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salemrph · 4 months ago

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Show me I (Sylus x MC)

Summary: Sylus is driving you wild, and no matter how hard you try, nothing seems to ease the heat building inside you. After playing blackjack, you find yourself trapped in his control, where the line between teasing and desire disappears.

Character: MC x Sylus

Genre: explicit sexual content, provocative, soft

Pet names: Kitten, Sweetie, Love

Word count: 5,189 | Reading Time: 20 min | AO3

WARNINGS: mdni, fingering, biting, masturbation

Next - Show me II >>

This is my first explicit story. Hope you enjoy it.

A moan felt from your lips, is feels so good. Your body is heating up, you arch your back on the bed. Your hand is buried in the sheets. It's intoxicating—his scent lingers everywhere. In the silence of your room, your sighs fill the air. You can feel how wet your are. You hear his voice in your ear, resonating like an echo throughout your body.

You need more, more then what you're feeling now. One more finger slips inside you making you moan his name. You're sweating, you ajuste your position, flipping around, burying your nose in his shirt laying on your pillow. Again. There is the sweet spot.

"Please... Sylus" Only a thread of voice comes out of you, a prayer, begging.

His hands tracing imaginary patterns across your skin, his touch leaving a trail of heat in its wake. You hear his voice, low and seductive, in your mind, his breath hot against your skin.

"That's it, sweetheart. Take it. I want you to moan my name until you can't take it any longer."

You can imagine how he would look at you, his eyes darkened with lust, his lips curling up in a knowing smirk. You can feel his hands gripping your hips, holding you in place as he guides your movements. The idea of his words sends a shivers down your spine.

How would his finger feels pressing inside of you, the weight of him bearing down on you, holding your nipple? His mouth on your skin, his lips against yours, his teeth scrapping across your skin, marking you as his.

You take your vibrator between your legs, you don't need the vibration tonight, the sensation of having something hard in you is enough. You started with a slow pace but you're so wet, so hungry for him that you quickly change to violent thrust, hitting you g-spot. How would his cock feel, pulsing, twitching? God... is he also so big as your toy or more?

"Kitten" His voice would sound, guttural and rough, as he would moan your name in pleasure.

Everything tight up, your mouth goes dry, your nipple harder than ever, you feel the orgasm reach the pick and you let the pleasure wash over you in release.

"Sylus..." you whisper one more time. The toys, your hand and sheet are cover in your fluids. "Fuck..."

How many time have you fuck yourself thinking about this man? Coming undone with your hands or your vibrator, leaving a mess in your bed—and in your heart. The scent of his shirt, stolen from his closet, clings to you like a guilty pleasure, making you feel like a stalker. When did you become this needy?

You want to get closer to him, but you can’t bring yourself to take the game beyond playful flirting. Whenever it feels like too much, you deflect, change the subject, or find an excuse to pull away. But it’s getting harder to resist. Night after night, he’s all you can think about.

You search for your panties, tossed somewhere on the bed in the haze of release. Still catching your breath, you rise and head to the bathroom, half-naked, to clean up the mess.

You step into the shower, hoping the warm water will help you settle down. The steam wraps around you as you stand under the stream, letting it run over your skin. Your body wants more. It craves something real, something that no amount of teasing thoughts or fantasies can satisfy. You lean your forehead against the cool tiles, trying to clear your mind, but it’s useless. Every time you close your eyes, it’s him—his voice, his touch, the way he’d look at you just before… You swallow hard, shaking your head, but the heat rising in your chest doesn’t fade.

Your body feels restless, it’s begging for more, and nothing you do is enough. The ache is real, almost frustrating. You feel ridiculous, standing here, wanting him like this, but the thought of him is all you can hold onto. And it’s driving you crazy.

The worst part? You’re staying at his place. Not just any place—his place. And you didn’t even have the decency to keep your restless thoughts in check. Instead, you gave in, right here in the guest room. You brought the vibrator just in case, but you didn't think you were going to use it.

Now, standing in the shower, the reality of what you’ve done crashes over you. The thought of being just a few doors away from him while you… God, what if he knew? What if he heard? You feel a flush creep up your neck, but it’s not from the hot water

What have I done? He would never come into my room without asking permission, would he?

No. Sylus was many things, but someone who crossed boundaries without permission? That... yeah, it his style. But still… you can’t shake the nagging doubt.

The image of his smirk flashes in your mind, and your stomach twists. If he knew, he wouldn’t just ignore it—he’d use it against you. Not cruelly, but in that way he has, turning everything into a game, making you stumble just to see if you’ll catch yourself.

You press your hands to your face, letting the water run over your fingertips. Stop overthinking. But it’s impossible when you’re in his space, surrounded by his presence, his scent, his everything.

You step out of the shower, the steam clinging to your skin as you wrap yourself in a towel. Padding softly to your bag, you pull out a fresh pair of everything—underwear, shorts, a loose t-shirt—and slip them on, the cool fabric a small comfort against your overheated thoughts.

The evidence of your restless night—the shirt you shamelessly swiped from his closet and the vibrator you couldn’t resist using—gets shoved deep into your bag. Out of sight, out of mind... or so you tell yourself.

You glance at the clock: 3 a.m. Perfect. Just enough time to stew in your self-inflicted insomnia.

Climbing back into bed, the sheets feel colder, the silence louder. Your mind refuses to settle, replaying every moment, every sound from earlier. You shift restlessly, willing sleep to take over, but it’s no use. Now you’re stuck, wide awake, staring at the ceiling and thinking of him. Of course.

You toss and turn, the sheets twisting uncomfortably around you. Frustration bubbles up as sleep evades you entirely. With a sigh, you sit up, grab a sweater from the back of a chair, and pull it on.

The house is creepily silent, the kind of quiet that feels heavy, pressing against your ears. You pause for a moment, listening for any signs of life. Has Sylus left? Is he in his room? You don’t hear a thing, and it doesn’t matter. Right now, you just need a breath of fresh air to clear your restless mind.

You wander aimlessly through the quiet hallways, the cool floor beneath your bare feet grounding you slightly. The thought of stepping outside without shoes makes you hesitate, so you continue pacing, hoping to find some semblance of calm.

The silence wraps around you like a blanket, but it’s quickly broken by a faint fluttering sound behind you. You freeze mid-step, a familiar presence prickling at the edge of your senses.

Not even two minutes have passed, and the crow is already following you. You turn your head slightly, catching the unmistakable glint of black feathers in the dim light. The bird perches silently on your shoulder.

"Really?" you mutter under your breath, crossing your arms. "Can’t a girl have a moment alone?"

Mephisto caw, of course, but you swear its head tilts just slightly, as if mocking your question.

"Fine..." You continue your way down the hall, the sense of restlessness grows within you, pushing you toward the one place that always offers some semblance of peace: the music room.

You reach the door, its heavy wood standing like a barrier between the silence of the house and the world you’re trying to escape. You push it open, stepping inside. The air is thick with the smell of aged wood and leather. The room feels different from the rest of the mansion—more alive, somehow. It’s Sylus’s private music library, a sanctuary filled with vintage records, all arranged with meticulous care.

The world slows down here, and you can breathe without the weight of questions pressing on your chest. You move closer to the shelves, your fingers grazing the edges of the records. Maybe you can find something to ease the tension, something to distract you from the chaos inside your heart.

Mephisto has perched himself on the arm of the chair nearby, you pull a record off the shelf at random. The cover is pretty without thinking too much, you slip the record onto the turntable, setting the needle in place. The faint crackle of the vinyl fills the air before smooth, cozy jazz begins to play, its mellow tones weaving a subtle warmth around the room. The sound wraps around you like a gentle hug.

You sink into the sofa, letting the smooth jazz fill the room and take the edge off your restless thoughts. The soft rhythm seeps into your chest, steady and comforting, grounding you in the moment. The warm glow of the room feels smaller, cozier, like a little bubble away from the world. For a second, it works. For a second, you let yourself breathe. But then your mind wanders, and the peace slips through your fingers.

How may moments you had with Sylus, where the tension between was unbearable? His finger moving softly under your chin forcing you to meet that piercing gaze of his. The other hand moving from your hip to your back.

The memory is enough to send a shiver through you, the same tightness blooming in your chest, the heat rising again. You whisper his name into the quiet, barely a sound, but it still feels too loud. Curling up on the couch, you press your knees to your chest, as if it’ll somehow contain the ache that’s spreading through you.

"I hope my name is the only one you pronounce like that, kitten."

You freeze at the sound of his voice, low and teasing, cutting through the music like a blade. Slowly, you look up, your pulse hammering in your chest. Sylus leans casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, his smirk sharper than ever. You sit up.

You feel your face heat up instantly. How long had he been standing there?

"I didn’t—" you start, but the words falter. What could you even say? Deny it? Explain it away?

Sylus steps into the room, his movements slow and deliberate, like a predator closing in on its prey. "Relax," he says, his tone light but laced with that unmistakable edge. "I don’t mind being in your little head... especially if I’m keeping you awake."

Your heart skips as he stops a few steps away, looking down at you with that infuriating, unreadable expression.

"I... wasn't thinking about you" you mumble, your voice barely audible over the music.

"If you say so" he replies, his smirk deepening as he tilts his head.

Sylus closes the distance between you. He stops in front of you, his hand brushing a stray lock of hair away from your face. The touch is light, almost gentle, but it sends a jolt through your entire body.

"You look awfully tense," he murmurs, his voice dipping into a velvety softness. His fingers trail down, tracing the line of your jaw before lifting your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes.

The intensity in his gaze steals your breath, every teasing word now layered with something much heavier, much darker. He leans down, close enough that you can feel the faint warmth of his breath against your lips.

"Tell me, kitten," he whispers, his tone impossibly smooth, "what exactly were you thinking about when you said my name like that?"

Your heart pounds so hard you’re sure he can hear it. His other hand moves, settling on the armrest of the couch, caging you in without ever touching you fully. The air between you is thick, charged with an electric tension that has you struggling to find your voice.

"I..." The words catch in your throat. Sylus doesn’t wait. His lips curve into a slow, knowing smirk.

"How about we play a little game?" he says, sitting down next to you.

You look at him, confused. "If you win, you can ask me to do whatever you want..."

A shiver runs down your spine. Your mind wanders to what that "whatever" could mean, and the thought of his lips on yours or his hands roaming your body makes your cheeks flush and you panties wet. Fuck. Playing games with Sylus is dangerous. It’s like making a deal with the devil. He looks at you intently, his gaze unwavering, and you swallow hard. Curiosity killed the cat, but despite knowing better, you ask anyway.

"What if I lose?"

Sylus chuckles softly, his voice laced with amusement.

"Then you do whatever I want, sweetie" he replies, his smirk widening. You tense for a moment. "Like going to bed so you can finally get some sleep." Your eyes dart around the room, trying to decide if this is a good idea.

"What game?" you ask finally, your curiosity winning out.

"I let you choose" he says, his tone casual but his expression far from innocent. It doesn’t guarantee victory, but at least it’s a starting point.

"And...?"

"Deal"

Well, you just sold your soul. Now you need to pick something that gives you even a shred of a chance. Sylus is good at nearly everything. You don't feel like playing Kitty Cards right now. You sigh, racking your brain for options. Luck might be your best bet. If you can’t outskill him, maybe you can outplay him. You need to play dirty at this, if you want to win.

"Black Jack" you declare, a sly smile forming on your lips.

Sylus raises an eyebrow, clearly amused by your choice.

"As you wish," he says smoothly. Then, with an almost imperceptible glint in his eye, he adds, "I’ll call Luke and Kieran to deal for us."

It doesn’t take long before the table is set and the twins are in position, ready to play their role. Sylus, ever the gentleman when it suits him, guides you to your seat with a hand resting lightly on the small of your back.

You glance nervously at the cards and then at Sylus, who’s already settled in across from you, exuding his usual confidence. His eyes meet yours, and that devilish smirk reappears. "Ready, sweetie? Or are you already regretting this?"

"I've been born ready" you declare, exuding confidence as you sit down.

The rules are set: five rounds, with three wins needed to claim the prize. It feels fair, or at least as fair as any deal with Sylus could be.

The game begins, and each round feels like an eternity. Cards are dealt, your mind races, and every decision is accompanied by a bead of sweat forming on your forehead. Sylus, of course, looks completely unbothered, his smirk never faltering.

Despite your efforts—despite every ounce of strategy, luck, and sheer will—you lose.

Sylus leans back in his chair, arms crossed, his expression smug. "Well, kitten, I think we both know what that means."

As Sylus looks at the twins, they vanish without a word, leaving the room in eerie silence. He strides over to you with purpose, and before you can react, his hand grabs your arm.

"Wait—" you start, but the protest dies in your throat as Sylus effortlessly hoists you over his shoulder like you weigh nothing. You squirming against his hold.

He laughs, the sound deep and infuriatingly smug. He carries you through the halls, ignoring your attempts to wriggle free, until he reaches his room. The door shuts behind him with a soft click locking the room, he sets you down gently in the center of his bed.

"What are you doing?" you ask, your voice shaky. Sylus smirks as he steps back, his hands moving to his shirt.

"It is not obvious? Claiming my prize" Your eyes widen as he pulls the shirt over his head, revealing his perfectly sculpted abs. No matter how many times you've seen them, the sight still makes your brain short-circuit. You try to look away, your face heating. A moment later, the bed shifts as Sylus lies down beside you. You turn onto your side, giving him your back, putting distance. You can´t look at him, not right now, when you feel that your whole body is burning in desire.

"Why are you hiding, kitten?"

"I- I'm not" you stammer, your voice betraying you. Sylus chuckles, pulling you closer until your back is pressed against his chest. His arms wrap around you, strong and secure, and he buries his nose in the curve of your neck.

"Yes, you are" he murmurs, his voice vibrating through you.

You swallow hard, your pulse thundering in your ears. "J-Just tell me what I need to do," you manage, barely above a whisper.

"I want you to show me something" Sylus says, his voice low and dripping with intent.

You blink, confused, your mind racing to catch up. But before you can ask what he means, you feel it—his nose brushing along, the warmth of his breath ghosting over your skin. Then comes the slow, deliberate drag of his tongue, sending a shiver down your spine.

"I think" his tone laced with amusement and far darker, "a naughty kitten was calling for me during her... private session."

His words are a sharp contrast to the gentle press of his lips against your pulse, and it feels like the air has been sucked out of the room. Your entire body tenses, heat flooding your face as realization slams into you like a tidal wave. Oh god! He heard you. Of course, he did. You made a terrible mistake, letting yourself get lost in your desires, thinking you were alone.

"I don’t know what you mean" you stammer, your voice shaky, unconvincing even to your own ears.

Sylus laughs softly, the sound more dangerous than comforting. "You don’t? Maybe I can help you replay how you sounded..."

Before you can respond, his teeth graze your neck, sharp and deliberate, before biting down just enough to make you gasp. The sharp sensation sparks through your body, your heart pounding like a drum in your chest. Trapped in his hold, you feel completely at his mercy, and yet, every nerve in your body screams for more.

Sylus hums against your neck, the sound deep, amused, and entirely unhurried. "It’s still not enough" he murmured, his tone wickedly smooth, as if coaxing a confession from you.

You squirm in his grip. His teeth scrape against your skin, his grip tightening around you just enough to make your breath hitch. Your body betrays you, responding to the intoxicating mix of dominance and teasing. Before you can stop it, a small, high whimper escapes your lips.

Sylus stills for a moment, and then you feel his smirk against your neck. "There it is" he says softly, the satisfaction in his voice unmistakable. "Now... a deal is a deal. Show me what were you doing earlier." He press himself against you, you feel it. That's definitely not his phone.

Your face burns as you twist to look at him. "Were you spying on me?"

His smirk deepens, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "Oh no, kitten. I’d never do such a thing." He leans closer. "I just wanted to make sure you were asleep and... I heard it through the door."

"How?" you demand, your embarrassment threatening to consume you.

He grins, sharp and taunting. "I have good hearing." he says, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

Sylus shifts with deliberate ease, he maneuvers you onto your back, his body following closely. His arms cage you in, his legs bracketing yours, trapping you beneath him. Your jaw tightens as you glare at him, but it only seems to amuse him more. Sylus tilts his head, studying you like a predator does its prey.

"Don’t look so embarrassed" he says, his voice laced with mock sympathy. "You sounded... exquisite." You cover your face with your hands, groaning.

Sylus chuckles, his hand sliding down your arm to gently pull your hands away. His grip is firm but not forceful, his fingers brushing against your wrist as he brings your face back into view. He counters smoothly, leaning in closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "Now, kitten... show me." He nips lightly at your earlobe, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin. His other hand slides up your leg.

You mind is spinning, you've been wanting this for a long time, every night, every day you spend with him. And now that he's noticed you, that he's created the perfect scenario. You click your tongue, frustrated with yourself, hating the cowardice you feel.

"I'll... do it" Sylus moves away, he looks a bit surprised over the words, but then his smiles returns and his expression change to a mix lust and possessiveness.

"Mmm, good girl," he purrs. He kneels back, giving you space.

You move to the top of the bed, positioning yourself against the pillows, your body halfway between sitting and lying down. Sylus watches your every move intently. His eyes follow the curve of your body, taking in the sight of you slowly, unhurriedly, getting comfortable.

Your hands disappear beneath the waistband of your shorts, out of his view, you fix your eyes on him, meeting his gaze, your own filled with a mixture of nervousness and desire. He watches you intently, his eyes never leaving your face as your hand moves slowly. You never thought your first time with him would be like this—a voyeuristic experience. This wasn’t just about him seeing you—it was about you letting him see. And the power in that, the sheer intimacy of it, made your pulse race even faster.

Fuck it! I'm giving him the show of his life.

His breathing is heavier, deeper, as he watches your facial expressions, as he sees the pleasure cross your features. You moan, your breath becoming heavier, send a jolt straight through him. His intense gaze flickers to your other hand as it disappears beneath your shirt. His lips part slightly, and though he doesn’t say a word, you know he’s imagining exactly what you’re doing. His hunger is palpable, his eyes darker, his breathing heavier, but he stays rooted in place, letting you show him everything.

You can feel the need growing within you, a burning desire that begs to be satisfied. You slide your hand down further, your finger slipping beneath the fabric of your panties seeking for relief. You're so goddamn wet. As you arch your back, your eyes closing momentarily, Sylus groans lowly. You increase the pace, your breath coming in quick, sharp gasps as you work yourself closer and closer to the edge.

As you get lost briefly in the pleasure, you forget for a moment that he is there, watching you with a hot, possessive gaze.

His body tenses and tremors as he tries to deal with the erection straining against his slacks. The sound of your whimpers is making him lose everything, he wants you, wants to touch you, to taste you, to possess you utterly. He can smell your arousal, his body coiled like a panther waiting to pounce. But he resists the urge instead, Sylus leans forward, moving slowly next to you, his face is now just a breath away from yours. His perfume surrounds you, filling your nose, you want him so bad. The desire burning in your stomach is even stronger now than it was when you were touching yourself just hours ago.

"Come for me," he whispers, his voice a low, silken murmur.

"Sylus..." You can't help but say his name. You don't want this moment to end—you don't want to come. Staying like this, feels so damn right it consumes you.

"Come for me," he repeats. "Let go... I want to see you come undone."

You're so close, so close to tipping over the edge, and he's there, waiting, watching.

"I don't know if I can..." you whine, your voice trembling with the effort of holding back.

"May I help you?" his voice low and seductive.

At this point, your body is burning with need, every nerve begging for him. You nod, unable to resist the pull anymore. Sylus tilts your chin toward him, his lips crashing onto yours in a deep, messy kiss that makes you feel dizzy with desire. A desperate moan slips from your lips as his kiss intensifies. Every movement, every brush of his tongue, sends waves of pleasure coursing through you. Sylus's kiss is all-consuming. You abandon what you were doing, your hands going to his shoulders, holding on to him tightly.

He breaks the kiss, his breath hot on your skin as he moves down to your neck, kissing and nipping at the sensitive skin.

He move you effortlessly, sitting you between his legs, your back resting against his bare chest. With quick, practiced movements, he pulls down your shorts and underwear, you lift your hips slightly to help. His hand spreads your legs and you give him full access to your body.

The touch of his hands against your skin, as they run up your legs, leaves a trail of fire in its wake. He pauses, resting on your inner thighs, gently rubbing and squeezing the sensitive flesh. He kisses your shoulder after that his lips leaves open-mouthed kisses and bites on your neck.

"Sylus... please" you whine.

He groans in response, his body tensing against yours. He can feel the pleading in your voice, the need that mirrors his own. You take his hand, guiding it up to your wetness, wanting, no, needing him to touch you, to give you what you desire so badly since you know him.

"So needy, aren't we?" he growls into your ear.

He teases you, moving around your opening, his touch light and almost taunting. Then, one finger finds your warmth, and you gasp aloud at the sensation. "So ready for me" his voice low and sultry. His finger moves in a slow, circular motion, building the tension, driving you insane. You move your hips against his hand, trying to get more contact.

"You're so eager" his free hand coming up to grip your hip, holding you in place. He speeds up the motion adding pressure and friction. "I guess you can take another finger" Without waiting for an answer, a second finger is added, stretching you further and eliciting a gasp of both pain and pleasure. You let your head fall back on his shoulder. Opening more of your legs.

"D- Don't stop"

His finger curls inside you, deliberate and skilled, seeking out that sweet spot that leaves you breathless. When he finds it, a sharp wave of pleasure courses through you, stronger than anything you’d ever imagined. Your body arches involuntarily, pressing into his touch as a moan slips out of you.

"There it's" he purrs.

Each movement of his hand is precise, teasing you closer and closer to the edge without letting you fall. His thumb brushes over your clit in a perfect rhythm, amplifying the sensation until you’re gasping for air.

"Sylus..." you whimper, unable to form a coherent thought beyond the exquisite feeling of him inside you, even if it’s just his finger. You hold on to his legs, your fingers sinking into the fabric of his pants as you try to hold on.

"That's it" he murmurs, his voice thick with hunger. "Claw at me. Mark me."

When he presses against that favourite spot again, your entire body tenses, a sharp cry escaping you.

"S- Sylus... I'm... close..." your words are a pleading gasp, your body trembling as you teeter on the edge.

He smirks, his pace unwavering, his dark red eyes locked onto your face. He feels you tightening around his fingers, senses the way your body is begging for release.

"Be a good girl," he growls, low and commanding, "and come on my hand."

You can feel the pressure building within you, the tension ratcheting higher and higher. Every touch, every whisper from Sylus, fuels the fire consuming you. You're so close now, teetering on the edge, at this point you're just whimpers. His other hand slides beneath your shirt, his fingers expertly teasing and pinching your nipple, sending sharp jolts of pleasure straight to your core.

He whispers in your ear, his voice a low, sultry command. "Let go, love. Come for me."

Your mouth goes dry as you try to catch up your breath, every nerve of your body alight with the intensity of the moment. You can barely breathe, your chest heaving as you try to cling to some semblance of control. But his voice, paired with the relentless rhythm of his fingers and the possessive way his body surrounds yours, is too much.

A broken cry tears from your throat as the tension finally snaps. Your body shuddering uncontrollably as waves of pleasure crash over you, leaving you trembling and undone. Sylus keeps his hand on you, his fingers still inside, coaxing every last ripple of your release.

When your breathing begins to steady, he finally withdraws his fingers, leaving you with a sharp pang of emptiness that only deepens the need swirling in your chest. His face is buried in your neck, his breath hot on your skin.

"That was the most fucking cute whimper I've ever heard"

Before you can even think of a reply, Sylus turns you in his grip, his lips crashing against yours. The kiss is fierce and consuming, all teeth and passion, his possessiveness pouring out in every movement. His hand tangles in your hair as he claims you completely, his body pressing into yours as if he can’t bear to be apart for even a moment.

The fabric of your shirt became a frustrating barrier to his touch, his impatient evident in the way his fingers trace along it, desperate to feel your skin "I want you" he growls into your skin, his voice rough with need.

"I think you had claim your prize already" you manage to say, voice shaky.

Sylus laughs, the sound dark and knowing. "Technically, you didn’t fulfill your part of the deal. So…" he says, the amusement clear in his tone. You feel him press his hard dick against your back, making your body heat up again. His hands tighten around your waist as he looks down at you with that trademark smirk. "...I want you instead."

Next Part >

#love and deepspace #sylus #love and deepspace sylus #lads sylus #lads #sylus love and deepspace #lnds sylus #sylus x reader #sylus x you #lads x reader #sylus smut #love and deepspace smut #sylus fanfiction #sylus x y/n #sylus x mc #l&ds sylus #sylus fic

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another-lost-mc · 2 years ago

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For Your Ears Only: When MC sends them audio porn

Featuring: The Demon Brothers x gn!Reader

NSFW // Content: Explicit smut. Mentions of sex toys, masturbation, sexting (audio/photos), oral sex (m! and gn!reader receiving), teasing, light dom/sub undertones, consensual recording of sex acts, penetrative sex, phone sex, mutual masturbation, pet names, praise kink, sex acts/masturbation in semi-public spaces, strip tease, oral fixation, cum eating, creampie, overstimulation, light degradation, dream sex, consensual somnophilia. 4.4k words.

For Your Ears Only series: Part II (the Dateables + Side Characters)

You: for your ears only 😘 ▶️ Attachment: missingyou.mp3

You relax into the mattress with a sigh and let the D.D.D. slide from your grip onto the sheets. Your breathing is finally back to normal, and you swallow thickly as nerves and lust and a hint of embarrassment wash over you. You’ve sent your lover dirty texts and teasing photos before, but this was different. You sent the audio clip—roughly two minutes' long—without listening to it first; you were worried that if you did, you might lose your nerve and scrap the whole idea.

Curiosity gets the better of you, and you finally listen to it yourself. The quality is impressive and better than you expected since you’ve never tried making something like this in the past. (You're slightly aroused listening to yourself too, so you can only imagine what their reaction will be.).

Thanks to some careful planning beforehand, your soft sounds and whimpers and curses are crystal-clear without any background ambient noises. The toy you used squelched obscenely with lube and cum as you moved it against and inside your body. The recording even picked up the faint sounds of your squeaky mattress creaking under your weight when you came so hard, your trembling body shook the bed.

You still feel an inkling of desire not yet sated, and you resist the urge to reach for your toy again. You squirm imagining your lover storming through the door and finding you like this, or maybe they’ll call you and you can listen to them get off too? You rub your thighs together as your body tingles with all the possibilities.

Your glance at the phone in your hand and ponder what to do while you wait for a response.

LUCIFER // a test of patience

Lucifer puts his phone to his ear, and after a few moments of staticky silence, he finally hears you. He's memorized all your sounds, having drawn them from your body so often by now, and he can perfectly imagine the way your body moved as your fucked yourself with your toy. He wonders which toy you used—he gifted you several in your collection— and whether you did this in your bed or his.

It's only his sheer stubbornness and force of will that keeps him on the RAD campus, instead of abandoning his responsibilities to rush to you.

When he returns home, you notice that he seems mostly like himself, and maybe if you didn't know him that well, the subtle changes would escape you. His eyes are darker when he looks at you, and he finds silly excuses to touch you: a hand on your shoulder as he passes you at the dinner table, pretending to pull a stray piece of fluff off your shirt. He leans closer to you when he speaks to you, pressing his chest against your back while he murmurs quietly in your ear. His lips brush against you when he speaks, and you can feel him smile against your skin when you shudder.

You understand that this has turned into some kind of game. He’s teasing you and testing your reactions, and you know he’s waiting for you to break first. You refuse, no matter how much you might want to, and neither of you bring up the recording you sent him earlier.

He finally seeks you out in the library after dinner. "Come to my room in thirty minutes," he says quietly when he cups your cheek with his gloved hand. He brushes his thumb across your bottom lip. "Such a lovely gift deserves a reward."

When you stand up and try to follow him immediately, he looks at you sternly and it freezes you in place.

"I've been patient all day," he reminds you with a gentle rebuke, "so I think you can wait a little longer, too."

His footsteps echo down the hall as he walks away from the library. You try to focus on your book, but you keep re-reading the same passage and your eyes dart impatiently to the clock across the room. Time passes so slowly, and by the time you’ve waited half an hour like he asked, you’re nearly vibrating with anticipation and the inside of your underwear is damp with your arousal.

You knock on his bedroom door and slip inside. The room is dark, but you can see Lucifer sitting on the bed with his legs crossed. Candlelight from the mantle flickers across his skin and bathes him in wispy shadows and his deep, red eyes glow as he stares at you. You might’ve started this game between you, but his hungry smirk tells you what you both know: you’ve lost, and he’s won.

He pats something next to him on the bed, and you nearly gasp in surprise when you realize he fetched the toy you used earlier from your room. How did he know which one—?

“I was so impressed by your gift earlier, and I was hoping for a repeat performance," he murmurs casually, ignoring your shocked expression.

It’s not that you don’t want to, but his request catches you off-guard. He stands from the bed and reaches for the hem of your shirt so he can tug it over your head and toss it aside. His eyes roam your bare skin and you melt into him when he pulls you flush against his chest. Your nipples harden against the fabric of his shirt, and you shiver in his arms when he kisses your jaw.

“Unless you don’t want to?” he asks quietly. He pulls back and tries to read your expression—he can sense your hesitation, and no matter what he might want, he would never dream of forcing you to do something you’re uncomfortable with.

“I’d rather have your cock instead,” you admit, and it comes out as a needy whine that makes your cheeks warm.

It’s a brutally honest honest answer, but you’re not capable of anything else: Lucifer wants your honesty, and you’re so riled up from his subtle teasing this evening that you can’t seem to filter your thoughts.

“Perhaps I can give you a little taste for motivation, hm?” he drawls, and his gloved thumb runs along your bottom lip. His eyes glitter wickedly when you lower yourself to your knees and reach for his belt.

He fishes something out of his pocket as you undo his fly, and you realize it’s his phone. “Let’s see how beautiful you sound with your lips around my cock. I would love to see how it compares to your solo performance,” he admits quietly, and you can hear the eagerness in his rough voice.

You nod slowly to give him permission, and his eyes glitter with wicked excitement. He taps the Record button on the screen just before you swallow him down and moan greedily at his taste.

MAMMON // doesn’t care how, he wants you now

It doesn’t matter where Mammon is—the club, the casino, a photo shoot—as soon as he starts listening to that recording you sent him, he’s already abandoning his plans so he can come to you. He bites his lip to keep himself from groaning your name, unless he’s somewhere noisy where his frustrated exclamations will go unnoticed.

(Fuckin’ hell, baby, you’re so fuckin’ hot—)

He doesn’t even have to listen to the full thing, either. When the first soft moan falls from your lips, his cock is already stirring in his pants. He rushes to his car and speeds home, playing the recording on repeat over and over until he can see you.

He’s never felt so desperate, but he’s greedy for more of you, all of you. All your little whimpers and sighs, and the obscene squelching sounds as you fuck yourself and beg for him—they’re all his.

He rushes through the front door, gliding past your bedroom and marching straight to his own. When he opens the door, the scent of your arousal and cum makes him stagger in the doorway like he's intoxicated by you. You’re naked and writhing on his bed, thrusting the toy in and out of your greedy hole, while you whimper his name. The wet noises your body makes are even more visceral in person, and he can’t wait anymore.

He rips open his belt and tugs his pants down enough to pull out his cock. He crawls onto the bed and kneels between your legs. He stares at the toy that disappears in and out of your body. Your skin is wet with cum and lube and you sound so hot and you smell so fucking good.

He wraps his hand around yours so he can move the toy with you, and it's a little faster and deeper than you managed on your own. You’re so close and you don’t want to stop, but Mammon stares at you with his mouth hanging open and it's almost enough to undo you and he's barely touched you.

“I’m so close,” you whine. His eyes glow like molten gold as he moves his hand a little faster, grinding the toy inside you and brushing against that soft, spongy spot that makes your whole body tremble.

“Yeah, c’mon babe, lemme hear you,” he pleads, and he doesn't care how desperate he sounds because he wouldn't trade this for all the fuckin' grimm in the world.

His bed frame rattles when you come with a hoarse cry. He teases you through the aftershocks until you whine try to clench your thighs shut around his hand. He finally lets the toy slip from your greedy hole, and he tosses it aside so he can kneel between your legs instead. Your legs are still shaking, and he guides them to rest on his hips.

“Ready, babe? Nice and stretched for my cock?” he groans as he teases your entrance with the head of his cock.

You nod and roll your hips to encourage him, and you both moan against each other's mouths when he finally plunges inside you and claims your body for himself.

LEVIATHAN // dirty little secrets

Leviathan isn’t a stranger to porn. He pretends he doesn’t have a collection of videos and adult games with characters that look suspiciously like you, and you pretend you don’t know he has them. He doesn’t really need them anymore, and he’s slowly replacing his collection with videos and photos of you instead: you're the real deal, the attractive-as-hell human that wastes their time with him for reasons he’ll never fully understand.

There are nights when you can’t be together, like tonight—he doesn’t want to keep you awake with the all-night gaming event he's taking part in. You reassure him that it's okay and you understand, but you go to your room and lay in bed, thinking about him and missing him. You send him your little gift anticipating he'll listen to it at some point tonight before you fall asleep.

When his guild calls for a break, he listens to the recording through his gaming headset and he’s hard almost instantly. His body burns with embarrassment, and he hates how desperate he feels when he scrambles to pull down his pants and palm his weeping cock. Your first whimper of his name makes him whine.

He fumbles with his phone so he can call you, and you answer almost immediately. He groans when he hears the familiar sound of your creaky bed springs in the background as you continue touching yourself without him.

“My greedy little boy,” you coo breathlessly in his ear when you answer his call. “D’you want more already?”

He nods even though you can’t see, and his throat bobs when he swallows around the lump in his throat. “Yeah, fuck, you sound so good—“ he trails off into a long moan.

He doesn’t even realize he’s stroking his cock in time with the wet, slick thrusts of the toy plunging in and out of your hole. He knows how shameful and pathetic and weak he is, but he's so fucking hard and needy for you that he can't bring himself to care. “Wanna come, make me come, please, I want you so bad—” he babbles in your ear.

Your airy chuckle is punctuated by your own whimpers and moans. “Come for me, baby, let me hear you come too.”

Those words trigger his own release, and he bites his lips to muffle the shout as his cock shoots thick ropes of sticky release up his belly. He keeps going, hips jerking from the sensitivity, until you groan out his name and all the other noises on your end of the call go silent.

“How d’you feel, baby?” you murmur in his ear when his breathing calms down. “Did you make a mess for me?”

He winces at the mess covering his shirt and his hand. “Y-yeah, it’s…a lot.” He sounds so uncertain. He's doubtful that you like how out of control he is when he's with you, and he wonders if his desperation is what might eventually drive you away from him.

“Send me a picture of how sloppy you are, then clean up and go play your game.” The call disconnects and he scrambles to do as you ask. He sends you a photo of his cum-soaked shirt, his sticky, wet pelvis, and his half-hard cock resting against his thigh.

He worries that you might be disappointed when he hits Send. His phone pings with a reply, and he sighs with relief as your praise warms him though and he basks in your love and approval.

You: Good boy.

SATAN // self-care

Satan has a bad habit of overworking himself and denying that he does it. He spends long nights hunched over the desk in the library while he studies, or he holes up in his room when he reads.

Today, he skipped lunch at RAD and now he’s shrugging off dinner, too. He gives you a weak excuse about needing to study some more. You want to be supportive, but he needs a break. You know that if he were in your position, he'd be saying the same thing to you.

You go to your room and think about how lonely it's been without him these past couple days. You lay back on your bed with a satisfied hum and hope your little surprise entices him to finally indulge in some much-needed self-care.

It doesn’t take long before he knocks on your door and lets himself inside. He’s panting like he just ran down the stairs from his room. The front of his pants are tented and you can’t help the breathy laughter that bubbles out of you when you imagine him rushing through the house looking like that.

“Oh, you think this is funny, do you? You little tease—“ his words are pointed but his tone is playful. He tries to smother a wicked grin when he steps to the edge of your bed; he admires the sheen of sweat glistening on your skin, the discarded toy still slicked with lube and traces of your release, and your half-lidded, bright eyes that promise him more.

You reach for him and run your hand over the outline of his cock and you smile when his hips buck towards you. You’ll give him anything he wants as a reward for finally listening to you, and he knows it. He asks you to swing your legs over the edge of the bed, and he kneels on the rug and pushes your thighs apart. His tongue licks long, slow stripes against your tacky skin and he moans when you run your fingers through his hair.

He unbuckles his belt and slips his cock free so he can jerk off while he chases the taste of your cum that still stains your skin. All your little noises sound so perfect even when he’s buried between your legs. He cleans up the mess you made of yourself while he makes one of his own.

By the time you whimper and tug at his hair from the sensitivity of coming more than once under his sinful mouth, he’s hard again and ready to fuck you properly.

ASMODEUS // a game for two

Asmodeus adores these little games you play together. He’ll send you a picture, you send him one back that’s just as naughty. It’s a nice way to build anticipation throughout the long, boring days when he can't sneak you away for some alone time.

Most of the time, it's not a problem. He’s the Avatar of Lust—he knows how to keep some semblance of self-control. Or he did, until he made the mistake of listening to that video you sent him between classes. He’s stuck at RAD while you’re waiting for him at home. He knows his options: he can skip class and go home where he knows you're waiting. Or, he can give you a taste of what you want and let the excitement simmer until later when desire finally boils over.

Being a student council officer has its perks. Asmo can walk into an unused office in a quiet part of the building without being hassled. He can lock the door and hop onto the edge of the large desk without being lectured about propriety or manners.

He lets your recording play on loop while he switches to the camera app on his phone. It's not loud enough to draw too much attention from outside, but he can still hear each lovely sound you make; they send little jolts of pleasure shooting down his spine.

He leans back on one hand while he takes a photo and sends it to you.

Asmodeus: Like what you see, darling?

His grin sharpens and becomes more feral with each new picture he sends you. In the first photo, the collar of his uniform is unbuttoned and the shirt hangs loose across the top of his chest. In the next, his uniform jacket is gone and his shirt is completely unbuttoned; he makes sure you can see how his nipples hardened in the cool classroom air. The third photo is focused on his lower belly and the outline of his cock straining against the zipper of his slacks.

He waits for your enthusiastic response before he unzips his fly and tugs his boxer briefs down. In the next photo, his hand is wrapped around his cock, and you can just see the tip that's trickling a stream of pre-cum onto his fingers.

You send him a new picture—your hand between your legs, mid-stroke along the edge of your arousal—and he starts jerking himself off too. Fuck it. He's too impatient to stave off his desire for you any longer, but it's so hot that he knows you're doing this together.

After he comes, he sucks one of his sticky fingers into his mouth and sends you one last picture; he bites his lip and stares when you send him a picture of yourself doing the same.

BEELZEBUB // impulse control

Beelzebub struggles with his insatiable appetite. If there's something he wants, he’s willing to rampage through the Devildom to get it. You’re careful about timing the little treats you send him to whet his appetite for you. When you send Beel something teasing or provocative, it’s not about driving him into an uncontrollable rampage (you’ve already learned that lesson)—it's about showing him how much you love him and miss him and want him. (And to keep him from getting too distracted by food on his way to see you.)

He doesn’t usually skip meals, especially after Fangol practice, but tonight he walks past the dining room to your bedroom door. After he lets himself in and locks it, he stares at your naked body laid across the bed. The musky scent in the air from your earlier activities makes his mouth water. He starts drooling from the corner of his mouth; he’s too distracted to notice, and you’re too enamored to care.

You make room for him between your legs, and his large, warm hands wrap around your ankles. He tickles you gently and glides his hands up your calves and over your knees. He rubs his hands over your soft, fleshy thighs; he spreads them apart even more while his gaze lingers on the glistening skin between your legs. He salivates even more at the sight of lube and slick and cum on your toy, and he licks his lips.

The only message he sent you after he listened to your recording was a request to keep your toy the way it is. It's beside you on the bed, and his eyes darken with lust and hunger when he sees that you did as he asked. He picks it up and examines it; it's not nearly as girthy as he is, but it's still an impressive size. He makes a show of licking it clean, and after a few greedy swipes of his tongue, you’re squirming with desire rather than embarrassment.

He hums and groans at your taste, but it's not enough. He swipes at the sticky mess between your legs with his fingers and sucks them into his mouth. He makes an impatient noise in the back of his throat when his fingers are clean and he's still hungry for more.

He lowers his head so his mouth can finish what his fingers started, and he shifts your legs onto his shoulders while he sucks on your arousal and flicks his tongue against your entrance. He stretches you with his thick fingers while your thighs tighten around his head and keep him in place. He finally raises his head when you tug at his hair and beg for him; you feel so empty and he's the only one that can fill you the way you want.

He watches his cock sink into you, and he finally fucks you with powerful, deep strokes that shake the bed. He holds onto the headboard for leverage, and each snap of his hips punches the air from your lungs in shaky moans and keening whimpers of his name. You come first and your walls milk his cock until he fills you to the brim.

His cock slips from your body and he lowers himself between your legs again. His tongue laps greedily at your release mixed with his. He does it over and over again, fucking you senseless with his cock and eating you out after, until your throat is hoarse and you can't possibly come again.

He looks satisfied when he finally raises his head from between your legs. The lower half of his face is warm and sticky, and he kisses you so you can taste how delicious you are on his tongue. He lays down next to you and gathers you into his arms.

While your breathing tapers off into quiet snores, he smacks his lips with satisfaction; the only thing that tastes better than you is the combined taste of both of you together.

BELPHEGOR // sweet dreams

You send Belphegor the recording you made for him, but you still haven't heard from him by the time you start getting ready for bed. When you check on him, you find him fast asleep in the room he shares with his twin. You smother your disappointment and hope he’ll still appreciate it when he wakes up tomorrow.

“You’re so fucking horny for me sometimes, aren’t you?” he whispers into your ear from somewhere behind you. He suddenly pulls you tightly against his chest and hooks his chin over your shoulder. His hand dances along the waistband of your pants and his cool fingers dip underneath and tickle the soft skin of your belly.

Your mouth opens soundlessly in surprise, but quiet, muffled moans echo around you. The sounds play on loop over and over, and you realize that they're yours.

“That pathetic little toy of yours can’t satisfy you the way I can,” he states matter-of-factly because you both know it’s true. “How many fingers do you want tonight?” he asks teasingly as his hand slips into your underwear. “One? Two?” You gasp at the cold, slick sensation of his fingers teasing your entrance. “Or three?” he breathes into your ear, and when you nod shamelessly, you cry out as he thrusts them inside and your hole stretches around him.

You reach behind you and fist one of your hands in his hair, and he hisses as a jolt of pleasure-pain shoots through his body. He smirks against your shoulder and nips at your throat in retaliation. You start rolling your hips and fucking yourself on his greedy fingers; he grunts when your ass rubs against his cock that’s hard and pressed into your back.

“See?” he taunts you as he coaxes you towards the precipice of pleasure, but his fingers are thrusting shallowly into your hole now and denying you the friction you crave.

“I’ve been here the whole time, you could’ve had me instead. I’ll fuck you however you want.” He tugs on your earlobe with his teeth. “You beg so prettily for my cock.”

“You were sleeping,” you whimper, and he clasps his hand over your mouth to muffle your frustrated cry as he pulls his fingers from your body completely. He wipes them on your shirt with a huff of laughter.

“Even if I’m asleep, I’ll still fuck you better then your fingers or toys ever could.” He licks away a bead of sweat trickling down your neck and sighs hotly against your skin. “You have my permission to do things, just like I have your permission, too.”

Suddenly you’re both bare and he pushes you down so you’re on all fours. He leans over you, and you feel the head of his cock slide between your legs and press against your entrance. “You riled me up with that little message you sent me, and now it’s time to wake up so I can fuck you properly.”

You gasp as your eyes fly open when the dream ends, and you moan into your pillow when he finally sheathes himself inside you.

Read more: Obey Me! Masterlist

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coquettepascal · 5 months ago

Text

felicitas and her general

summary: general acacius has caught your attention after being the first mortal to worship you in decades. you only face one challenge: don't get too attached.

warnings: rated g, contains spoilers for gladiator ii, follows the timeline of the movie somewhat, reader is the goddess felicitas (who is the goddess of good luck,) this fic is basically just an add on to the movie.

tags: goddess!reader x general acacius, emotional infidelity, lots of roman mythology stuff, writer is basing all her knowledge out of what she remembers from PJO and HoO, worship, complicated feelings, marcus does not cheat on lucilla physically, yearning, pining, grieving, guilt, major character death(s), stalking (kind of), a lot of obsession/dedication, angst, hurt no comfort but also hurt with comfort.

a/n: i watched gladiator ii and then was too emotionally devastated to finish this fic the way i planned. i really hope you all like this!! also, this fic is also dedicated to my dear friend @pascalssbabyy because she is my biggest cheerleader and i love her <33

wc: 7.2k (not beta read)

It was he who woke you.

A quiet sacrifice in the evening that felt like the freshest breath of air you could have, more intense than what you could have atop any mountain, near any spring. The scent of burning meat and smokey vegetables grasped at your lungs, and you almost choked on it. How long had it been since someone had offered you something so kind? Real food, not just scraps of something they didn’t wish for.

You’d never complain about how difficult it is to be a minor Goddess, you know that you could be a mortal, but most don’t think of how Gods can fade. It’s a physical process, one where you’d notice how your fingertips passed through things like chalices and bowls, how a spoon slid through your hand once. The clatter of gold on the table was embarrassing, even though you were alone. Nothing about being forgotten, or fading, physically hurt. It was only mentally taxing, knowing that you weren’t as important as you once were, that mortals found you insignificant.

Generals used to come and offer things frequently sometime ago, but you couldn’t even begin to understand how long ago that was. When you’re immortal, or supposed to be, mortal lives seem fleeting. You had taken them for granted, and regret it now, for all you have now are the empty clouds above your temple.

The last offering you can gather was from a young boy, who wanted to win a board game against his sister the next day. He had given you half a bun with strips of meat. Sure, it was thoughtful, but this was something rich.

You finish inhaling the offering, and then hear the offerer's voice. But it’s muffled, and you want to see who it is anyways, so you swipe through the clouds and create a window to see. Then you can hear him clearly.

Someone who is clearly a general kneels at your altar, which is chipped and dirty. The ashes of the food are in front of him, smoking still, and you can taste the wealth in his meal. It can’t distract you from him though, he is striking.

Broad shoulders support a heavy, curly, grey, head of hair, which is bowed in honor of you. His body is widely built, sturdy for battle, and his voice is just as powerful. You’re so focused on hearing his voice you only catch the tail end of his request.

“... Allow me to come home safely, if not for Rome, then for my wife.”

Your heart squeezes, and you swear you can feel the ichor gushing through your veins. Scarcely when a General came to give you an offering all those years ago would he mention a wife, only ever wishing for luck in the upcoming battle or war. But here, now, you’ve been given a respectful request and offering. It isn’t a thought in your mind to not favor him now, your eyes closing and your mouth murmuring a blessing to him. It feels intoxicating to use some of your power again, especially on someone who asked for it. It also feels intoxicating to watch this General leave.

He looks around before he goes, seeming to note how degraded your small temple has become. The statue of you that lies ahead of your altar is yellowing, and ironically, multiple fingers have broken off. The General seems displeased by this, sighing as he exits the temple.

His gait is heavy, sandaled steps weighted as he walks down them and into the torch-lit night. You find yourself looking for him even after he’s disappeared from your sight, the warmth of gratefulness hugging around you. Part of you knows better than to play around with the thought, but still you wish to know more about him.

—

It worsens when he comes back. A few times a week he returns, offering rich foods. It’s been a month now, and you are coming back to life.

Fading didn’t feel like anything, but coming back feels like so much more. The first few offerings had your body feeling alight again, like the ichor in you was flowing again, but within the last two weeks you’ve gotten your fingertips back. They were tingling for a day and then the next you were able to properly grasp things again, nothing was slipping through you.

In that time you had also learned his name. A guard had come looking for him one night, and stood behind him whilst he prayed. You had found yourself smiling when he didn’t interrupt himself, instead acting aggravated once he had finished. The guard had apologized for interrupting and let him know that “Your wife wishes to speak to you, General Acacius.”

Acacius.

You still don’t know his first name, but it is enough. You can think of it when you feel lonely, when you are bored. Something to associate with the offerings, with the blessings. The fact he has been so consistent hints at a desperation, which would usually repel you from blessing him, but he is the only one who seems to recognize you. His efforts are not going to go unseen by you, not when you have so little to do.

You can feel yourself conceding to your need to know him more, but just as you begin to fight yourself again, he shows up.

Tonight he’s dressed a little nicer. Usually he arrives in a plain tunic but this one has golden trim on it, and his hair is a little more tousled. He stumbles into your altar holding something in a cloth, but he’s walking like he’s… drunk?

Acacius meanders to your altar, grabbing a torch along the way, and then empties the contents of the cloth. It produces a small dessert bun, a Libum, or honey cheesecake, and your mouth waters. So much of the food that is given to you is savory meats, masculine foods that are heavy on the senses, but this is sweet and delicate. You can, of course, eat whatever you’d like. You’re a Goddess, and though you aren’t major, you are still very fortunate.

But this feels thoughtful.

The General drops to his knees after lighting the bun ablaze, swaying slightly, and now you know he must be drunk.

“Goddess Felicitas,” he begins as normal, “I am sorry I am later than usual. Though I don’t know if Goddesses sleep. I was… caught up in other affairs, but I made it in time.”

He is less eloquent than usual and seems particularly focused on how it is nearly past midnight.

“I brought you this though,” he gestures to the half burnt bun. “I wanted to bring you something different than meat and… things. I thought a dessert would be fitting for that task.”

Acacius pauses now. His thoughts are probably muddled from whatever he drank, and you find yourself smiling. Foolery has never been so endearing to you.

“You have been listening to me, I suppose. My requests for luck in battle have been answered, as well as my safety being ensured. Your blessings have brought my wife peace of mind, something I could not previously afford to her.”

He looks so small in your temple tonight. Normally he is not so vulnerable, but his shoulders sag as he mentions his wife. Some sort of shame runs over him at the idea that he could not ease his wife’s worries, but it makes you feel better that you could help.

“Goddess Felicitas, I come here tonight bearing no requests, just gratitude. Your blessings have soothed wounds I could not see, and I feel like a young soldier again. You invigor me.”

Then, he leaves.

You watch helplessly as he stumbles back down the steps and away from your temple, and more than ever you wish to chase him. The love he has for his wife is clear, and you hold no jealousy of that, but you wish it were you. Something in you is deeply attached to this General now. He has awoken you so much more than rekindling your power as a goddess, more than releasing you from the grief that comes with fading. Yes, Acacius has made your heart beat again, your mind curious again, and you feel seen. Being worshipped is not the same as being loved, if that were true you’d have had many children by now,

But after so long being forgotten, this feels like what you remember being loved as.

—

You try not to interact with the other Gods for the most part. They tend to meddle in things they don’t need to, and are sensitive. You are not exempt from this stereotype, but that’s only more reason for the distance.

But today, you venture to meet another deity.

Morpheus is not hard to find. He is pretty stationery where he is, usually lounging on a rock or bench near his temple, or above it in the clouds. He is a bit…dramatic, from what you remember, but wise.

Today he is stretched out on a cloud above his temple, eyes shut. His pale skin stretches taut on his bones as his lean frame breathes deeply. But, he is not asleep.

“Morpheus,” you speak.

His body rolls toward your direction, eyes still shut, but a small smile on his face.

“O young goddess Felicitas, what brings you to me?” He questions.

It’s hard not to feel embarrassed. You’ve spoken to Morpheus on very rare occasions, but he’s always been somewhat helpful, though nosy. Dreams tell a lot about people, and when he’s the one giving them to people, it’s hard to hide anything at all.

You don’t want him to know of your true affection for General Acacius, just that he is… worthy of a visit.

And so you begin to describe it to Morpheus, your need to visit Acacius. He doesn’t open his eyes at all, but he raises his eyebrows a lot and seems bemused at your situation. You’re only halfway through your rambling before he raises a gangly limb and waves at your words.

“Felicitas, you think you are the only Goddess wishing to visit her admirer? You need no explanation,” he says jovially.

Morpheus reaches into the air and pulls 6 black berries into existence, then drops them into your open palm.

“When you know he is asleep, bite down on one of these and think of him,” he describes to you.

The berries smell like nothing, but a powdery residue is left on your skin as you roll them in your palm. It doesn’t repel you at all.

Tonight, you will visit him and express the same gratitude he did to you.

—

Marcus lays next to his wife, Lucilla, with her hand in his. She fell asleep sometime ago, leaving him to lie awake by himself.

He didn’t make it to her temple tonight and the guilt is festering in his body. Marcus knows that she is a Goddess, that he probably isn’t a thought in her mind. He knows that he is just another whiney mortal, giving her food that isn’t nearly as good as whatever Gods eat. His insignificance grows as he feeds into his guilt.

Stress has permeated his life for much of it, from his time as a young soldier up until now, as a General. Battles, politics, and his family, have created a breeding ground for him to be wracked with anxieties, but he stays strong. Thanks to his time in Felicitas temple, it’s been better.

Which is why failing to make it to her temple tonight is making him feel so bad.

He grabs at the linen sheets of his bed, stressing and trying to reassure himself until he falls asleep finally.

—

Being in a dream is weird. It feels much the same as it does when you disguise yourself as a mortal, the out of body experience is semi-familiar, but it’s weird because someone else is there.

You’ve been watching the General enjoy the lake in front of him for a few minutes now. He hasn’t slipped into it, but just walks along the waterline. It seems like he is looking for something. Surely his dreams usually contain more action, or perhaps are memories, so you assume it may be strangely understimulating for him.

The appearance you’ve chosen is one of modesty, but elegance. A seafoam green peplos hangs off your frame delicately, with golden clasps at the wrists and waist. You did your hair so it would be tucked out of your face. There is no guarantee that Acacius will recognize you like this, but you look much like your statue that’s within your temple.

Swallowing your nerves, you shimmer yourself into visibility. The grassy field is odd beneath your feet, and you walk toward him with uncertainty in each step. You’ve never met with a mortal before, and you haven’t stepped on anything earthy in a long while. His broad stature only becomes more daunting as you get closer, especially since he seems so focused.

You will have to speak first. You’re much too quiet in this environment, and you must act fast lest he wake before you get his attention.

“General Acacius,” you speak firmly, though your hands shake.

This is so unfamiliar to you. You’ve barely even seen his face, as he’s usually bowed at your altar. It is the first time you’ll see him at an equal level, the first time you’ll have brought yourself to him rather than him to you.

He turns quickly, an instinctual aggressiveness toward the unknown. You stand about 10 feet from him, eyes widening.

Acacius is striking. His nose is what you focus on first, strong in shape and line, but behind it are his eyes which look to you with wide acknowledgement. His hair curls around his head in greying ringlets, like a permanent laurel crowning him. The wide expanse of his back was once impressive, but now you can see the solid wall which he becomes when facing you. Nothing could push him over it seems, a man built to stand.

Your heart squeezes the way it did the first time he gave you a request, a tender rush tingling your whole body. No words come out of either of your mouths, and the General drops to one knee instantly.

He recognizes you.

“Goddess Felicitas,” he rushes out in a breath. His chest is heaving as he bows his head and no, no this isn’t how you want this.

Your feet are moving before you can focus on your anxiety, bringing you so close to him that you can kneel too. Maybe a goddess should not kneel before a mortal general, but you are just on your knees rather than putting yourself below him. Your peplos billows a little as air rushes through it when you hit the grass.

He is above you like this, and you tilt your head to see his face again. His strong brow is furrowed, eyes squeezed shut like he is afraid of you.

“Acacius,” you say softly, “I am not here for… for ill reason. Please relax yourself.”

You lean back as he relaxes, head tipping upwards as he kneels in front of you as well. Now you can meet his eyes, see the crinkles that are beside them, and really take him in.

An energy of anxiety is shared wordlessly, with him stiff from the sight of a literal goddess, and you with the fear of… something.

The identity of your anxieties isn’t something that you can figure out. Maybe it’s too much to see such a handsome mortal, or maybe it’s that you’re going to thank him for his offerings so personally. Maybe it’s humiliation from this act. What would other Gods think of this? Is it not degrading to become so attached to a mortal? Are you no better than Zeus or Hermes, the gods who interact too intimately with mortals?

The sound of his labored breathing alerts you, calls your attention back to the present moment.

“I wanted to thank you,” you admit meekly, “for your offerings. You have been very generous and… devoted.”

His eyes are shifty, and you can see the terror in him still. You don’t want him to fear you, but you can understand why. Visits from Gods or other deities can mean trouble, but you aren’t significant like that.

“General Acacius you are the first mortal who has acknowledged me in a long time,” you offer a vulnerability, perhaps trying to soothe him.

It feels so backwards for you to be kneeling in front of him, speaking. He has done so in front of your altar for many weeks now, but now the spots are switched, yet you are still in power. You avert your gaze as you speak up, wanting to request something of him.

“You’ve been so generous to me, General, I was hoping to know more about you.”

And now, rather than scared, he seems suspicious.

“To know me?” He clarifies.

You nod.

“I only know your last name. I think I could offer more luck and splendor if we were more… personal.”

Gods that felt awful to say. You’re no better than the whorish brutes on their thrones, offering petty glories for intimacy. Everything feels flirtatious but that’s not what you’re looking for. Acacius has a wife he clearly loves, you would never want to interrupt that.

He seems to hesitate, but he knows he cannot refuse you. So far your blessings have brought ease to his life, he wouldn’t want to lose that.

“Then… yes, I suppose I can offer myself if it would please you.” He responds stoically.

And it does please you, to know his name. Marcus Acacius, the one who woke you, the one who has saved you from being a fragmented memory within the temples.

Marcus Acacius, who you are too fond of.

—

You visit him 3 more times. In an attempt to space out the usage of the berries Morpheus gave you, you only visit him once a week. The bleak tasting berries are sour on your tongue, a rotten sour which lingers once you wake up, but it’s worth it.

The two of you have grown closer, with Marcus opening up more. He tells you about the stresses in his life, how much anxiety is buried in him. But, he’s confident for the sake of his wife. You’ve learned that her name is Lucilla, and much more about her. Marcus talks about her a lot, in passing or retelling something she told him. In the small amount of time you’ve gotten to know him, you’ve gotten to know her as well.

It burns you with a strange warmth, a desire and envy which makes your stomach growl. You are hungry for him to admire you in the same way, to speak of you, but doesn’t he already? Shame grips your throat when you think of it. You are a Goddess who he sacrifices to, who he wishes to have blessings from. What more do you need? A mortal couldn't offer you what another deity could.

After the fourth meeting, you found yourself lonely. Lazing back in the clouds above your temple, you woke with a deep hunger. Marcus is beautiful, an admirable man, and he loves passionately. You are already being such a glutton for even speaking with him, meeting with him repeatedly, so why must you yearn for him too?

Worship isn’t enough, you want what you will never let yourself to have.

Nothing hints that he might feel similarly. His starry gaze which lands on you is not due to your beauty, your personality, or anything more. You have blessed him, and that is why his eyes glitter. Goddess status has never made you feel so low and isolated. Still, you are happy to help him achieve what he wishes, even as it cripples your heart.

Tonight you plan on visiting him. That fourth visit was a week and a half ago, he may be wondering where you are. He still comes to your altar each night, but the prayers are less personal. Marcus saves his stories and ramblings for when the two of you are in the field, or near the lake, when the two of you are really alone.

—

You bite into the berry at around midnight. Its tangy yet death-tasting juice floods your mouth, clinging to the crevices between your teeth and staining your gums. Closing your eyes, you think of Marcus, and his curls, and his eyes, and his nose, and his strong hands.

And then you are there, and he is waiting.

It seems like his subconsciousness has picked to be at the lake today, and he’s sat in the sand at the edge of the water. You walk over to him, but notice how… down he appears to be.

“She is not happy with me,” Marcus confesses before you even sit down.

You stand a few feet back from him, looking at how his curls fall around his bowed head.

“Lucilla?” You ask softly.

He nods.

A wicked feeling begins to steep in your heart. She is upset with him, he is in need of you for something more than a blessing.

And so you listen.

It’s one of the longer meetings the two of you have had. Marcus doesn’t cry, but he seems truly upset. He’s been called to go off somewhere far again, to fight and kill. Reassurances that you will protect him as best you can only soothe him so much.

He doesn't care if he dies, he cares that his beloved is distraught over this.

The more the two of you talk, the closer you get. There are marks on the sand from where you originally sat, but now you kneel in front of him, with creased brows and worried eyes. This isn’t something you can fix, you aren’t familiar with love and its intricacies.

His knees were tucked closer to his chest before, but they’ve loosened now and his fists rest atop them, clenching. Frustration sits on his face like a mask, one you wish to take off him.

Touching is not… something either of you partake in. Sometimes your shoulders will brush when you sit together, but nothing more has ever been initiated.

That is why it doesn’t surprise you when he flinches as your hand reaches out to rest on top of his right clenched fist.

“Marcus,” you say softly, wanting to offer comfort, but he cuts you off.

“Don’t,” he replies swiftly.

At first it hurts, watching as he waves off your hand from his own, but then you look at his face rather than where your hands were joined. The frustrated look on his face is gone, replaced with something worse, something guilty. His eyes aren’t glittering at you like usual, nor are they hardened with anger.

They’re soft pools of conflict that mirror your own.

It doesn’t soothe your burn, satiate your envy. You can see in his eyes that maybe you aren’t alone in these feelings of admiration, of want, but maybe this is not what you want.

Maybe you want a different universe, one where he doesn’t have to be a mortal and you, a Goddess. So you wouldn’t have to worry about him dying, and have this friendship survive off death flavored berries. Maybe you want a universe where he isn’t married, where he could be yours and you wouldn’t feel like a spectator to his heart.

Maybe you want that, but you won’t get it.

Instead the flames of jealousy die in your chest and are replaced with tumors of guilt. Your whole body feels bloated, embarrassed, and ugly.

The pair of you stare at each other, a stupid realization between the both of you as you realize that your secrets have been spilled, even though it’s the same one.

His eyes don’t move from yours, so you move from his.

The sandy edge of the lake does not look so bright now, even though there are no clouds in Marcus’s dream.

“When do you leave?” You ask softly.

You will not follow him into whatever battle he’ll win. Don’t embarrass yourself, Goddess.

He tells you two weeks. You say you’ll see him before then.

Then you wake on a cloud again, with a cavity of guilt in your chest.

—

Marcus wakes alone.

Lucilla had not wanted to sleep with him that night, choosing to stay elsewhere. She didn’t tell him where, she left in a quiet flurry of tears and anguish.

It’s easier for him to feel guilt over his Goddess than it is to hurt his beloved, even if it is the same.

In a moment of frustration he grasps at the sheets, turning over and biting at his pillow. The bed is so cold, and the room smells like stale air even though the window is open, the night breezy.

He knows she is beautiful because she is a Goddess. All Goddesses are beautiful, ethereal beings that mortals cannot even comprehend at times. Marcus knows he is lucky to even perceive her, for her to have chosen to visit him.

Yet through all her blessings, he feels cursed.

A plague of emotional infidelity is crawling through his body, sticking to his bones and making him stiff. Everything he does has felt flat for so long, from pretending he is grateful to the Emperors, to now pretending nothing is wrong in his marriage. He’s scared, and exhausted.

Marcus rubs a hand over his face after rolling over and sitting up in bed, groaning into his palm.

At first he tried to blame her for it. What would a Goddess want from a successful General other than a demigod hero son? What could truly be so special about him? He assumed she was manipulating him, using some sort of power to morph his heart, but now he knows it is not true.

If she had wanted to, she would have had him by now, and he knows this. If she had wanted to, her hand would have stayed where it was tonight, and pushed him further. It isn’t unlike the Gods to force themselves on a mortal, but she didn’t.

Instead, his hand feels hot where hers rested, and his mind is spinning.

Marcus doesn’t fall asleep again, afraid that he’ll see her.

—

You wait for a full two weeks before you visit him again. He had been coming to your temple less, and you had assumed he was busy with preparations for the coming battle.

The stubbornness you felt that night has not left you. At first you did not leave your temple in fear that you would grow attached, now you remain there because you have grown attached.

“Enough is enough,” you had thought to yourself.

But it is hard not to miss him, and his soothing prayers. The way his offerings tasted of smoke and sweet, and how he’d always burn such a large portion. Marcus never gave you scraps, he seemed to refuse to.

However, you can only distance yourself so far.

It is quiet when you approach him. He is sitting in the field this time, the lake a distant glitter in your eyes. He does not face you, but his head isn’t bowed like before.

“Marcus,” you greet, your voice muted.

He raises his head, turning over his shoulder and nodding, as if to direct you to come closer, and so you do.

Tonight’s visit isn’t vulnerable, or even pleasant. Marcus seems so distant as he dryly tells you about how he’s preparing, and his wishes to return safely. His eyes barely meet your own as he talks, and he continuously twists the ring on his finger.

It grows tiring, watching him ramble about politics you could care less about, listening to him say things that have nothing to do with him. He’s so far from the friend you thought you had made. When the air between you goes quiet, you don’t fill it for a while. You listen to the sound of the wind in the grass as his eyes still will not meet yours. It’s breaking you apart.

This is the last night you’re able to visit him, unless you visit Morpheus again. You will not waste it like this.

“What is ailing you, General?” You ask, deciding to prod more than you usually do.

To your surprise, he scoffs in light laughter.

“You,” he responds quietly.

His words don’t hurt, at least not yet. You have the option to walk away now, wake yourself and leave him with his final blessings, but of course you don’t.

“Me?” You ask, “what have I done?”

Marcus rolls his shoulders back, lifting his head to look into the everblue sky above the both of you.

“You have made my life difficult, Goddess.”

Difficult? You have made his life difficult?

You have half a mind to tear him to pieces, curse him with something awful like snakes for toes, or spoons for teeth. After all that you’ve done for him, all the safety you’ve provided, he is telling you that you make things difficult? How dare he? Be outraged, Goddess, for he disrespects the holy luck which you bestowed to him.

That’s what you should think, that’s how most of you should feel.

But instead you feel small, and hurt. Yes, he is disrespecting all that you’ve given, but also you feel like a failure. Your physical existence is because of him, because he did not let you fade. All you wanted to do was make his life easier, help him to have an eased mind and a safer life.

But instead, he’s telling you you’re difficult.

It feels like your body is shrinking in the white peplos you’ve worn, the sheer fabrics swallowing you. Shame is flooding in the form of tears behind your eyes, wetting your orbs with an unexpected outburst of emotion.

“I am sorry,” you manage weakly.

Marcus does not look at you while you cry, and you want to believe it is because he cares too much to watch, but you cannot verify that.

The wind picks up again, but it does nothing to hide the soft cries you can’t hold back. Once you were a fading Goddess, now you are just a failing one.

There is no luck involved with love.

Eventually he speaks again, with his head turned away from you.

“I am sorry too,” he says. There’s a finality in his tone that makes you ache.

So much is said in such little words. He is sorry to you, for you, and with you. A sorrow is shared between the two of you, knowing that your hearts ache for one another as they are worlds apart yet on earth together.

This last berry was only supposed to mark the end of your visits, not the end of everything. It feels like this is all there is for the two of you, since it’s too complicated to continue on like this.

That’s why he doesn’t move away when you move closer and rest your head on his shoulder as tears leak down your cheeks, or at least that’s what you’ll believe.

—

Time moves weirdly when you’re immortal, but it all happens so quickly.

Marcus stopped coming to offer things for you, and so you were blessing him less. Admittedly you had kept an eye on him, but not a keen one. It didn’t feel right, not when you and him weren’t… friends anymore.

But this feels too soon, too fast, too unfamiliar. Has your sadness caused you to be blind?

You watch as a man kneels in front of Marcus, panting and bloody with a sword beside him on the ground.

The only reason you are here was because you had felt the roar of a crowd all the way at your own temple, a wide distance away. It had drawn you in, and instead you had found this.

That roaring which you had heard crescendos to a new height around you as you shimmer into existence, cloaking yourself to the mortal eyes in the stands of the coliseum, but existing enough to touch him.

Arrows stick out of his front, more crushed beneath his back, as he is slumped on the white, gravel, ground. His hair is curled with tacky blood streaking through it, and he is so, so, still.

You drag your hand across his forehead, feeling the remaining heat, and in the echo of the crowd you begin to sob.

Everything around you is moving, changing, fighting, and screaming, but you sit invisible in the center of the coliseum, running your hands over the now dead General Acacius. There is nothing you can do to bring him back, to ease Lucilla, to save him and apologize. He is dead beneath your fingers, with arrows lodged deep in his irreparable, mortal, flesh.

You were supposed to keep him safe.

Hot tears run down your cheeks as you keep grasping at his armor, unable to move him or yourself. The last visit felt official, but this feels final. There is nothing more for you here, no friendship in a corpse.

Thoughts are running through your mind at the rate that your breath is puffing from your chest. The question of where he will end up in the afterlife is overwhelming you, and the chance for him to go to Elysium feels reasonable. It’s where he should be, where he deserves to go, especially after all he had done for Rome. You don’t even care why he’s here, or why he seems to have been brutally killed, but after the time you spent with him, Elysium seems right for him.

—

It’s where he should be. Elysium is where he should be.

And it’s where you find him.

His place there is somewhat similar to his and Lucilla’s home back in the mortal world, with lush greenery and airy drapes that flutter in various colours. It seems like he has left space for Lucilla here too, with space left in the chests for her things, and a permanently made half of the bed.

Elysium offers a true celebration of life for heroes, demigodly or not, and you’re sure Marcus has been enjoying that. Anything that he had been shackled to in his mortal life was gone now, and it seems that all he would have to miss is his wife.

Most of your time is spent there, in his afterlife home. You peer from behind curtains when he comes back, hidden in drapes and keeping yourself small.

He is already dead, but after the last time you abandoned him, you cannot bear to leave him alone again.

The vision of him, bloodied and murdered on the coliseum floor, flickers into your mind every time you see him lying in his bed. It’s an obsession to be near him, to be looking after him. Pluto might not even know you’re down here anymore, but what does it matter?

Marcus Acacius was the last living mortal to worship you. In the underworld, you are beginning to fade. Your fingers are slipping from you again, which is making it easier to lurk near him, but it is a painful process.

You want to speak to him. No longer do you yearn for his love, not after being in his home and seeing how dedicated his heart truly is to Lucilla, but you yearn to speak to him again. A panicked emotion runs through you at the thought of fading alone, of being entirely forgotten.

It didn’t matter before he died, fading was just something bound to happen, but now it’s more. Is he forgetting you?

—

You’ve lost most of your arms by the time you work up the courage to speak up. Lucilla arrived sometime ago, joining Marcus in the afterlife. Watching them together brought some warmth to you, some kind of happiness that you couldn’t have for yourself, but seeing it for him was enough.

You sit on the terrace of their home, invisible to their eyes, and somewhat to your own. From the tips of your fingers to just below your elbows, you are a specter. Grey shadow fills where your limbs used to be, and they pass through all objects. You couldn’t tap his shoulder if you tried.

Oftentimes you sit, hidden, and ponder by yourself about more than Marcus. There were so many things you were adamant about when he was alive, and you regret it all now. Your determination to avoid your feelings, or at least not show them, and your need to not become attached… it bites at you now, a stinging, grieving, venom, that won’t leave. Your status as a Goddess blinded you to how tender that friendship could have been, and now you sit as a ghost spectator to his afterlife, obsessed with a mortal as a fading immortal.

The tips of your fingers pass through the glass you try to grab as you think of this on the terrace. You’re glad that you’re such a minor deity, so at least you do not have to feel so humiliated about fading. A smile has just graced your face as you feel blessed for being so unimportant you can essentially stalk this mortal, when suddenly his voice cuts through the humid air of the space.

“Felicitas?” Marcus’ voice asks.

It’s so hesitant that you think you’re imagining it. You thought you had their home to yourself right now, thinking they had gone to do… whatever souls do in Elysium, but when you turn your face, he is there.

Marcus has not worn fancy clothing in a long while now, and right now is no different. He stands before you in a plain looking tunic, which just graces his knees. To see him at ease has been so nice, but he looks distressed at your sudden appearance.

You cannot find your voice as you awkwardly stand up, trying to think quickly. There is no good way to explain what you’re doing here, hidden away in him and his wife’s home. You could just vanish into thin air, but that feels wrong. He has seen you already, any attempts at pretending you aren’t here would be ridiculous.

His eyes scroll from your face down to your arms, and the smoking shadows that used to be there. Concern pinches onto his face with knitted brows and pressed together lips.

Something in you wants him to turn away, so you don’t have to think about why he is worried for you, even after all the trouble you caused, but he doesn’t.

His sandaled steps are heavy as he comes to you, reaching for your hands but finding the gesture fruitless as his own slip right through yours.

“Dulcissima,” he speaks weakly, shock woven in his words.

You had told him about fading a little while ago, when the two of you were in that field. Now it seems the severity of it has hit him.

What is hitting you is the name. Dulcissima, or sweetest. How long had it been since you had been referred to so fondly? All at once you are being remembered, recognized, and shown some affection. It feels like too much and tears are falling out of your control.

“I’m sorry,” you manage, “I was supposed to– to keep you safe.”

Marcus is shaking his head already, refusing your apology.

“No, no. You did keep me safe, you did. I pushed you away, I couldn’t control myself and I caused this,” he argues.

It does not comfort you that you both blame yourselves. You wish to reach out to him and touch his face like you should have when he was warm and alive. You want to know if he is cold now, and it’s as if he hears you.

Marcus places a hand on your cheek, a softness in his eyes and hold that says that he missed you.

“I saw you,” he claims, “when I was on the ground. You were the last thing I saw.”

Somewhere between life and death for mortals, there are moments of godly clarity. Some see the light, others see their families and memories, but in that tiny glimpse of time, some see Gods.

He was able to see you as you knelt over him, sobbing as you were cloaked to any mortal's naked eye. You were the last thing he saw, and the last thing he truly regretted.

All you can do is stiltedly nod at him, feeling like you were in trouble even though it seems he’s not upset.

For a moment, his eyes flick away, contemplative, but then he meets your gaze again.

“I told Lucilla of you, before I died. Not– not of my feelings which I struggled with, but that you were a close friend, a blessing in many ways.”

A blessing in many ways.

Another choked sob is wracked from your chest, your bottom lip curling out embarrassingly as your face contorts. He almost coos at you, the thumb on your cheek rubbing away your tears.

“Goddess, I have missed you,” he admits.

Stupid nods are all you can offer, your voice imprisoned in your ever tightening throat which cries. When he was alive he was never this tender, too confused and insecure to ever touch you, but it seems he has been regretting things too.

“Felicitas,” he says quietly, “do you come here for ill reason?”

You shake your head this time, rather than nodding. You have no reason to be here, other than the fact that guilt has taken over your mind and heart since he died.

“Then relax, dulcissima. I have an offering for you.”

Marcus relaxes his stature, eyes still gazing over you. He looks at your fading palms and you watch him swallow nervously.

“I will worship you again, lending you offerings here, and all I ask in return is for our friendship again.”

It’s the opposite of how you met, almost completely, but it’s everything you need. You will not fade, he will not struggle in marriage, and you will have one another again.

Again, you are nodding stupidly, but soon you’re embraced by him and nodding into his chest. His hands grasp at your back as he tells you how much he missed you in his final weeks, how he regrets losing you entirely, how he requires you as a friend.

You are satiated in his arms as he comforts you, awakening you again there on the terrace. Unbeknownst to you, Marcus has let tears slip down too as he holds you close.

“You will keep me safe here?” he asks jokingly.

It makes you smile, the idea of offering luck to a man who already died.

“Yes, General. I will keep you safe here, from all the horrifying glory and splendor,” you assure.

The two of you laugh, breaking the embrace but staying close. A passionate connection is still between the two of you, but in a different way now. Maybe when he was alive it was romantic because it is all you could think of, but through his death the two of you have come to understand it more.

You require one another in a unique way, and leaning on one another does not have to be intimate the way he is with his wife. Marcus does need you, just as you need him, and now that you are both immortal in a way, you will never be separated again.

please leave a comment, like, reblog, askbox, or ANYTHING. i'd love to hear thoughts on this <33

tags (people who seemed excited for this) (sorry if these dont work)

@pascalssbabyy , @moonshapedflan , @gossipgirl-03 , @kyloispunk , @frannyzooey , @coocoolahh , @bug-boy32 , @honeymarvel , @magicalmorg , @1deakybass , @tuquoquebrute , @harryshousewhore , @teeagain, @chewie-bars , @vampyyweek , @queenslandlover-93 , @amijenn , @aquanatalie

#pedro pascal #gladiator ii #gladiator 2 #gladiator ii spoilers #gladiator 2 spoilers #marcus acacius x reader #marcus acacius x you #marcus acacius #general acacius #general acacius x reader #lucilla x marcus #i just realized idk lucillas last name oops #pedroverse #ellie writes

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humanpurposes · 8 months ago

Text

Can I Be Yours? - Nightblooms II

Aemond returns to the pleasure house after the battle of Rook's Rest // Main Masterlist

Aemond x unnamed female character

Warnings: 18+, smut, dub-con, angst, sex work, unresolved childhood trauma, implied underage and non-con (not explicitly depicted), mentions of war, violence and death, ambiguous ending

Words: 3k

Each day she arrives at the market shortly after sunrise. She has the coin to pay for the usual cheap cuts of meat, for fats and vegetables to make into something edible, but there is nothing to buy; most of the vendors have sold the last of their wares. Summer is at an end, there are less crops coming from the Reach and the sea is still cut off with no end in sight to the blockade.

King’s Landing has never been a place where she feels at ease but as the season shifts and the war goes on, families are starving and people are getting desperate, fighting over what they can get their hands on. They’ve all been reduced to dogs, clawing at each other over scraps while carts of livestock and fresh produce trundle through the streets towards the Red Keep, guarded by men in Hightower green.

She manages to buy some crabs and vegetables she’ll have to cut the mould from. They have a store of grain in the kitchens to make flatbread, though they have to use less and less each day, anticipating when they’ll be able to find more.

She eats less of her share so the younger girls won’t have to go hungry. Besides, she hasn’t had much of an appetite for days.

She had spent hours trying to rinse herself clean of the King and his companions after they’d had their way with her– after Aemond had left her to their mercy. That night she scrubbed at her skin with salt, then a cloth, then a bristled brush. That feeling was still there, like sweat sticking to her skin, like her body was not her own. She heard their voices and their cold laughter with the rush of water past her ears. She scrubbed harder and harder until she tinted the water pink with her blood.

One morning, one of the girls returns to the pleasure house, unsuccessful in finding a cure for her babe’s fever, but startled by something else.

The Hightower army has returned from a battle, dragging the head of a dragon on a cart through the city.

“It’s monstrous,” the girl says, trying to measure the scale of the head with her arms. “It had black blood, and gods, the smell, like charred meat!”

Sylvi hovers over her shoulder. “Slain by your favourite, I wonder?”

Favourite? Clearly she was not so favoured by Prince Aemond.

Men are led by their desires. That’s why, even as the city is starving, they find the money to come here and seek their pleasure. They are fickle, easily satiated and have no loyalties but to themselves, to their own preservation.

Sylvi huffs when she does not react to her teasing. “Seven above, do try to look less miserable, girl.”

She’s been trying for days, but she can’t force a pleasant demeanour when she feels so hollow.

The returning soldiers come to the Street of Silk that night, newly paid and come to bask in their victory. Her gown is a deep shade of blue and Sylvi has given her some of her jewellery, sapphire earrings and a heavy gold necklace that feels like a collar, to cover the bruises on her neck left by the King.

She catches the eye of a soldier in the main chamber. He takes her by the waist and drags her onto his thigh.

He moves clumsily, trying to drag her core against his leg or the bulge in his breeches, she cannot tell and she does not care.

Look less miserable, it’s only a motion of the body.

Look less miserable, men want a woman who is warm, who smiles.

Look less miserable, but has he noticed her fallen face and the empty look in her eyes? Likely not.

Her body feels numb again.

“Look at me,” the man demands.

She turns her head towards him but her eyes are down, elsewhere completely. She pictures candlelight, a veil around the edges of a bed so the bodies around her are like shadows. She feels a weight on her chest and stomach, limbs intertwined with hers, long, loose hair spilling over her bare skin. A voice is just out of reach.

Look at me, look at me, look at me–

“My Prince!”

Her senses come back to her as quickly as a match takes to flame. Her head darts to where the soldier is looking, to the man standing before them, dark leathers, silver hair, an eyepatch over his face and a sword hanging from his hip.

Aemond tilts his head, his one eye intent on her.

“Apologies, Prince Regent,” the soldier says, and shoves her off his lap so he can stand.

She stumbles but holds her ground. Her eyes are on the floor but imagining his face frowning in displeasure, the sight of his scar, the lines of his muscles under his skin. She cannot bear to truly look upon him, but he’s watching her.

Why come now? Why her, when she has already proved worthless to him?

“Come,” Aemond says without reaching for her, without waiting for her to match his gaze. She follows, if only to escape the wanton soldier.

Aemond takes her to the same chamber, standing at the foot of the same bed where they used to lay together.

She stands before him with her eyes lowered.

He towers over her and lifts her chin to match his gaze with a gloved hand. The leather against her skin is unnatural, cold, disturbing her very being like ripples through a peaceful surface of water. The sight of him only brings her pain, as does the separation from him. Fear and admiration twist together and writhe in her gut.

He reaches to remove the necklace first, letting it fall to the floor. “An ugly thing,” he mutters, “do not wear this again, I find it distracting.” It bares her bruises. He traces his gloved fingers over the flushes of red and purple in her skin.

Next he undoes her dress, another gown designed to fall away from one clasp. She does not remove the rest to bare herself, so he tugs the gown away himself, pulling her forward by her wrists to make her step away from where it pools on the floor.

Without any further preamble he surges into her, cupping her jaw with his hands and kissing her passionately. He demands reception with his lips, tongue and teeth, but she will not give it to him. She remains as steadfast as she can.

He pauses, kissing her again, then again.

“What’s the matter?” His voice is subtle and as soft as the edge of a knife. Gently, he takes a hold of her neck. It is tender, but not quite a comfort. Her pulse beats furiously against his fingers. “You are angry with me, is that it?”

Has he thought of her these last few days? Does he blame himself for the bruises on her neck?

She says nothing.

“I’ll not fuck an unwilling whore.”

“No,” it falls from her lips like a breath.

Aemond tuts and tilts his head. “No?”

She parts her lips but she cannot speak.

His one-eyed stare darkens. He will take her silence for defiance, and that is not what he pays for.

If all he seeks is carnal desire she will grant him this. She tears away the layers of him, his gloves, the buckles on his jerkin, her fingers fumbling in her determination.

Aemond grunts as she pushes the sleeves from his shoulders, the leather landing with a heavy thud on the floor. His face is perplexed but he does not resist.

She tugs at the strings of his undershirt and pulls it over his head. When his chest is bare she puts her hands on his shoulders and pulls herself in, crashing her lips into his. Everything becomes a single feeling, a fire in her chest, hurt and rage and— she’s not naive enough to call it love, but it’s an urge that spurns her to be close to him. Their teeth clash. She loses her focus and her lips graze over his cheek. She finds him again, drawing her tongue against his, dragging her teeth over his lip–

“Fuck!” Aemond hisses, snatching himself away from her. He dabs his fingertips to his lip, checking for blood that isn’t there.

His eye is wide but gleaming, excited at the challenge.

Her heart leaps when Aemond grasps her jaw. He drags her chin up, fingertips pressing into the bone. “I find your insolence tiresome,” he snarls.

The edge of his nose brushes against hers. She feels his breath, how his chest rises and falls against her body, how his heart beats as frantically as hers.

She shakes her head. “I am yours, my Prince.”

He lays her on the bed, pushing her thighs apart and holding them down as he kneels.

He sighs at the sight of her.

Each drag of his tongue is divine, circling and pressing at the places he has come to know will please her the most. She tries to chase the friction with her hips but he holds her firmly in place.

She reaches for his hair, slipping the eyepatch from his face so she can see all of him. He looks up at her as she does, his lips glistening with her arousal while his sapphire consumes the golden light of the candles.

Between the movements of his mouth he mutters to himself, words she has heard before but does not know the meaning to. His voice is heavy and breathless and she adores it.

Her peak comes suddenly, a wave of warmth and weightlessness that lingers after Aemond has drawn his mouth away from her.

He’s just out of her reach, standing over the bed and slowly pulling on the strings of his breeches.

She brings herself to sit, only to be thrown down again and roughly turned onto her front.

“Aemond?”

His hands pull her up by her hips. His thumb glides in circles over her entrance and she stutters into compliance. There’s a ruffle of fabric before he replaces his digit with the head of his cock. He teases her as he rocks back and forth. The pleasure is sparse, a delicious kind of torture. She grips at the linens and sinks her teeth into her lip.

On one motion of his hips, Aemond slips inside of her. She sighs at the stretch of it. He stills for a moment to let her adjust, pushing himself to the hilt and slowly drawing back. She feels how his fingertips dig into her flesh, marks that will stay for days. She can picture the look in his eye, his resolve melting away.

She props herself up on her hands, turning over her shoulder. He meets her, pressing his nose against her cheek, teasing his lips over her skin.

“Do you still find me insolent?” she whispers.

Aemond hums.

He draws back, only to snap his hips harshly into her rear. It knocks the breath from her lungs and he holds his arm around her to hold her close to him, his palm pressing into her stomach as he fucks her roughly and without reprieve.

This is the Prince she has only ever seen glimpses of. She’s heard the workings of his mind and his regrets, but she’s never seen him unleash himself, a dragonrider, a warrior, now a demanding lover.

Each kiss of his cock at her sweet spot aches and drives her towards bliss. She grasps at his hand, leaning her head into his. His sweat drips onto her brow. His moans fall upon the shell of her ear.

She feels another peak edging closer when Aemond pushes her torso down against the bed. He keeps his hands on her shoulders. Her own moans are muffled against the mattress and she cannot move. She can only take what she is given, fast fucking and brutal precision.

He comes with a unrestrained groan, spilling himself deep within her cunt. His weight falls against her back and he nestles his face into her neck, whispering some appraisal in an ancient language, gently fucking his seed deeper.

She whines as she catches her breath, letting herself settle with him on top of her. They stay like this for a time. Before he finally moves, Aemond presses a delicate kiss to her brow.

They lay amongst linen and silk, his head on her chest, his arms wrapped around her ribs, moving with her as she breathes.

He tells her of Rook’s Rest, of his plan to attack during the daylight and bait their enemy into sending a dragon, then he would lead Vhagar into an ambush. He had not expected Aegon to join the battle, and when the smoke cleared, only Aemond and Vhagar remained unscathed.

“Perhaps I should have been more forgiving, but he got in my way.”

What did you do? She wonders, but cannot bring herself to give a voice to her question.

That soldier had named Aemond as Regent. Not the title he wants, but it is a brutal reminder that only one life stands between him and the throne he pursues.

“And even when he is… incapacitated, my victory is named as his. It was meant to be mine.”

The dragon head was his doing after all.

Tears run freely down her cheeks, not that he will see.

He takes a breath and waits. She’s done this enough times by now to know he’s waiting for her to say something. He needs her to say something.

What loyalty has your brother ever shown you? He knows you were better suited to war, at least now he will not overestimate himself.

She does not wish to think of Aegon.

“You left me,” she utters.

Aemond tilts his head towards her. She meets his eye. When he sees the tears on her face his own expression softens.

“You left me to entertain those men. You didn’t even look back.”

Aemond swallows thickly, making a soft clicking sound with his tongue. “I had to.”

“Had to?”

“You would not understand.”

“I understand perfectly. You are a Prince. To you, I am nothing but a body to be used.”

“I’ve never said that.”

“You do not need to say it. It is the nature of the world we live in.”

He shifts himself to lay beside her, face-to-face. His thumb strokes over her cheek and at the corner of her mouth. “I’ve only ever admired you,” he says. “You came to me when I felt alone.”

Back when they were children, when she was innocent enough to think the gods favoured those who were kind, merciful, good.

“You looked lost. I was the same the first time…” the first time Sylvi brought her into a room with a strange man. When she sees girls of the same age, she wants to take them into her arms and shield them from strangers, from the people who promise to care for them and do not. “I knew how it felt to be used and then discarded, like none of it mattered. But it did. It mattered to me.”

Aemond’s eye shimmers like glass.

“I needed you, do you understand that? I needed your protection,” she says.

He blinks and a tear falls from his eye.

“You taunt me with this,” she says, wiping it away with her thumb.

He holds her hand against his jaw. “I’m not trying to taunt you,” he pleads. “You are the only one, the only one I can speak my mind to.”

She has seen his pride, his remorse, his shame, but she has never seen fear in Aemond. She does now. He clasps onto her hand like she’ll fade away.

“I try. I know my place in my family. I know what they need of me. I try, but I am not always strong enough.”

Jaehaerys, the little Prince who lost his head. He has a sister and a mother grieving his loss, what of them?

What of Aegon?

“I’ll protect you,” he says, kissing the heel of her palm, the inside of her wrist.

How will he do that? Before morning he will leave a purse of gold in her hand and return to his Keep. While he plots his war and demands taxes and tithes from the people of the Crownlands, she will endure in a city that is slowly starving to death.

And when the war of dragons comes to the skies over King’s Landing? Will he pick her out from the masses atop Vhagar? Will he find a way to spare her from the fire and the bloodshed?

It does not bear thinking about. She holds him and tries to forget anything other than this feeling, his weight and warmth, his hair between her fingertips, the points in his bones, his legs intertwined with hers. Everything about him that is cold and cruel. Everything about him that is quietly beautiful.

I've kinda given up on taglists <3

#my fics #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond targaryen oneshot #aemond targaryen smut #hotd fanfic #hotd fanfiction #house of the dragon fanfiction #house of the dragon fanfic #aemond x reader #aemond x you #aemond x y/n #aemond x oc #aemond x ofc

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eratosmusings · 1 year ago

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Stolen Destiny (II)

Feyd Rautha x fem!reader

summary: the na-baron takes an interest in you

warnings: adults only, all characters are over 18, smut in future chapters, misogyny, dark themes, canon typical violence

word count: 1.8k

previous chapter / dividers / masterlist

“...humiliating…disgusting…barbaric…”

You flinch as your father’s anger roars. Nothing you do will ever please him.

“What do you think will be said of me? Of how I raised you?”

“You didn’t,” you want to say. Instead you apologize. Harkonnens are animals you rationalize. They were testing to see if you were prey and you had to show them you aren’t.

“And in doing so you’ve tainted yourself.”

It’s like a slap. The cut on your hand still stings from the solution they’d scrubbed on it. It had only been a handshake. It was a show of strength. He’d understand that sentiment if there was a cock swinging between your legs. He doesn’t stay to say more, leaving you to nurse the wounds alone.

A feast is held that night. A welcome to your guests. You're squeezed into a new outfit, one you've been told your father deems more appropriate than the one you’d had chosen. It’s the first time he’s ever taken the initiative to dress you. It gives you no pleasure to recognize the dress as one of his courtesan’s.

“Your dress is lovely,” says the Princess Irulan when she sees you again after the food had been taken away and the party mills about in the Hall. She takes your arm and strolls with you between the bodies. The familiarity between you is striking. She speaks of her sisters, the planet she calls home. You tell her of your studies. It seems you share a fondness for the same authors.

It’s odd to feel her warm smile. There were few women in your life. Maids mostly, though they rotated frequently. A few of the castle’s regular entertainers when allowed. You don’t count the courtesans who keep your father company.

“Princess,” Paul greets her with a bow, intruding on your talks of taking an excursion around the palace grounds. Those green eyes turn on you and sweep across your form. “My lady, you look stunning.” He takes your hand again and bends to kiss it while you try not to flinch. “I hope I’m not intruding.”

“Not at all,” Irulan says with more kindness than deserved. “We were just making plans to visit the lake the day after tomorrow.”

The way his face lights up has your excitement plummeting. He’s eager to join. You stay as long as you can stand his conversation. It’s not long. You excuse yourself, claiming the need to check on the rest of your guests, and extract your arm from the princess’. You accept a kiss on your cheek from her before disappearing into the crowd.

You have no desire to mingle more. Whatever consequences you’ll face when your father finds out about you slipping out don’t worry you. His anger would have found something to punish you for anyways. Cool air greets you as you step into the gardens. It’s not your favorite place, but the training yard is too far in this getup.

“It’s rude to leave your own party.”

Hair raises on your arms, but you don’t turn to the voice. “You have my apologies for my rudeness then.”

“And it is unwise to keep your back to an armed man.”

“What fun is life without a little risk, na-Baron?”

He chuckles at that. There’s quiet footsteps as he paces behind you like a panther appraising a potential meal. You keep your eyes forward. “You and the princess seem to have bonded quite quickly.” He’s been watching you.

“She is easy to be fond of.”

Shadow swallows you as he steps behind you. Breath ruffling your hair he asks, “But Paul Atriedes is not?” He’s been watching you closely. A fingernail scraps down your bare arm. “Do you resent him for what he’s stolen from you?”

You spin.

The black void that is his smile is wide on his face. Humiliation sears your throat. How many people know of your father’s deepest shame? Feyd-Rautha seems to revel in that silent moment. Your pain brings him pleasure.

“I must return to my guests,” you say and step around him. His hand shoots out to grab your arm, but you're prepared. You evade, pull your arms taut to your chest, and dart down the hall as his laugh taunts. The respect you built with the Harkonnens was nothing more than delusion. It doesn’t matter what teeth you bare or claws you present, any show of weakness will be exploited.

You round a corner and nearly crash into a guard. The same one from earlier. He questions if you’re hurt, eyes darting the corridor behind you. He seems to find nothing. You agree with his warnings now. It’s best you don’t wander alone.

You wake unrested. Images of blackened teeth, slicing blades, and hoarse laughter haunt you into the morning hours. You’ve made the decision to retain a personal guard. The choice in who is easy.

You spend the day reviewing everything for your coming of age in a couple of days. Your father is supposed to do it, but he’s nowhere to be found. It’s tedious but the hours of distraction are welcome. And it gives you reason to decline Paul’s lunch invitation. It’s only when the sun is past its peak that you’re forced to hand over the remaining duties to your grumbling father. The swordmaster demands your time to refine a performance you still can’t rationalize. Who is it for?

Your father? A man who despises any display of femininity from you? The princess? In some attempt at an apology for a marriage that can now no longer be? Or House Atreides? The ones who’d stolen your destiny before you’d been a seed in your mother’s womb? This artistry certainly isn’t for the brutes of House Harkonnen.

The music halts half way through the fourth run. “Your timing is wrong,” the swordmaster says and has you begin again.

By time he’s satisfied, your legs burn and your patience is worn thin. You can only glower at your guard, Fandral you’ve learned is his name, as he compliments the dance. “I like the story it tells,” he defends.

“There’s not a story.” You massage the shoulder of your sword arm. The ache isn’t unwelcome, but the cause is frustrating. The time would have been better spent actually training.

“All art tells a story,” he says.

You scoff. “And what’s the story? I go crazy and start fighting air?”

“You can see it that way, but I think there’s more nuance.” He eyes the girls as you hand off the swords as if expecting one of them to run you through. “It’s the story of a girl turning into a woman.”

A laugh erupts from you. It’s a fitting story for your coming of age, at least. He tries to explain his reasoning. The symbolism of the first sword as the first menstruation, the second as the final years of youthful rebellion, and the end is the acceptance of the new role as a woman. You don’t quite believe it.

There’s no dreams of black teeth or the bite of blades that night. This nightmare is of your mother. Her face unmoving. Silent as you scream. She never moves, but she’s forever out of reach. Then she’s gone and you’re left gasping in the dark alone.

“This is beautiful,” Paul says in awe as he stares out over the lake.

It’s difficult to not let every word out of his mouth annoy you. You remind yourself he didn’t steal anything from you. His mother did. “You should see it at sunrise.”

He tears his gaze off the water. “I’d like that.” He says it so earnestly you feel you’re missing something.

“As would I,” Irulan says. You turn your head to look at her on your otherside, but her eyes remain focused on the scenery.

“And I,” the Harkonnen rasps in your ear.

His addition to the excursion had been as unexpected as it was unwanted. He didn’t seem the type to enjoy a day by the water. Even now, he’s at odds with the world around him. His stark white skin and ghastly black clothes unsettling out amongst the colors. You doubt he truly wants to see the beauty of first light.

“Another day,” you say. It’s not a promise.

You only plan to stay for an hour at most, enjoying a light lunch under your favorite tree, but Paul asks about going out on the lake. There’s only a small canoe available on such short notice, but it’s enough. Irulan has no desire to get on the water and says she’d prefer to ask Feyd-Rautha about the Spice harvesting on Arrakis. You aren’t keen on leaving her with him, but she insists and there’s guards to keep her safe.

Paul tries to play the gentleman and offers you his hand once he’s in the canoe, but he’s unsteady and nearly tips it over. You return his apologetic smile as you hear hoarse, barking laughter from the tree.

He’s inquisitive as you row out of sight. About your studies, arts you partake in, foods you enjoy. He even asks about your favorite color. You try to respond in kind, but he doesn’t leave you much time to catch your breath between answers let alone ask your own questions. It’s frustrating but you smile and bear it.

“What’s that?”

Blinking at him confused, you follow his gaze. A few meters from the shoreline was a small marble pavilion. It’s overgrown with vines, graying from the accumulation of dirt and grime. You’ve forgotten it was here. It feels like there’s cotton in your mouth when you speak. “Just an old pavilion.”

You let him take the canoe further for a while longer, before turning it back. You don’t look at the pavilion when you pass it again. It’s a relief to come back into view of the others. The canoe floats to stop beside the small dock. Fandral is there waiting, his arm extended. But Paul stands too quickly and the canoe sways. Your hand brushes Fandral’s outstretched one for a moment, but you tilt the other way and spill into the frigid water.

It's not deep. Once you have bearings you’re able to stand and your head breaks through the surface. You take in a deep, shuddering breath. There’s a commotion beside you. Paul’s head pops out and sprays more water in your face.

Someone’s speaking, but there's a river flowing in your ears that makes it impossible to understand. It's a difficult walk to the dock. Your dress is heavy and the water slows your steps. An arm reaches out to you and you take it to help pull yourself up.

Feyd-Rautha stares down at you. Not with a smile. There’s no amusement on his face. There's something new in his eyes you don’t recognize. It takes Fandral’s interference to release you from the intensity of his gaze. The guard shrugs off the jacket of his uniform and drapes it around your shoulders.

Irulan frets despite your multiple assurances you’re fine. It wasn’t deep. There was no danger. You’re wet, that’s all. Paul apologizes over and over and over again. “It was an accident,” you say in hopes of appeasing his guilt. You want Paul Atreides to leave you alone.

your thoughts are appreciated!

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next chapter

#feyd rautha x reader #feyd x reader #feyd rautha harkonnen #feyd rautha smut #dune part two #stolen destiny

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s1lv3rp4w3dc4t · 2 months ago

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the girls are fighting

not an oc! magnet is a scrapped character from S3 of ii.

design by @loverfrommarss

idc how in character this is or if ss is magnetic-- I thought it was a little funny ok!!!!!!! ok.

#ii magnet #ii scrapped characters #iii scrapped characters #ii #iii #inanimate insanity #ii silver spoon #ii candle #iii silver spoon #iii candle #osc #silver's mental breakdown

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syneilesis · 2 months ago

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[fic] so delicate the bones

so delicate the bones

Love and Deepspace | Caleb (Xia Yizhou) x Main-Character!Reader | M | 3.5k words | ao3 link

A treatise on hunger, intimacy, and protection.

Content Warnings: character study, Caleb-centric, unpleasant and violent imagery and themes (one metaphor hints of cannibalism, several body horror/gore), obsession and possessive thoughts/behavior from a yandere character, implied pseudo-incest (mostly as a canonical context), pining, purple prose, angst(?), solipsistic narrative, spoilers.

A/N: I'm going to post this now before I lose any more confidence and chicken out. Nothing actually happens in this fic, I'm only pretentiously waxing philosophical about Caleb. I'd argue that this is tame, contrary to what the warnings suggest (arguably!), but still please heed them. This is primarily inspired by the main story. The line, "You’re only safe when you’re by my side. No one will be able to find you ever again. I’ll protect you forever." is directly lifted from the main story. This fic is just hyperfocused on Caleb's desire to protect MC and desire in general in relation to MC hence the hunger metaphor, so other plot-related characters and whatnot are ignored. However! I included the winter soldier arm because why not.

In conclusion: please be gentle? lol. Divider by @/saradika

you dangle on the leash of your own longing; your need grows teeth

—Margaret Atwood, Speeches for Dr Frankenstein

He is intimate with hunger. A marked emptiness hollowing the core of his being, and each step he takes it rings an echo inside the walls of his flesh, refusing to settle.

No matter what he does to fill it, it never sates, and eventually this hunger grows to eat away at his organs, down to their tissues, and, finally, their cells. It births a set of sharp teeth that scrapes everything, including his ribcage, where inside his heart beats; until all that’s left of him are torn scraps of his remains and an aching need that gives itself life, gaining claws and a voice, desperately whispering to him every nightfall so he lies in bed awake, eyes desperately wide and desperately open.

In the darkness of his room, only one word this voice whispers:

devour

Caleb turns in the direction where your room lies, the bed in it cushioning your sleeping form, always and forever unaware.

II.

He remembers the simpler things, once upon a time.

A kitchen. Silver utensils lined up neatly on the island, glinting under the summer sunlight streaming through the window. The smell of home-cooked meals wafting along his nose. You, sitting at the dining table, leaning forward with huge curious eyes, waiting for him to set down the plates.

Your gaze trailed over the path Caleb carved around the kitchen like a moth fluttering closer to a source of light. It had been like that, always, with you, a compass seeking the magnetic North, and he, stalwart in his promise of protection – and care.

A meal shared between two people signifies closeness, intimacy. Seated across each other, face to face. A direct, transparent meeting of words and actions. No secrets, just equilibrium.

You told him of your day, narrating your adventure through the arc and sweep of your hand, and Caleb listened to your tale, mind and body his own compass pointing to your own North, interjecting every now and then with affirmation and light-hearted teasing. The rise and fall of your expressions satiated him, albeit inchoately, but Caleb swallowed them all greedily in the hopes that one day the feeling of fullness would arrive.

This – what you had with him then – was intimacy, the kind that called upon the image of children running across meadows, their laughter tinkling along the sepia-tinted sky, leaves caught between their windblown hair. This was the kind of intimacy that invited soft, warm dreams, and the weightlessness of waking.

It was the intimacy Caleb had with you, but not the intimacy he yearned for. What he wanted – needed – was the kind that peels away the skin to reveal the muscles, veins, and even bones beneath. Watch the blood circulate all over the body, pulsing with life, a proof of existence. He needed to see what’s protected under the layer of flesh and all its vulnerabilities, darkening from exposure.

III.

Dying, in some ways, is a form of relief that eliminates the persistent hunger that rattles at his core. There are regrets, of course; the last image of his waking life is the memory of you crumpled with hesitation, with secrets – and that is another reminder all over again of the intimacy that you no longer shared with him. Gone are the sepia laughter that floats wistfully at the back of his neck. Though in reality and upon further examination, when it comes down to it, the hunger is stronger than the acceptance of death, because relief is not satisfaction – it is, merely, escape, something that Caleb all his life would never turn to. Secrets, yes – but never escape.

And so this rebirth, he supposes, is another form of intimacy: the unbending will of conviction, of hunger devouring itself and transmogrifying into something else – a fleshless creature pure of want. The bones are his cage that he longs to gift to you; he calls it protection. Intimacy that splinters, that lodges itself deep inside your soul.

This is the price of dying and being born again.

IV.

To everyone else a reunion is an emotional celebration that is as climactic as the peak of a symphony. To Caleb, it is altitude and freefall, the drop into an abyssal pain, all steel walls and surveilling lenses, secrets shadowed into the corners.

When you ask him, Is it really you? and the sheen of your disbelieving gaze cuts through the darkness of the interrogation room, the hunger inside him whips into life. It feels like decades since he had seen you, and Caleb is distinctly aware that you’re no longer that little girl who clung to him whenever something frightening jumped into the frame as you two watched a movie. When you attempt to figure him out it is with the hardened look of a hunter, its own exoskeleton catalyzed through suffering and experience.

It is a reminder that you truly are far from being fragile, and that is a grief Caleb has to swallow. Let the hunger settle with it, if only for a moment.

Who else would I be? he returns. A reunion like this pushes into the surface the long-buried feelings one had stamped down in order to go through each day, as if everything’s still normal. He sees that in the cracks of your posture, the fine, webbed lines that encircle your body, despair leaking out, the proof of your truth. There’s only one Caleb in your life, isn’t there?

The cracks spread until you shatter before him. Caleb catches you in his arms and the warmth seeping through your skin feels like a distant echo against his embrace. Dull, muted – an imitation of stimulus that elicits no correct response except the surge of hunger lunging inside him, overtaking his heart, clamoring for your continuous presence.

His hunger has always toed the line of danger, but now it is precariously so.

His flesh hand climbs to the crown of your head, the strands of your hair oily as he curves his palm according to your shape. It’s easy to fall back into well-worn habits. A pat on the head for praise; a tousle of hair for teasing. A stroke on the top of your head for consolation. And you – bury yourself further into Caleb’s chest, listening to the soothing rhythm of a beating heart.

I missed you, you whisper, the words felt more than heard, and Caleb reinforces his hold on your back. I missed you so much.

The correct response to this stimulus is to say the same sentiment, that he has missed you just as much, and that he’s sorry that he’s had to keep his survival a secret from you, but now that he’s returned, things will go back to normal once again.

But then again – what is normal?

Certainly not the way he misses you – a chimera of ugly limbs with dagger-pointed claws and the torso of a gluttonous beast, black tar dripping from its orifices. If you peel away the veil that hides this creature, you’ll discover the enormity of his hunger, the dense substance that will trap you like glue until it devours you feet to head. There is no escaping it after it is revealed.

And certainly it’s not the way he’s sorry. You know Caleb the best, and that is a truth. But it is also a truth that he’s lived a life full of secrets, and this is just one addition to all other secrets he’s kept from you.

The correct response is to say he misses you too, and that he’s sorry things turned out this way. But this response is not Caleb’s truth, and Caleb may hide many things from you but he has never lied to you. There’s no point in starting now.

So what he says to you in return is: I know.

It’s not their home (home is at Linkon, already reduced to charred rubble); it’s only a house, but it can be a home if you want it.

A lifetime ago, at the cusp of his high school senior year, his teacher asked the class their dreams and aspirations when they reach adulthood. Caleb’s initial answer had been a careless scribble of his first impulsive thought, and he was summoned to the office for it. Is this truly what you want, inquired his teacher, and Caleb said, Yes, I’ll take any lucrative job I’m good at.

He didn’t mention the rationale of that answer, how years before, he had already cemented his plan of providing you a place you and he could call home, and how his future earnings would be solely for you. At the time, that was how Caleb defined the idea of protection – a sanctuary that you and he shared. It’s almost idyllic, how simple his wish had been in the past.

You said you wanted to become a pilot.

Yes, because I like the thrill. Then he added after a thoughtful measure: And it pays well.

Wariness rippled across the teacher’s movements, in the sway of the hand that dismissed him, and Caleb returned to the classroom already forgetting the entire exchange.

Now, that long-forgotten memory resurfaces, and Caleb faintly smiles as you interrogate him about the state of his abode.

Why don’t you decorate your house more?

How long do you stay here until you’re called back to duty?

Don’t you ever feel lonely?

I never found it to be necessary. Not very long, just a few days. All the time, because you’re not with me.

What he says instead is: This is just a place to stay and sleep.

It’s only a house, not a home. Home is protection, precludes it, a sense of belonging and comfort, security and assurance. It’s more than a roof over one’s head; it is a sanctuary.

Your arms akimbo, a challenge in the tilt of your chin. Well, we can’t have that, can we? Just give me a couple of days.

What is a sanctuary? A place built upon pieces of one’s self, familiar and intimate in every reflection. And Caleb looks forward to discovering your reflection in the pieces of his house that may soon be called a home.

Years ago, this was his dream: a sanctuary for you and him, a place that you and he could call home.

Now: the home you will make out of his house he will fortify with his bones and his hunger. He will place pieces of himself in the hidden cracks of the walls, the threshold of each door, in the mechanism of each lock. He will leave his imprints in the foundation that sustains its sturdy structure. He will make a fortress out of your kindness and keep you there, inside, for as long as he can.

You told him, once upon a time, that you no longer needed protecting – except who else but him could look out for you?

VI.

Growing up, though part of life, tasted a little bitter on his tongue.

Sometimes, Caleb thinks that he is cursed with this inconsolable hunger, impossible to soothe despite all attempts to quell it. It only recedes into the background, a low hum that blends into everyday noise. And then it bares its teeth at the first sign of your freedom.

It feels like a long, continuous burst of snapshots – you getting older, fat and flesh and muscle filling out, inches stacking up yet still remarkably shorter than him (a sore point to you but a point of delight to him), and most of all: the confidence in the way you carry yourself, spine straight and chin up. The days when you stepped behind his protective back, when your fingers hooked into the edges of his sleeves in a coy attempt to make him stay – they’re all rapidly decreasing like a withering tree. And something in Caleb panics, the fear of his becoming obsolete in your life more tangible than the risk of death in his every flight.

Your freedom, then, becomes his shackles. Imprisoned by his hollowness. A role reversal: it is you who flies away and it is he who is trapped on the ground. He can only watch you soar high without his help. His hunger rages at that, at that devouring fear that is rooted at the very core of him. A fear that is actually unfolding in real time.

What can he do? What can he do to vanquish this all-encompassing fear?

VII.

To be human is to feel. To feel, though, requires the presence of sensation.

Rebirth comes with sacrifices, and Caleb has already paid the price.

When he tousles your hair in jest, there is only the pressure of solid object colliding with another. He has to calibrate the strength of his grip to avoid breaking things; has to mind the arc of his gestures so as to remain visually natural, not mechanical. For all the technology afforded in this era, degradation of vital functions is still explained as an unavoidably unfortunate tradeoff.

Take pain, for example. Caleb does not feel anything else, except pain. Blazing heat narrowed within fine, delicate nerves. Pain and numbness, like oil and water swirling at intervals.

In this sacrifice it is the sensation of touch that’s taken the greatest casualty. Texture is the first to go, then weight, then pressure, then pleasure. Only the memories of sensation fuel Caleb’s imagination as he drags his fingers down your cheek, conscious of the amount of force he exerts in the act. Everything now is calculated, down to the minutest of motions.

It’s only a matter of time before the loss moves on from sensation to emotion, and Caleb knows himself to be an indifferent man. Like an ascetic he does not indulge on many a thing, only religiously devoted to one constant truth. He will not mourn the absence of luxury, or boredom. Or the impatience during a wait that’s taking longer than what is originally expected.

He will not consider a loss the fear of death (he has defied it once; who’s to say he won’t defy it again?), or the panic wrought by Wanderer threats. He will not miss the thrill of the extreme, the speed, the alighted nerves like freefall sans precaution. All these ultimately do not matter to him – because he has long been living the life of decimation, a gradual diminishing of everything that he is until all that’s left are the barebones of what’s truly precious to him. Hunger, after all, when overwhelming, does not discriminate.

Consumption, then, becomes another type of numbness.

Only one thing truly matters; the rest are inconsequential.

VIII.

In the end a confrontation cannot be avoided, and Caleb must face this truth.

Betrayal casts a jarring sweep across your floundering form. The sofa muffles your desire to melt into the molecules of space, away from the cage of his arms and the desperation of his hunger. From an outsider’s perspective you and he are engaged in an intimate closeness, the kind of which raises doubtful questions about affinity. At some level Caleb relishes that impression, but on another, it is not enough. It is never enough.

A hunger that has consumed everything and still furious for more is a hunger that is raw, dark, exposed with its bloody bones and its bloody teeth, stripes of flesh insinuated between.

It is his hunger, then, that speaks when Caleb says, You’re only safe when you’re by my side. No one will be able to find you ever again. I’ll protect you forever.

It is hunger that speaks, no longer whispers bleeding into the shadows of his bedroom but a tectonic roar that shifts and upends the status quo between you and him. It is the hunger that covets the intimacy between intertwined souls bereft of bodies and worldly matter, everything pared down to their essence, to their very marrow, solipsistic in their embrace. It is the hunger that promises sanctuary made out of his bones and blood and the metal-wires-processors that convert his pain into life. His hunger speaks, because Caleb, in the end, is still a man in love, and that love is what propels his existence.

You don’t have to protect me, you say, cruel in your tenderness, tender in your rejection. I haven’t needed your protection for a long time now.

Caleb staggers, expires a shaky breath. His head sinks into the crook of your neck. The hunger still burns, but he is sapped of energy, tendrils of resignation slithering around his feet.

Why couldn’t you accept? Why couldn’t you see?

He could tell you all he had seen and gone through in Deepspace – the deafening silence and loneliness; the cavernous black that creeps into your pores and wrings out a seismic tremor throughout your body that lingers on for weeks; the grotesque forms of Wanderers that have yet to reach Earth – and claim that these are the inevitable things, like destiny, that will befall upon the world, and how would you fight them on your own?

Things were better when it’s just the two of us.

Caleb –

I wanted to be your sanctuary. I still do.

Caleb.

A pair of hands cradles his face, light, painful in its softness, and he meets your misty gaze brimming with something he refuses to acknowledge.

In this shiver of a moment, the hunger climbs up to his mouth and the acidic taste of bile scorches his throat, the words push themselves out of his lips but he resolutely clamps them shut, clinging to the last shred of his control.

Otherwise, this confession would have ravaged out of him:

I’ve held onto this hunger for most of my life; it fuels me but also destroys me, and there is no cure for it. One day it will devour me whole, this monstrous, unrepentant hunger, and when that happens I want you to build a castle out of my leftover bones, call it your sanctuary, so that whenever the world hurts you, you will find solace in the intimacy of my devotion. And when you sleep, we will meet in dreams. I will offer my heart for you to take a bite of, and my flesh hand will wipe the blood into the crevice of your mouth. Protection is the savage passion of love, and you can use every atom that makes up what I am, because what I am is nothing if not for you.

Your fingers descend on his lips, tracing their outline until your fingerpads rest over the plumpest part in the middle. The harsh breath he exhales pierces through the thick silence, and Caleb watches you inhale the very air he released – and he savors that moment of indirect union.

Unbidden, he parts his mouth until the tips of your fingers fall inside, and he shapes his lips around them, your nails brushing against his teeth. You taste of salt and rain, his tongue darting out at the point between fingernail and skin.

Not this way, Caleb. Can’t you let me go?

The fingers retreat, and Caleb swallows the arguments that formulate readily in his mind. Instead, he drags out, In what way then?

In what way would you accept the gravity of him – all his hunger and pain and numbness and dreams and wants and needs – if at all?

But you shake your head, and disappointment lances at him. You have so many secrets now, you whisper, almost loathing in its sibilance. I want to trust you, but I don’t recognize you anymore.

And that’s the crux of everything, isn’t it? Trust. Safety does not exist without trust. He cannot protect you if you do not trust him. Even without ever lying to you, Caleb supposes that he could still lose your trust – in so many other ways.

He knows a losing battle when he sees one, and this is one of them. In spite of the lacerating words – or maybe because of it – your expression collapses, and Caleb cannot endure the confrontation any longer, not with you threatening to break at any moment.

So with great reluctance he takes a step back, grants you all the time and space that you need, and isolates himself in his own room. His hunger still pulsates, but Caleb chains it until it subsides. Until it regresses into a background hum once again.

Some battles are easily won, others need tactics. A battle like this necessitates patience and care, short-term losses for long-term gains, and meticulous, meticulous strategy. This is not new to Caleb, so he will plan. Experience only requires recontextualization, but the foundation is still the same.

After all, there’s no point in stopping now.

IX.

He is intimate with hunger. A marked emptiness hollowing the core of his being, but now this hunger has mutated into a chthonic abyss that spares no one, not even the remains of him. It will gorge itself on everything that comes in its way, a savage journey that has no end in sight, no conclusion to this eternal terror.

And this unstoppable force is left to promise you one final thing:

If he can no longer protect you, then he will make it so that the world – no, the universe – can no longer harm you.

◘

Humans in love are terrible. You see them come hungering at one another like prehistoric wolves, you see something struggling for life in between them like a root or a soul and it flares for a moment, then they smash it. The difference between them smashes the bones out. So delicate the bones.

—Anne Carson

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