making him a very important character in my book.

Another aspect that I like is how Godot basically had to fight against his own advice. With him being so lost without Mia, he was forced to put his own beliefs to the test. Yet, in that same light, he was saved by it; because Phoenix saved him. Phoenix only managed to save Diego because he followed Mia’s advice, who learned it from Diego. I love how it all came full circle.

As Godot, he (ironically) allowed his feelings to get in the way of the truth. This is something Diego taught himself not to do. He couldn’t trust in the (w)right person because he thought it was all over. Phoenix proved him wrong by following Mia’s advice. At that moment, Diego/Godot learned a valuable lesson.

Something else I’d like to add, even though these characters don’t relate to Diego at all, is something that Tyrell Badd says in aai1. When Gumshoe was a rookie, he told him something along the lines of “a detective should never get emotionally involved in a case.” To me, it has the exact same meaning as “the only time a lawyer can cry is when it’s all over.” However, I don’t see anyone call Badd’s advice toxic.

Another interesting thing I’ve noticed is that when Diego does say this quote, he’s always bleeding. He’s only ever said this two times, yet it stuck throughout the entire series. Once in Turnabout Beginnings, and the other time was when it was actually all over. Mia and Diego clearly needed each other in order for them to properly express themselves. When they were torn apart, they had difficulty asking for help. Never separate the poor meow meows. <3

Anyway, I think that’s all I wanted to say. Hopefully I’ll be able to see more people appreciate the real meaning behind Diego’s words now. 🥺🙏

My takeaway from this is: “Express your feelings but don’t let them get in the way.” Honestly, I think that should become Athena’s advice for aa7. 🥰

[bxriles]

On Rhysand and Eris:

I saw a post that said Rhysand and Eris were the same exact character and it low key implied that it’s hypocritical to like Eris while hating Rhysand (among other things lmao), so I wanted to give my two cents as someone who fucking hates Rhysand with every fiber of my soul but who also likes Eris. No hate to the person who made that original post. I’m just using it as an excuse to ramble and avoid the work I should be doing right now.

More below the cut:

I’ll start off by saying that Eris and Rhysand are DEFINITELY similar characters. I wouldn’t say they’re the same though. I would say they’re foils of each other instead. They both wear masks, but one of them has a support system while the other is completely isolated. But I want to go deeper than that.

I think the key difference between Eris and Rhysand lies in the reason they both wear a mask.

Rhysand. I cannot for the life of me understand why Rhysand wears a mask. Amarantha maybe? But that doesn’t make sense. He’s been wearing that mask for way longer than 50 years if his treatment of the Illyrians and the CON is anything to go by. Is it because he wants to seem powerful? Well, he already is, isn’t he? He’s ThE mOsT pOwErFuL hIgH lOrD eVeR. So it’s not that. Maybe he’s wearing the mask because he wants to keep a tight leash on Illyria and the CON? Fine, but I don’t think he’s wearing a mask at all when he interacts with Illyria or the CON. I think he actively hates them and treats them as such. If he actually gave a shit about the Illyrians, he would enforce the wing clipping ban. If he actually gave a shit about the CON, he would work harder to find the “dreamers” who are trapped down there. What does he do instead? He has Cassian bark orders at the Illyrians and actively torments the CON by torturing Keir and parading Feyre around as his own personal, glorified slut. (And no, I don’t think that’s what Feyre is, but it CERTAINLY is what Rhysand portrays her as when they’re in the Hewn City. Especially in ACOSF where he fetishizes her pregnancy…) So it doesn’t seem like he’s wearing a mask when he interacts with 2/3rds of his court. It reads like he straight up hates them.

Okay, well maybe he wears the mask to protect Velaris from outsiders? No, that doesn’t make sense. Velaris was already hidden from the rest of Prythian. No one was going to discover it. The only reason it got discovered was because Rhysand made a gamble on telling the human queens about it and it backfired.

Fine, maybe he wears the mask around the other High Lords to seem more intimidating. That seems plausible, but I don’t understand why he would do that. Coming off that way means the other HLs will never want to ally with him (as we saw in ACOWAR). And if we’re being honest with ourselves, Rhysand’s actions while wearing his mask do not do him any favors with the other HLs. In all likelihood, he killed those Winter Court children (and no, I’m not taking arguments on this point. If this mysterious other daemati really did exist, why didn’t they out Feyre and Rhysand’s alliance UTM? That daemati may not have been able to get into Rhysand’s mind but they easily could have gotten into Feyre’s or Clare Beddor’s mind instead), he stole an ancestral artifact from the Summer Court when he could have just asked for it, he allowed his wife to burn the Lady of Autumn (I know Beron didn’t gaf about that but if we’re talking alliances, hurting Beron’s wife is a great way to make sure they never work together for the greater good), and he regularly gallivants around the Spring Court when he has NO BUSINESS being there. Sooo wearing the mask around the other HLs may make him more intimidating, but it hasn’t yielded him any positive results. If anything, his behavior should have alienated him more.

So then what’s the reason for Rhysand wearing a mask? Because I haven’t figured it out. He’s just… Wearing one for shits and giggles, I guess? (We all know the real reason he’s wearing that mask is so SJM can justify him sexually assaulting Feyre UTM and twisting her broken bone.)

Eris. Eris’s reason for wearing a mask is a lot less convoluted than Rhysand’s. If Eris doesn’t wear the mask, then Beron will kill him. It really is that simple. In the HL meeting, Feyre notes that when Eris spoke up, he chose his words very carefully, which clearly implied he was trying not to provoke his father. It was even confirmed in ACOSF that Beron tortures Eris. So if Eris doesn’t wear a mask, he gets murdered. The difference is that he doesn’t have the IC sucking him off and telling him what a good guy he is because he’s wearing a mask. Eris has nobody.

I also want to note the other MASSIVE DIFFERENCE between these two characters. Consequences.

Rhysand. This mf does not face any consequences for his actions. Ever. He steals an ancestral artifact from the Summer Court? Yes, he gets the blood rubies, but those are rescinded one book later. He barges into the Spring Court all the time (Specifically ACOTAR, but also ACOFAS and ACOSF) and Tamlin never whoops his ass for it even though he would have every right to. He locks Nesta up in a house with a man she DOES NOT WANT TO BE AROUND after he crucified Tamlin for doing the same thing to Feyre? He’s NEVER challenged on this. He straight up lies to Feyre about her life-threatening pregnancy and then has the entire IC lie to her as well, and that’s that. He’s never held accountable for those lies. He sexually assaults Feyre, defiles her body with paint (the thing she LOVES), and twists her broken bone when she’s likely already septic and what happens? Nothing. It’s never brought up again. He gets away with all of it.

Eris. Eris is a great example of talk shit, get hit. He makes some hateful ass comments to Mor at the HL meeting and what happens? Azriel beats the ever loving fuck out of him. He leaves Mor on the Autumn Court border (he did NOT nail the note to her womb, as a lot of this fandom likes to pretend) and the Night Court holds a grudge bigger than the state of Texas against him for it and they bring it up every single chance they get. Eris goes after Lucien and Feyre in ACOWAR when they (illegally) cut through the Autumn Court? He gets his shit clocked by Azriel and Cassian. If there is one thing about Eris that I like, it’s that while he may dish out a lot of shit, he can also take it.

So is it hypocritical to like Eris while hating Rhysand? I guess you could say that if you still believe they’re the same exact character, but I personally don’t think they are. I also wonder if the people who think it’s hypocritical to like Eris while hating Rhysand also think it’s hypocritical to hate Eris while loving Rhysand. Just some food for thought.