#it’s the way he looks at her sometimes when she isn’t looking at him | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sacr1ficialang3l · 1 day ago

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Can you read my mind? (I've been watching you.) 𓆩♡𓆪

DEAN WINCHESTER X CUPID!READER

SUMMARY: Dean and Sam get a little unexpected help with a weird case. 2.3k

WARNINGS: none. first meeting. fem!reader. dean being wary of the supernatural but weak to a pretty face.

NOTES: VERY late valentine's post. I was struck with inspiration at 2 in the morning. Idk if Valentines are a thing or if i made them up but whatever. This is my first time writing for supernatural and my first time writing a fanfic in years pls be nice. Enjoy<3

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” You sigh as you materialize behind the brothers, making them almost jump out of their skin. “Love all over the place.”

You ignore their flabbergasted expressions as you look around the crowded plaza. It was Valentine’s day, and the whole place was decorated with pink and red hearts, the white streamers hanging from the trees moving with the breeze as couples and groups of friends walked around.

“Who are you?” You ignore the shorter one’s question as your gaze focuses on two kids sitting on a bench.

You could feel how much they liked each other, but they sat facing opposite ways, hands on laps and eyes stuck to the ground. You sigh and swiftly move your manicured hand towards them, pink nails shining under the sunlight. You can feel the brothers’ wary eyes on you, but you simply watch as the boy on the bench suddenly gets a notification on his phone.

“I just won two tickets for the My Chem show tonight.” He announces to the girl, voice incredulous. As they both start celebrating, the boy shyly looks up and invites her to go with him. She says yes, and after a few giggles and babbled words, they get up from the bench and leave.

You can’t help the little squeak that comes out of your mouth, your pastel pink wavy hair bouncing as you give a little jump. You immediately turn to the Winchester brothers, covering your mouth with your hand

“Sorry. You would think that after so many years on the job I would get used to it.” You sigh, twirling a lock of your hair with your fingers. “But sometimes it still manages to make me all giddy.”

You turn around just to find a gun being pointed towards you, barrel pressed to your stomach as green eyes bore holes into your head. Who you assumed was Dean Winchester was glaring at you, scowling, while his brother tried to block civilians from noticing the firearm in his hand.

Who would’ve thought green could be so beautiful.

You chuckle, not intimidated at all, which only made the brothers look even more confused.

“What the fuck are you?” Dean asks, the gun digging a little deeper into your skin.

“Are you Cupid?” This time it is Sam, his eyes studying your tiny pink dress, pink hair, and pink boots. But more importantly, the little bow and arrow that hung from your back.

You give the tall guy a cheeky smile.

“You must be Sam, hm? I’ve heard you’re the smart one.” You look back at Dean, delicate hand wrapping around the gun that was still being pressed against you. “Why don’t we put this away before you hurt someone.” You keep your eyes on him as you lower the gun. He lets you, a lost look on his face as to why he is letting you.

You take a step back and smile again, all rosy cheeks and fluttering eyelashes. “To answer your question, I guess you can call me a cupid, but I’m not the Cupid.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” Dean’s eyes roam up and down your body.

“We’ve met Cupid before.” Comes Sam’s explanation. “So, you work for him? Are you an angel?”

You hum softly, pouty lips pursing. “I don’t work for the Cupid you met, the angel. But you humans also call my boss that.” The brothers’ expressions stay equally clueless. “I work for Eros, the-”

“Greek god of love.” You send Sam a sweet smile for his right answer.

“And desire, yes!”

“So you’re a Goddess.” Dean affirms more than asks, and when you turn back to face him you are struck with his beauty once again. Both brothers were drop-dead gorgeous, but something about the sharpness in the older one’s features made you want to ask if he was in any way related to Lady Aphrodite.

“Oh, no. Gods no.” You shake your head, making the multiple silver jewelry in your ears clink. “We work for Eros. Think about us like a version of Artemis’ hunters.”

“Yeah, because that gives me so much clarity.” Dean’s voice was breathtakingly deep, it reminded you of being in Lord Ares’ presence. (Happened once, never again.)

“Gods are incredibly powerful, but they often need help from mortals to do certain deeds. Artemis’ hunters, Hecate’s priests and priestess, so on and so forth.” You explain quickly. Sam seemed to understand you perfectly, Dean still looked a bit like he wanted to shoot you. “We don’t have an official name like that, but you can call us Valentines.”

“So you, what? Go around making people fall in love?” He asks with skepticism. You sigh. Everyone always had the same wrong idea.

“We don’t make people fall in love, we simply… present them with opportunities.” You chuckle and turn to look around the plaza, teeth biting down on your lower lip as you try to look for an example. You find a blond guy who was messing around with his friends near an ice cream shop. Right behind him, a girl in roller skates was moving his way.

“See those two?” I ask the brothers, pointing towards the pair. “If I didn’t intervene, they would never cross paths. But their auras, they are compatible, and they’re both lonely.” You squint, concentrating. Aura reading wasn’t as easy as fake witches made it seem. “But if I just…” Once again, you move your hand delicately towards them.

Suddenly, Blond Boy's friend's milkshake falls to the ground. It causes Blond Boy to take several steps back, getting right in Roller Skates Girl’s way. She immediately tries to stop, but it makes her lose her balance. Blond Boy’s hands are instantly on her waist, preventing her from falling on her back. They look at each other, eyes lingering, and your job is done.

You turn to the Winchesters with a satisfied smile, your flowy skirt dancing around you as you twirl, and they just stare back at you with wide eyes.

“I can’t tell how I feel about it.” Declares Sam, making you snicker.

“If it makes you feel better, I can assure you I can only influence circumstances.” You sigh, looking back at the two lovebirds. They’re already exchanging numbers. “Whatever happens from here on out is in their hands.”

That seems to do the trick, at least for the younger brother. Dean still looked like he was going to reach for his gun anytime soon. You sigh again.

“Look, I am not here to cause trouble.” You raise your hands in surrender, bracelets sliding down your wrists. “I came to talk.”

“Why would you want to talk to us?” You start to walk down the plaza, a little skip to your step. You stop right on the edge of the plaza where you could look down at the sea, waves hitting against the asphalt in a calming manner. Both brothers share a confused look before following you.

“You two are here for a hunt, right?” You ask walking down the edge of the shoreline, go-go boots click-clacking against the cobblestone. “The deaths that have been happening? People killing people they love?”

“What do you know about it?” You turn around at Dean’s accusatory tone. His gun was back in his hand, and it makes you roll your eyes. His eyebrows raise in surprise.

Looks like there was an edge in between all that sugar-covered whimsy after all.

“You know, everyone says you are distrustful, but damn.” You tsk. Why was it always the cute ones that had the biggest attitude problems? “I wasn’t going to intervene, but when I found out that the Winchesters were in my zone, I had to do something. You two are kind of famous for wiping out any supernatural beings you come in contact with.” You continue to walk down the shoreline. When you get to a light pole, you twirl around it until you’re facing the brothers again. “Any other day, I would’ve just hidden until you finished your job, but it is Valentine’s. The boss likes us to be extra active today.”

It looked like Dean wants to retort, but Sam interrupts him. “What do you know about the case?”

Your smile fades a little, and you let go of the light pole, your shiny eyes dropping to the floor.

“You’re looking for an Anti-Valentine, or that’s what we call them.” Your cheeks blush with shame. “They’re like us, Eros’ followers, but they…”

“Turn evil?” Dean guesses sarcastically, and you nod.

“Why would they want people to kill who they love?” Asks Sam, crossing his arms. “I mean, you look like you love love.”

That makes you giggle. “It is… hard. To do this job.” You lean back into the light pole, looking out at the sea. “There’s only so many times you can make two people who are perfect for each other meet, only for them to cheat or hurt each other before you start to have doubts.” You bite your lip, doe eyes glossing with sadness.

“And that makes them turn evil?”

“Well, most Valentines have had doubts at some point in our lives. But Anti-Valentines, they start to think humans don’t deserve love. They start getting angry and hateful, and it starts to poison them.” You swallow harshly, looking down at the floor before your eyes meet Dean’s green one, and the heavy weight on your chest turns a little lighter. Huh. “Valentines can’t manipulate mortal’s emotions, but Anti-Valentines… They've learned how to blind humans with anger. I think you humans may call it a rage blackout or something.”

The brothers seem to be processing your words. Dean studies you slowly while Sam looks like he’s racking his brain for any information on Valentines. If you hadn’t been so sad, you would totally be flirting with Dean right now. Yes, Eros was the God of love, but everyone seemed to forget he was also the God of desire. You could be a hell of a vixen when you were in the mood.

“So, how do we kill it?” Asks Dean, always ready to fight. It was hot.

“That’s the problem.” You sigh for what felt like the millionth time in the last hour, twirling around the light pole once again, cheeky smile returning to your face. “If I tell you how to kill them, I tell you how to kill me.”

Dean’s eyebrow raises, but his mouth twitches into a half-smirk. He looks you up and down one more time before his tongue runs over his lower lip, earning an incredulous huff from Sam.

“So, what’s the deal?”

“I’ll tell you how to find the Anti-Valentine and how to kill it, and you promise not to come for me after.”

“You got yourself a deal, sweetheart.”

𓆩♡𓆪

Dean was soaked in black blood when you appeared in front of him again.

Sam and he had just finally killed the Anti-Valentine, after being thrown against walls and dodging heart-pointed arrows for what felt like hours. Looks like those little bows aren't only for the aesthetic.

So while Sam and Dean looked a little worse for wear as they tried to catch their breath, there you were, in the middle of a filthy warehouse looking like a literal goddess. Pastel pink hair perfectly styled, shiny lips and shiny eyeshadow, your pink boots not getting dirty at all even as you walked through the dirt on the ground. The worst part was how you were pink everywhere. He wasn’t talking about only your clothes and hair. Your cheeks, your knees, your elbows. The palm of your hands and your pouty lips. Made him wonder, just how many other places were pink too.

“Nice to see you two are as good as they say.” You walk close to where the brothers are leaning against a wall. They were covered in blood and grim, slight cuts all over from when they weren’t quick enough while avoiding the Anti-Valentine’s arrows.

You stand right in front of Dean, and there is a halo of light around you. You were literally glowing. You were just so glad the Anti-Valentine had been taken care of. You would’ve done something about it before the Winchesters got into town, but Valentines couldn’t attack other Valentines, even if they were evil.

“Happy to meet your expectations, sweetheart.” Dean grunts, hand pressing to his side where there was a long gash.

You extend your hand towards him with a grin, palm up and ring-clad fingers waving. “My blade, please and thank you.”

You had given the brothers your celestial bronze dagger to use against the Anti-Valentine with the promise that they would give it back.

“What if we ever need to kill another one of these, hm?” It is impressive how Dean managed to look so hot when he was slowly bleeding out from his side. “Or another Greek creature.”

You smirk, and with a little jump you land in front of him. You lean in, biting your full lower lip and blinking up at Dean, long eyelashes fluttering. “Then I guess you’ll have to give me a call, sweetheart.”

You softly press a hand to Dean’s chest, making his breath hitch. You subtly wrap your hand around your dagger in his jacket’s pocket. When his eyes drop down to your lips, you press your hand harder against his torso. Gods, he was firm.

In less than a second, all injuries in Dean’s body were cured. Even the gash on his side. He looks up at you in surprise, and you swiftly take a step back, dagger in hand. You let out a dreamy giggle, taking a step towards Sam and pressing a finger to the tip of his nose, making a little “boop” sound and curing him instantly too.

You take another little jump back, facing both brothers as you brush your hair behind your shoulder and dangle the dagger between your slender fingers. With one last giggle, you wink at Dean.

��See you later, boys.”

You disappear in a cloud of pastel pink smoke, leaving behind a smell of caramel and red velvet cake.

And you knew you were gonna see them again. After all, you had a soft spot for pretty things.

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bokettochild · 2 days ago

Note

apparently i like making myslef hurt and suffer

because i'm wondering

how would Sablya react if she heard about "Mrs. Kitt Tailor" and their MANY kids?

i know she's from another au but dang it my mind is wandering and it hurts

I will be entirely honest, I have had thoughts on this SO MANY times, but never been sure if there was a point in writing it! That said @apparitianhanako actually asked me a while ago to write this! It just fell by the wayside.

I got hit by a wave of inspiration when I saw this ask though, although unfortunately I am running on like...four hours of sleep, and, thus, brain function is CRAP, so I cannot vouch for the quality here, but I guess here's an answer fic! (NOT Violet Incident canon or TBBU/BoHH canon)

It’s one of those days that’s actually not as bad.

There aren’t a majority of either the good or the bad, mostly just a sort of lingering gray that overtakes it all. A grey unlike the twilight, unlike the shadows, and very, very different from even those long stormy nights that Link loved so much.

To look at him, you’d never think a man like that would love storms, and yet he does. Many’s a night they’d curl up before the fire, huddled in close under some quilt or another that his mother and sisters had made and he’d tried his very best to add too, even despite his trembling hands. Many’s a night she’d brew them tea and he’d hold her close, eyes turned to the windows and sharing story after story from his childhood, from his homeland; the fae stories that even her grandfather doesn’t know, and never could tell with the eloquence of the man she’d loved. The selkie stories he’d learned from his grandmother and passes on to anyone who’ll listen. The stories of the old, the new, the unknown, the unexplained. Her Link may not have been rich to the world’s eyes but he was rich in stories, and to the two of them that was often better.

They had been anyway. She still loves them, but there’s something lacking in new ones now, maybe the roll of his voice or the intent way he’d tune his telling to its listener, engage and entrance them with his words until they’d feel there themselves. A book’s pages don’t capture it right and no one knows how to say it.

Sometimes she wonders how he’d describe the greyness. Would he spin it like the deep sea that drinks down whatever is cast within, leaving a peaceful stillness above and a roaring torrent below? Would he tell it like a sky before a storm? The wind before a blast? The air in a second before magic speaks its words over the earth?

But he’s not here to say it.

That’s sort of her own fault though. Proud though she is, Sablya knows the faults not solely his, and that’s the source of the grey.

Pride’s a dangerous thing; she’s been warned all her life. It’s the thing that sends soldiers to their deaths and ruins lives and loves. Still, even with that knowledge, it’s a powerful force to try and deny, and it’s the only one that’s stopped her on some days from straying towards the castle to try and fix things.

And then, some days, it’s weak, so very weak, and she manages to step out anyway, heading for the gates and intending, with all her heart, to wander in to his office and ask, like anyone who comes to him, if he can help her to restore the family that she lost in the war, to bring her Link home to her.

Something always stops her though.

Pride, perhaps, stops her at the gate. Doubt and anger at the steps, her own unwillingness to face the world some days stops her making it past her own doorstep. But the times she’s made it to his door, hand on the knob and ready to knock, it’s the voices inside, the tired sound of his voice and the tears he’s no doubt meaning to ease from whomever it is that’s come to see him, seeking, like herself, to find what was lost. It’s doubt then, and fear, and bitterness that has her certain that he’d say the same to her as he’s said in her hearing to so many bereaved; “your soldier isn’t coming home, ma’am. I’m sorry.”

Today though isn’t a day where that doubt creeps in. It's one of those ones where even pride has taken a backseat and she’s got a moment to look about her home and feel the most dangerous feeling of all; hope.

Link’s a man who’s good to his word, who never breaks a promise, never defiles a vow. The vows they made on their wedding day, surely, were meant with as much if not more heart than any other he’s made. They’d sworn ‘through good and bad, easy times and hard, sickness and health’, and though she’s failed, broken that promise, on a day like today, she has faith that he wouldn’t.

He came home after all, and he never pushed when she’s said no, said go, said leave. He’s never failed a vow yet, so surely, this is one he will keep. Surely, he’ll at least let her try to speak to him, if only enough to discuss, to give words to the greyness that bubbled up that day that the war ended and he’d come home.

On another day, maybe she’ll laugh at herself for her hope, for the naivety, but on this day, Sablya Taylor has no intentions of letting a past or future version of herself stop her for at least today. After all, she’d heard from a neighbor that Link is back. Wherever it is that he’s gone, he’s back now.

“And looking a good deal in better health then last I saw him!” The old lady had chirped at her over the garden wall yesterday evening as she’d been working at the wash.

It’s a spark, a bit of hope that’s dangerous but oh so powerful, and it has her setting out that very morning.

She’s not sure if it’s the castle or an inn he’ll visit, because Hylia knows it won’t be his mother’s place, not on the slim chance that Mister Taylor the senior will actually be there. Of all the things that have changed, she knows for a fact that Link’s relationship with his step-father will be the last to do so; the two men despise each other, and to have them in the same room, never mind sleeping in the same house, would take a genuine miracle!

Gossip is a sure compass though, and she’s only got to say his name before some shopkeeper or market vendor is pointing the way they last saw a blue scarf trailing.

It’s not long at all either before she sees it for herself.

There he is. Standing tall only a short distance from some stall or another, chatting away in an almost animated fashion with another man.

For a second, her feet stall, freezing.

He looks himself again. Gone are the heavy bags beneath his eyes, the near perpetual five-o'clock-shadow and scowl from too long hours in the office, too many nights in a bar. He’s clean shaven (but gosh does she miss his beard, patchy as it was!), combed but not coiffed, clean but not polished, a laugh on his lips and a scowl on his brow as he nudges at the man beside him.

A man who looks a shocking about like a certain best-friend she knows is dead, hair just a shade or so darker, with hints of auburn, but smile just as toothy and the voice that sounds in answer to her Link just as tinged with Ordon’s drawl.

For a minute, she has to shake herself and question if she hasn’t traveled back in time somehow. Except... except she can’t have, because the scars over his eyes aren’t familiar and the blue scarf is somethings he’s only seen once; when he came home. He’d not had that before, so she knows it can’t be the past

She sort of wishes it was though. It would certainly make this much easier.

Sablya steps towards the two men, lips parting even though she’s got no clue what she’s about to say.

And then they move.

It’s not far, just to another stall, but then the man who could be Gassun’s twin is stepping away and another, brown haired and with a near angelic smile on his lips, takes his place, trading softer words that earn kinder smiles and easier motions than the last.

It takes her a second to work up her nerve, but the moment she does, they’re drifting off again, and once more, another lad comes, though the second man stays, and a boy who she thinks she’s seen linger by her husband’s side before joins the conversation.

It keeps happening that way. She’ll be a second from stepping over, only to start and lose nerve when Link goes to speak to someone else. It’s annoying. She’s annoyed at herself and her own lack of nerve. Pities sakes, what would Mother and Father think o such behavior? What would her grandparents think? Bushka? They’ll all tell her to buck up and talk to her husband! So, with a huff and a heave and as strong of steps as she can manage considering she knows she’s wronged him, Sablya steps over.

And then her feet stop cold again, just an arm’s length away, as another figure glides over.

It’s not the fact that the person is there, not when she’s expecting it now, it’s the way their hand slips into the crook of Link’s arm with a familiarity none of the rest had shown. Its the way they turn to speak to him, drawing his gaze, something dark and dangerous deep in their own. It’s the fact that, unlike the rest who’d come and gone, the figure at Link’s side now wears a skirt and has the fine features of a woman, not a man.

“Darling,” the word is tense, the grip the same, but the dark stare that lifts past heavy lashes, pressing and pointed, has her heart catching up in her throat to see directed at her husband, “I fear I must ask your help.”

It’s nothing, she tries to assure herself It’s normal. Women throw themselves at her husband even with her at his side, they always have. He’s a good-looking man and an honest one too, and she’s never minded before that the world can see it. Now though, now after the war, after everything, after the sorceress, her gut still churns a bit.

She wants him to catch that nimble yet firm hand and tug it off, to step back and ask, in that not yet cold, but very much warning tone what it is that the lady wants. Because, beautiful though the creature on his arm is, enchanting as her gaze must be up close, what with how hypnotizing it nearly is from afar, he’s still a married man. He made a promise, and whether or not they’ve spoken in ages doesn’t change that.

Link’s brows furrow, and she’s ready to see the gentle push, but instead he leans in, just a bit closer, head down and whispers soft as he answers, nearly too low to be heard. “What happened this time?” Fervent, worried, attentive, not a bit of hesitation in his manner and gaze fixed solely on the vision beside him.

There’s a wince, the grip of that hand tightening and his coming to settle over the top, assuring, comforting, promising in motions she herself knows so well and hates to see granted to another. As though unawares though, the other woman goes on. “I fear our girls have gotten to mischief.”

Our girls? Surely, she doesn’t mean-

Link stiffens slightly, tensing in the shoulders. “All of them?”

A nod. “Five magics, all going mad, and believe it or not, dear captain, they’re scattered.”

Link sighs. That great, heavy sort of thing he won’t sound unless he’s truly comfortable in a person’s presence. It’s a sort of pride of his own, she’s often thought, that he won’t falter before any save those he trusts, and the implications of it sounding in the space between himself and this other woman makes her heart scream. “Why did we think this was a good idea?”

“Having kids?” The woman sighs in kind, “we didn’t. It happened, and now we have seven gremlins to mind and stop from destroying this city.”

“Let’s get to it then,” and he’s striking out a couple whispers late, parting now but with a wry smile that the other echoes, moving off in the other direction calmly as though trying her hardest not to attract attention. Link doing the same in the opposite direction, no doubt with direction from the dark-eyed lady on where to go.

She could follow him.

She could follow the lady, but desperately, she both does and doesn’t want that woman to know. There’s no ring on his hand, not with his profession being what it is, so, surely another woman might make a mistake. The fact of it is clear though; she is something to him, but the desperate hope that the lady didn’t know battles with the wish that Link has somehow been tricked, seduced by the siren’s song of that woman’s sweet voice, perhaps under the spell of the magic that drapes over her like a cloak. She wants to believe it’s not his fault, yet the idea of blaming the lady seems so wrong without knowing for sure.

She should follow him.

She should stalk after and drag him to the side, out of sight and earshot and demand to know what she just saw. Yes, they’re separated, but could he not do her the basic dignity of divorce if he was so set on starting again? She has her failings, and she’s aware that they’re significant, but regardless, that isn’t an excuse!

Or is it? Is she to blame? Was it her words and actions?

And yet, her feet move without though, mind spinning, there were children mentioned. Not one- seven. Seven children, and while certainly the lady looks young, she’d also said it happened by chance. No one in their right mind, not even Link with his bleeding heart for strays and street kids, would adopt or take on seven children. She knows he took two, in the war, under his wing. She knows she’d been bitter, thinking he was replacing their own lost little one with blonde-haired boys he hoped would fill a hole.

But seven? With a woman like that? And all old enough to wander, freely? To have magic?

The captain’s wife has the sinking feeling that such a thing wouldn’t be possible in the time since the war ended and their marriage had followed suit. Even if her words did somehow drive Link to break a vow, a promise, his own honor and her heart with it, the times wouldn’t match.

He’d have to have had met this woman long before, and the children- gods, is she the second woman?

Her mind spins and trips on itself, feet the same until she finds herself on a street she can’t name, ducking into the nearest ally to drop her head to her hands and breathe.

She can’t cry. She won’t cry. If she cries than she’ll never stop and-

“Are you okay, miss?”

Sablya starts, dashing what tears had escaped away and turning about to the source of the voice, finding a young figure before her. It could be a child, but then again, it might not be. Whatever they are, boy, girl, young or grown, they’re staring at her with warm amber eyes and a worried frown.

“Pardon?”

“You seem upset,” the short figure observes, blinking up at her slowly, gaze weighted more than it should be for so young a person. “is everything alright?”

She means to answer, to say she’s fine. Regardless of anything, she won’t be admitting her troubles or ruined marriage to a random stranger, but it’s at that very moment that Fate chooses to spit in her face and another figure darts around the corner on the far side of the alley, calling out. “Scarlet, luv, come along, your sister-” and the words cut off.

She stares.

The dark-eyed woman stares back.

Of all the chances, of all the people, she does not expect it to be the same lady as took her own husband’s arm with such certainty, but yet, here she is. Here she is, pretty and powerful, if not physically than at least with magic far exceeding Sablya’s own.

Link likes powerful women, she finds herself thinking, bitter. He likes strong women. He likes women who stand with confidence as the lady before her does now, even as confusion touches ethereal eyes. He likes women who entrance him, and no doubt, anyone would be so before this figure.

“Mama,” and oh gods, is this one of those seven? “I don’t think she’s okay.”

The strange lady steps forwards, magic reaching, cautious but gentle, eyes searching and ears flicking. “Are you hurt, miss?”

Her heart is irrevocably shattered into a million pieces, if that answers the question.

The sweet face of the strange, young yet world weary, and still somehow near regal despite tattered dress, creases up in a frown. “Is there anything we can help with?”

She wants to say yes. She wants to demand answers. She wants to whisper a plea to tell her it’s a lie, that she’s wrong, but in the same breath, she’s looking into the face of the younger, the child, her Link’s child, and wondering how on earth she could dare to shatter a second family after ruining her own. Does this kid deserve to be told something so terrible? Does this lady? Could she leave them in peace and let Link go on, happy as he’d looked beside them, weary but warm, himself again like he hasn’t been in forever?

As though to add insult to injury, the man in question himself rounds the corner a second later, four more children, near identical save the one’s dark hair, all on his heels. “I see you found Perri and Scarlette already, which is a blessing because-” the words die as he looks up from small figures to where she and the other woman stand, now both having turned.

Link’s eyes widen, feet stuttering as he draws up sharp. “Oh shit.”

“Language!” One of the kids pipes up, only for a sibling to slap a hand over their mouth.

She can’t move.

Link doesn’t seem to be able to either.

“You know her?” The lady asks.

Link’s gaze is heavier than the very sky and it’s every star, his words clipped and short. “That’s my wife.”

Dark eyes turn on her in a moment, now also wide. She expects a scream, a hiss, maybe tears exploding forth as they threaten to from her own soul, perhaps a fit of rage as magic snaps and growls. Instead though, the strange lady just sags, hands over her face and a heavy sigh seeming to carry her last breath intro the alleyway. “I hate my life.”

“Second that.”

“Well thanks,” and the sugar sweet tone is abruptly gone, the gentle manner lost as a scowl, so drastically different from the angelic expression before that it would almost be comedic if it wasn’t so confusing, is shot Link’s way. “Stick a knife in my heart yourself, why don’t you.”

“Vet!”

“A wife?” and there it is, “you didn’t think to say something?”

“What, like you would have believed me?”

“I procured you a fake wedding ring and- you know what, no,” hands fly up and the stranger, who is suddenly so much less gracious and gentle and is now a whole new person altogether, something that leaves Sablya floundering at the sight of, is turning to look at her. “You must be so confused.”

“Oh shit.” Link sounds again, more emphatic this time.

“Hi,” and the expression of exhaustion that joins an outstretched hand held her way nearly makes her feel ready to keel over herself, “I’m terribly sorry. I’m a friend of your horrid husband and I would like to assure you right here and now that I am not sleeping with him, nor will I ever.”

Link chokes.

Sablya stares.

The... lady(?) draws back, apparently realizing her hand won’t be taken and that Sablya herself might not be able to even properly think at the moment. “I can only imagine what you just saw, or are thinking, and because Link here is shit at explaining crap to do with anything in this regard, I’ll do the honors.” Words followed with a mutter to the ground of “someone kill me,” that, despite everything, she somehow doesn’t manage to take personally.

Which is how she ends up leading six strangers and her estranged husband back to her house and the privacy it offers, to be told a story around her kitchen table by a boy who looks like a goddess about how he, a wolf-man, and four of the five not actually children in the current company had accidentally convinced not only Castletown but the whole country, in multiple eras of history, that Link was married to a goddess and the father of seven children.

In short, it is not how she expected to finally sit down with her husband, but after the whirlwind she just suffered, it does ease some tension between them when the story ends and she finds herself breaking down into a hysteric combination of laughter and tears that leaves everyone else staring awkwardly and her own husband, her Link, her not a cheater and, in fact, still true to his word Link, trying his very best to help her calm down enough to breathe again. In all honesty, it’s almost all worth it. Especially when Link gives up talking and she finds him setting an arm around her shoulders instead. He’s all hesitant and slow, wary, but when she doesn’t push him off, he eases and, a second later, tugs her in close like he used to on grey afternoons before the fire.

They're both shaking.

She’s not sure if or when her hand will ever unwind from that blasted scarf of his, but, somehow, she doesn’t think it will happen before his head lifts from her shoulder.

Blessedly though, her husband’s friend sees fit to usher the rest out, leaving them alone.

It’s not how she planned to sit down and talk things out with Link, but if anything, this will most certainly make for an interesting story for him to tell someday. Once, of course, they’ve made up and a very, very long time has passed so that she can actually laugh at this all. A very long time indeed.

As long as he wants that time, that is.

She hopes he does. She doesn’t want it without him.

#asks and answers #linked universe #linkeduniverse #lu legend #lu warriors #lu four #TBBU sablya #Ketto writes #the Violet incidents #sort of #it's not cannon to the series #just a crossover au of the Violet Au and my first ever fic series #aka: what if Wars' was actually married and Incidents still happened anyway

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itsacruelsummerbaby · 11 hours ago

Text

THE PATH WE CHOOSE

There’s a group of girls who only audit his class because of him–you’re one of them. But with you, there’s a pull, one he wants to resist so he can make you a proper student of his.

pairing: Spencer Reid x reader || tags: post-prison!Spencer, fem!reader, age gap, professor-student relationship || wc: 3.2k

It’s quite a big disappointment to find out you are only attending his classes as a guest to see him, not because you’re that interested in the topic. But he can’t be mad at you, he’s far too gone in a fantasy world to care about the why; all that matters is that you’re there, looking at him with those beautiful wide, shining eyes, occasionally biting on those rosy lips of yours.

What he would give to have a taste of them.

But then he manages to swim back to the surface from the depths of his thoughts, returning his focus on the class. The class that’s full of young women who are sitting in the front row with that dreamy look on their faces, admittedly auditing probably just to see him. Is his subject really so boring? To him, it’s everything but, yet the number of actual students is concerning. It’s easy to wonder what’s the point of this.

Surprisingly, he grew to enjoy teaching, which always makes him smile, because over ten years ago he would have freaked out in front of a crowd like this. But spending time with his second family taught him a lot, it evolved his social skills, so now he was truly in his element here. Not as much as he was in the BAU, but enough to think about this as a permanent thing after leaving the team.

Because sooner or later it will happen, he can’t do that job forever. It’s too demanding, it’s too dangerous, and maybe one day he will wish for a simple life that doesn’t involve serial killers. Yes, if he keeps teaching, he will talk about them, but at least he wouldn’t be actively hunting them. That’s better. Safer. And maybe he can finally think about having a proper relationship, about marrying someone one day, or even about having a child, maybe…

It would be with you.

Damn it, no, stop, he tells his brain as he leans back in the chair in the bullpen, pressing the heels of his hands to his forehead. He’s been having these same thoughts since he last saw you in class a week ago, repeating in his mind over and over and over again like a broken record, plaguing every moment of his days and nights. He can’t remember ever being so obsessed with another human being, which sometimes truly scares him.

There will be a day when you won’t show up. There will be a class that will be the very last time he sees you, and the thought scares him. But if he could convince you to attend his class officially, not just auditing it, then he would have more time to spend with you. And more time can give him the chance to show you just how good he could be to you.

Oh, come on, stop already, he practically yells at himself on the inside.

“Is everything okay?” Penelope’s cheerful voice is acting like a beacon that shows him the way back to reality, and when he looks over at her, refusing–or rather not really knowing how–to answer, she playfully boops his nose with the top of her pen. “Alright, genius, talk to me. What’s on your mind?”

“I’m just… It’s a student I can’t stop thinking about.” With a dramatic hum, she sits on the edge of his desk and twirls the pen in her hand as she waits for him to continue. “I’m not an idiot, I know perfectly well there is a group of girls who are only auditing my class because they think I’m “cute” as one proper student pointed out a few weeks ago,” he begins to explain.

Before he can move on, Penelope’s eyes widen as she gasps. “She’s one of them, isn’t she? Because she must be one of those girls, otherwise you wouldn’t have mentioned it,” she points out.

He closes his eyes as he leans back, then lets out an annoyed groan. It’s not directed at his friend, more like at the situation in general. Why can’t he simply forget you exist? It would make things so much easier, but no, his memory is forcing him to remember everything about you.

In the end, he looks back at his friend, but before he could say anything, she lets out a laugh. “Oh, wait, you actually like this girl, don’t you?” Penelope asks, leaning down so she can keep her voice down. “Oh, my God, this is so adorable. What’s her name? I want to know everything about her, and you know how good I am at this.”

That’s true; she’s the master of snooping around, finding out everything about people from behind the computer screen, and if she wants to help, who is he to stop her? Maybe she will find a dark secret that can finally make him forget about you, although deep down he highly doubts it could work.

Less than half an hour later he leans back in the swivel chair in Penelope’s office, staring at the ceiling as he tries to process what she has found out about you. There was no dark secret, not even a simple red flag, you’re just as perfect as you look. You have excellent grades, you’ve been playing lacrosse since high school, and you’re working at a vet clinic after school.

“She’s smart, kind, and pretty. So, if she’s not a student of yours, maybe you could ask her out,” Penelope suggests, earning a surprised look from him. “I know, I know, she’s a little younger than you–”

“A little?” Spencer asks with a doubtful edge to his voice.

“Listen, I’m saying this as your friend. There’s a girl who obviously likes you, one who’s probably intelligent enough to keep up with your beautiful brain, you should give this a chance. Just one date, that’s all.”

He exhales slowly as he thinks, trying hard to decide what to do. “Maybe you’re right,” he begins, and Penelope squeals from happiness, which he shuts down with a raised hand, “but she also seems interested in the class. She answers if I ask them a question, she’s taking notes, so if I can convince her to take the class properly, she might choose this career in the end.”

His friend only rolls her eyes. “Right. You really want her to choose her career over you?” she wonders.

Spencer nods. “She’s talented, it would be a shame if she wasted it just to be with me.”

“You’re my best friend, you know that, but right now you’re an idiot. Do what you want, don’t get me wrong, but in the end you’ll regret choosing this path with her,” she tells him with a shrug.

With a sigh, he looks up at the ceiling. Maybe there is no right choice, maybe it doesn’t matter what he does, the result will be the same. If he asked you out, then what? You can still say no and break his heart with that. “I’m screwed,” he mutters as he closes his eyes.

Don’t get too hooked on his stupidly handsome features and beautiful brain.

As you’re sitting in your car in the parking lot, your forehead resting against the steering wheel, you keep repeating this sentence like a mantra. Maybe if you say it enough times, you will be able to resist his charm.

Dr. Spencer Reid is the bane of your existence, the reason why you can’t sleep at night, why you’re losing your grip on reality. These days you’ve been daydreaming more and more often, imagining a life where he genuinely cares about you, where you’re his girlfriend.

It’s ridiculous, you know it, and you should get him out of your mind, especially because he’s your professor. He’s off-limits. But how? You don’t know what could be the best solution, the medicine to your suffering.

You’re knocked out of your thoughts by a sudden knock on the window. “Fuck,” you mutter with a groan.

Jonah is watching you with a huge smile on his face, even waving at you before signaling to get out of the vehicle. You inhale and exhale to push your previous thoughts aside, then open the door to do as he wishes.

“Is everything okay?” he asks while you lock the car.

You nod, then begin to follow him towards the entrance of the building, feeling as your heart rate keeps crawling higher and higher. You don’t want to go to class, not today, not when you’re ovulating and have all those nasty thoughts about the guy who’s gonna talk in the next hour and half.

“You know what I still can’t wrap my head around? Why are you attending Dr. Reid’s class?” he brings up the topic you would rather avoid.

Since your answer isn’t the one he would probably like to hear, you just shrug. “I don’t know, maybe I just wanna know if I should take it next semester,” you lie.

But is it really a lie?

He lets out a thoughtful hum while you both occupy your usual places in the second row. It’s close, but not too close. Just perfect. You take out your laptop from its case, but before you could open it, you freeze, because you can hear the chatter around you die, and you feel a pair of eyes on you–and it’s not your friend’s.

No, these are the beloved professor’s hazel eyes, and when you raise your gaze to meet his own, the murmurs around you fade away, making it feel like it’s just the two of you there. But it doesn’t last long, he quickly looks down at his watch, then claps his hands once to get the class’s attention.

Half an hour later a chat message pops up on your laptop, and you glance at your friend when you see he’s the one who chose this silent way of communication.

Jonah: Are you sure you’re not just trying to please Reid to get his attention by being active during class despite not going for the grades? Jonah: No shaming, he’s good-looking in a nerdy way, I get it if you’re head over heels for the guy. You: I have no idea what you’re talking about. It’s an interesting topic, I can’t help myself. Also, he’s not my type.

A big fat lie. Bravo.

Jonah: Sure.

Blowing out the air you’ve been subconsciously holding, you shake your head and return your attention to the lecture. It’s another anecdote, the story of a dangerous serial killer, a cannibal, no less.

Jonah: Have you noticed that he keeps looking at you? Or am I just seeing this because we’re talking about him?

You shoot him an angry look, then simply close the messaging app. But he doesn’t give up, your phone starts buzzing, the screen lighting up to show you the previews of his messages.

During today’s class, Spencer often has a brief second when he forgets what he was talking about. It doesn’t last long, his students probably don’t even notice the brief break in his speech, but to him, this equals a disaster. He’s not like this, he doesn’t just trail off for no reason.

Well, okay, not for no reason. All he can think about whenever his eyes fall on you are Penelope’s words.

Is convincing you to take his class properly the right choice? She was right, he feels something, a pull that can’t be ignored that easily, and if a day when you’re not simply auditing his class comes, he would lose his chance to ask you out on a date. You would be his student, so he would have to face the consequences if he dared to make a move on you.

But then he asks a question, and you’re one of the three students who bother to raise their hands. He doesn’t miss the way the young man on your right snickers at the sight of you being so involved, but he can also see you shoot a warning look at him. It’s hard not to wonder what this is all about, what previous conversation triggered this silent exchange–because there had to be a reason.

In the next few milliseconds, he has to make a choice. Should he ask you? He wants to see if you got the answer right, but at the very same time he has his doubts about talking to you.

He has never done that, and he has no idea what it would lead to. Would he simply fall deeper into this rabbit hole of emotions? Would his voice give away that he’s uncertain about everything when it comes to you?

In the end, he gathers the strength to say your name.

And you got it right. Oh, that beautiful brain of yours.

Years of training led to an annoying habit, though. He instinctively profiles people in situations, just like he’s profiling you now while moving on with today’s lecture. He could hear that slight tremble in your voice which gave away that you were nervous–was it because you weren’t sure about the answer, or because you had to talk to him?

For the rest of the class, he tries to focus on what he has to say, doing his best not to look at you, but it’s hard. The temptation is there, and after a while he finds himself scanning the crowd of students only for his gaze to linger a second too long where you’re sitting. When your eyes meet, you bite on your lower lip and look down at your laptop.

He eventually dismisses the class, but then he opens his mouth and your name spills out without a warning. You look surprised, and for a moment he wonders if he made the right call. What should he bring up? His plan to convince you to take his class properly, or to ask you out on a date?

Maybe this wasn’t his brightest idea.

Every fiber in your body wants to run as far from him as possible. He’s a profiler–a really good one–he definitely notices simple things like someone having a crush on them. You’re not even sure if you can keep up a conversation with him for longer than a minute before your thoughts trail off, moving on to his sharp jawline you love so much.

You’re only a visitor here, if he finds you have a crush on him, he might ask you not to come back. But how could you stay away when seeing him is like a drug, giving you the kind of sweet high that can recharge your batteries faster than anything?

Your legs are shaking as you move closer to him, but you focus on your breathing. Inhale. Exhale. And again. And again. It can’t be that bad, it’s just a brief conversation. Yes, that’s what you have to focus on. Inhale. Exhale. And repeat.

“Is everything okay?” he asks you when you get close enough.

Nodding, you gulp and pull on the strap of your laptop bag over your shoulder. “Is something wrong, Professor Reid?”

He hesitates for a moment, or so you think it’s hesitation, and then he licks his lips, a move that sparks your imagination. No, no, you shouldn’t think about what you want that tongue to lick, or what he must taste like. Stop, enough, you tell yourself. You take a deep breath as you wait, your heart beating so fast it might jump out of your ribcage.

“There’s something I don’t understand,” he begins as he folds his arms over his chest. “You’re taking notes, you’re interacting in class, you remember things, yet you’re only auditing this class. Why don’t you take it properly? You’re good, you would get good grades, or,” he says, but trails off.

What is it that he wanted to say? “Or?” you say, the words coming out before you could stop yourself.

Dr. Reid lets out a sigh as he rests his hips against the edge of his desk. “You have talent, you would be a good profiler,” he admits.

That’s flattering, really, but not what you want to hear.

“Look, why don’t you take my class next semester? Until then, you could join us for a summer internship at the FBI,” he suggests casually.

Your eyes widen from surprise, because that you haven’t expected. Wow, an internship? And what was that us? Did he mean the FBI in general, or his team, the BAU? If it was the latter, that would be the coolest thing ever. Except…

Except you would spend more time by his side. Pure torture.

You take a deep breath, then somehow manage to force yourself to look at him. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” At first, he gives you a surprised look, but then a barely visible smile appears on his lips as he nods. “Where do I apply for that internship?”

“I’ll help you from the inside and get everything ready. Hopefully you’ll only have to take care of the paperwork,” he explains.

There’s something about his voice, the way it becomes just a tad bit higher, his speech speeding up more and more with each word he says, and there’s a slight tremble from either nervousness or excitement. If you didn’t know any better, you would say he sounds exactly like a guy who’s talking to his crush for the first time to ask her out. But could that be the case? It seems highly unlikely, it must be your imagination.

The offer is nice, though. You’re only doing this because it would be nice to work there.

Great. Now you’re lying to yourself too.

Back in his office, Spencer picks up his phone from the desk and looks for Penelope’s contact. It’s her fault, the least she can do is listen to his ramblings about what he’s just done. It rings once, twice, at the third ring he begins to wonder why she’s not picking up, but then he hears her cheerful voice and lets out the air he’s been holding.

“Remember that girl from my class? I think I just promised to get her an internship at the BAU,” he says quickly.

There’s silence on the other end of the line for a few moments, but then she goes, “Oh, Spencer, when I told you to ask her out, I mean dinner, or a movie, not a summer internship she can spend by your side.”

He lets his forehead hit the desk with a loud thud. “I’m an idiot.”

“When it comes to her? Yes, you are,” Penelope agrees, then lets out a sigh. “Okay, why don’t you come over tonight? We could order something to eat and watch a movie. And we can talk about her if you feel like it.”

“Sure,” he agrees, even though he just wants to crawl into a hole and die right now.

#i wrote it as one piece and reposted it #there'll be one-shots with them in the future #spencer reid #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #penelope garcia

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wonwoosmagnetic · 2 days ago

Text

No Saints Here | kmg

Pairing : bodyguard!mingyu x rich!reader

Genre : angst, romance, mystery

synopsis :

Some secrets are meant to stay buried. Some love stories were never meant to begin.

Evangeline Perez thought she buried the past along with her sister. But when whispers of the truth resurface, she finds herself tangled in a web of secrets, power, and deception—one that could cost her everything.

Mingyu is a complication she never asked for. Cold, relentless, and far too protective, he’s determined to keep her from chasing ghosts. But Eva has never been one to obey orders, and the deeper she digs, the harder it becomes to ignore the tension pulling them together.

Because some things refuse to stay in the dark.

And some hearts are doomed from the start.

CHAPTER THREE

"You’re too tense," Lia had said, her voice laced with amusement as she stirred her coffee. "You act like the world is resting on your shoulders all the time."

Mingyu exhaled sharply, leaning back in his seat. "Because it is."

Lia rolled her eyes. "Dramatic much?"

He smirked but said nothing. She always saw through him, no matter how much he tried to keep his walls up.

"You should let yourself breathe once in a while, Mingyu."

He scoffed. "Says the woman who never takes a break."

Lia hummed, tapping her fingers against her mug. "Maybe. But I have my reasons."

There was something wistful in her tone, something almost unspoken. Mingyu had wanted to ask, but he didn’t.

Instead, he just watched as she glanced out the window, her gaze distant.

"Sometimes, we don’t have all the time we think we do," she murmured, almost to herself.

He slowly opened his eyes, pushing the memory down before it could swallow him whole. It had been happening more lately—Lia slipping into his thoughts uninvited, her voice whispering between the cracks of his mind.

Mingyu let out a quiet breath, forcing his focus outward. That’s when he saw you.

Standing a few meters ahead, deep in conversation with Caro.

His stomach twisted.

The resemblance was uncanny. The same sharp gaze, the same delicate bone structure, the same damn eyes. But that’s where the similarities ended. Lia had carried a quiet sadness, the kind that settled into the corners of her smile. You, on the other hand, held yourself like you had nothing to lose. As if you were ready to fight the world before it could take anything from you.

And yet… something about you felt familiar. Not in the way you looked, but in the way you existed. Like a puzzle piece he didn’t realize he had lost.

Mingyu clenched his jaw. It was ridiculous. You weren’t her.

And yet, for reasons he couldn’t quite name, he couldn’t look away.

-------

“So, I’m meeting Elias for lunch today.” You keep your voice low, barely above a whisper. Caro groans, her face twisting in frustration. “You’re actually going through with this?” You cross your arms. “Of course, Caro. I need to know why my family is so hell-bent on keeping me away from him. Like they suddenly give a damn about me.” Your voice hardens. “I need to understand why they sent Mingyu after me like some damn attack dog—with a gun, no less.” Caro sighs, dropping onto a nearby bench, picking at her waffles. “This isn’t going to end well.” You exhale, rubbing your temples. “I know. But I don’t have a choice. I can’t just sit around and do nothing.” Caro looks at you, unimpressed. “There’s a difference between doing nothing and running straight into a burning building.” You scoff. “Then I guess I’ll find out how bad the fire really is.” She glares. “That’s not funny.”

You shrug, but the truth is, none of this feels funny. None of this feels like something you can just brush off. There’s something deeper, something no one is telling you. Caro leans forward, her voice quieter now. “And what if Elias is exactly who they say he is? What if they’re actually trying to protect you?” You pause for half a second before shaking your head. “Then they should’ve told me the truth instead of playing these games.” Caro chews on her bottom lip, staring at you for a moment. “You’re really not gonna let this go, are you?” “No.”

She exhales heavily, tossing the rest of her waffle into the container. “Alright. If you’re gonna do this, at least be smart. Meet him somewhere public, text me the location, and for the love of God, do not go anywhere alone with him.” A smirk tugs at your lips. “You sound like my babysitter.” “I sound like the only sane person in your life,” she corrects. “And what about Mingyu?” "That is one thing I need your help with." You look at her pleadingly.

Caro throws her head back with an exaggerated groan. “You have actually lost your mind.”

You clasp your hands together in a pleading gesture. “It’s just thirty minutes, Caro. You don’t even have to do much—just keep him busy.”

She levels you with an incredulous look. “Keep Mingyu busy? The same guy who stormed in like a damn action movie villain? Yeah, sure. Let me just ask him about his favorite rom-coms and hope he forgets about murder.”

You sigh. “You’re being dramatic.”

“No, you’re being reckless,” she snaps, pointing a fork at you. “You’re walking straight into a trap, and now you want me to babysit the guy who’s probably plotting ten different ways to take out Elias as we speak.”

“Caro.” You look at her, your expression softening. “I wouldn’t ask if I had another option.”

She presses her lips together, shaking her head. “I hate you.”

“I love you.” You flash her your best hopeful smile.

She exhales sharply. “You owe me so much for this.”

“I’ll buy you coffee for a week.”

“Try a month.”

You bite back a groan. “Fine. A month.”

You sigh, running a hand through your hair. "Look, I just need a distraction. Take him for coffee, pretend you have some urgent favor to ask him, I don’t know—flirt a little."

Caro chokes on absolutely nothing. "Excuse me?"

You resist a smirk. "Oh, come on, you’ve flirted with worse."

Her glare sharpens. "First of all, rude. Second of all, I would rather die than flirt with Mingyu. Third, he would see through me in ten seconds."

"Not if you’re convincing enough," you argue. "You’re a great liar when you want to be."

"Gee, thanks," she deadpans.

You huff. “I’ll figure something out.”

“You better.” She stabs her waffle with unnecessary force. “Because if this goes wrong, you know he’ll take it out on me.”

“I won’t let that happen.”

Caro lets out a dry laugh. “Right. Because you’ll be so available to save me while you’re having lunch with the guy everyone keeps warning you about.”

You wince. “Okay, fair point.”

She shakes her head, muttering under her breath. Then she looks up at you, her expression more serious. “Eva, are you sure about this? Like, really sure?”

You hesitate, just for a second. Then you nod. “I need to do this, Caro. I need answers.”

Caro exhales, rubbing her temples. “Fine. But if I die because of your dumbass plan, I’m coming back to haunt you.”

You grin. “Noted.”

---

Caro peeked into the living room and instantly regretted it.

Mingyu was standing by the window, arms crossed, exuding a level of intensity that made her insides shrivel. He looked like the main character of some noir film—brooding, mysterious, and very much not someone she should be bothering right now.

She could leave. She should leave.

Instead, she made the absolute worst decision and cleared her throat—way too loudly.

Mingyu turned, dark eyes landing on her.

Caro froze. “Uh. Hi.”

Mingyu just raised an eyebrow.

She pointed vaguely behind her. “I was just—uh—walking. Past. And then I thought, ‘Hey, why not…uh…check if the air is good in here?’”

Silence.

Eva, hidden behind the doorway, slowly dragged a hand down her face.

Mingyu just stared. “The air?”

“Y-yeah.” Caro nodded way too fast. “You know, like, sometimes different rooms have different…air qualities?”

Oh God. What was she even saying?

Mingyu blinked. “Right.”

Caro coughed and shuffled further into the room, trying to act normal but failing miserably by walking like a malfunctioning robot. “Sooo…” she dragged out, flopping onto the couch. “Do you…uh…do this often?”

Mingyu looked at her like she was an unsolvable puzzle. “Do what?”

“Lurk. Stand around. Look like you’re plotting a murder.”

Mingyu exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I’m not lurking.”

Caro squinted at him. “You totally are.”

He didn’t reply.

She tapped her fingers on her knee, forcing herself not to fidget. “Sooo, uh, what are you doing? Like, actually?”

Mingyu turned back toward the window. “Keeping an eye on things.”

“Vague.”

Silence.

You pressed both palms to your face. This was physically painful to witness.

Caro shifted in her seat. “You know, I—uh—used to think you were scary,” she blurted out.

Mingyu glanced at her. “Used to?”

Caro let out a nervous laugh. “Yeah. But now I think you’re just…uh…very…serious?”

Mingyu didn’t react.

She tugged at the hem of her hoodie. “Which is totally fine! Nothing wrong with being serious. I mean, I’m serious. Well, not that serious. But like, sometimes I can be. But not in a broody way, more in a ‘wow, she really overthinks everything’ way, which is honestly worse, because then I start spiraling and—”

Mingyu pinched the bridge of his nose. “Are you always like this?”

Caro snapped her mouth shut. “Like what?”

“This.” He gestured vaguely at her.

She blinked. “Um. Yeah. Kinda.”

Mingyu exhaled. “Great.”

You clenched your jaw. This is taking too long.

Caro, seemingly oblivious to your growing impatience, straightened. “Well, since we’re, uh, talking, I have a question.”

Mingyu gave her a look that screamed do I have a choice?

Before he could answer, Caro suddenly perked up like she just had the best idea in the world. “Wait! Actually, come with me for a second.”

Mingyu frowned. “Why?”

She waved a hand dismissively. “It’s important.”

He stared at her, unimpressed.

You could feel the plan crumbling before your eyes.

Caro pouted. “Come onnn, just humor me.”

Mingyu sighed like he was already regretting every decision that had led him to this moment. But, to your relief, he followed.

You quickly scurried ahead, heart pounding. The plan was simple: shove him into the room, lock the door, and run.

Caro, still rambling about nothing, gestured toward a door. “Yeah, yeah, just in here! Super important thing I need to show you—”

Mingyu barely had time to react before Caro practically shoved him inside and Mingyu caught her hand and she got dragged too.

You didn’t hesitate. You darted forward, slammed the door shut, and turned the lock in one swift motion.

A moment of silence.

Then—

“What the hell?” Mingyu’s voice was sharp, irritated.

You took one breath, two—then bolted down the hallway.

Caro’s voice, muffled through the door: “Uh. So. Funny story—”

Caro.”

“—I think this might not be the room we intended—”

You slapped a hand over your mouth.

No. No way.

“Caroline,” Mingyu’s voice was deadly.

“…Yes?”

“What. Room. Is. This.”

Caro let out a nervous laugh.

“Well. So, funny thing… this is—uh—Seungcheol’s room.”

Silence.

Then Seungcheol, voice dry as hell: “You two want to tell me why I’m locked in my own room with you?”

You turned on your heel and sprinted.

-----

You tapped your fingers against the edge of your glass, eyes flicking up to watch Elias as he skimmed the menu. The restaurant was nothing special—just a quiet, unassuming café tucked between a laundromat and a bookstore, the kind of place no one would think twice about. Perfect for a conversation like this. Elias looked… normal. Too normal. Dressed in a plain black sweater, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, he almost blended in with the other customers. If you didn’t know better, you'd think he was just some regular guy meeting a friend for lunch. But you did know better.

"So," he said finally, setting the menu down. "I wasn't expecting this invitation." You forced a small smile. "Figured it was time we talked." He hummed, tilting his head slightly. "Talk about what?" You shrugged, keeping your expression neutral. "You tell me." A slow, amused smile tugged at Elias's lips as he leaned back in his chair. "You invited me, sweetheart. Shouldn't you have something to say?" You clenched your jaw at the nickname but let it slide. "Fine," you said, leaning in slightly. "Why is my family so desperate to keep me away from you?" Elias didn’t react immediately. Instead, he picked up his water, took a slow sip, and set it back down with deliberate ease. "Now that," he said, "is a very interesting question."

You arched a brow. "And?" His eyes flickered with something unreadable. "And I think you already know the answer." You exhaled sharply, fingers curling into your lap. "If I did, I wouldn’t be here." Elias studied you for a moment, then sighed, like he was deciding how much trouble this conversation was worth. "Your family," he said finally, "isn't exactly known for their honesty. So tell me, Eva—what do you think they’re hiding?" You didn’t blink. "I think it has something to do with you." Elias let out a short, quiet laugh. "Smart girl." Your stomach twisted.

"That doesn't answer my question."

He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table. "Let me give you some advice," he said, voice softer now, almost gentle. "There are some things you're better off not knowing." You swallowed. "And there are some things I can’t afford to ignore." Elias held your gaze for a long moment, then shook his head with a small, knowing smirk. "You really are your sister’s shadow, huh?" Your breath caught for half a second before you forced herself to stay still.

Your pulse hammered in your ears, but you kept your expression steady. "How do you fucking know Lia?" Your voice came out sharper than you intended, but you didn’t care.

Elias simply smirked, like he had been waiting for you to ask. "Now, now," he drawled, tapping his fingers against the table. "That’s not a very polite way to continue a conversation."

"Cut the shit, Elias." You leaned in, your nails digging into your palm beneath the table. "You brought her up for a reason—so answer me."

Elias exhaled, tilting his head like he was considering his next move. Then, slowly, he sat back, shoulders loose, gaze amused. "Lia and I… crossed paths," he said vaguely.

Your stomach twisted. "That’s not an answer."

"It’s the only one you’re getting."

Frustration burned in your chest. He was toying with you, giving you just enough to keep you hooked but not enough to actually tell you anything. "When?"

Elias let out a quiet chuckle. "Persistent."

"Answer me."

He sighed, shaking his head as if you were some naive little thing. "Let’s just say Lia and I had some… mutual interests, once upon a time."

Your grip on your glass tightened. "You’re lying."

Elias arched a brow. "Am I?"

Yes. No. You didn’t know.

What you did know was that your sister never mentioned this man. Not once. And if Lia had been involved with someone like Elias—someone your family clearly saw as dangerous—why had she hidden it?

Unless… they weren’t hiding Elias from you.

They were hiding you from Elias.

The thought sent an uneasy shiver down your spine.

You inhaled deeply, forcing yourself to keep your cool. "Whatever game you’re playing, I’m not interested."

Elias just smiled. "Oh, but you are, sweetheart. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here."

You opened your mouth to snap back, but before you could, a shadow passed over the table as the waiter arrived with their drinks.

"Here you go," the waiter said, setting down the cups. "Anything else I can get for you?"

You shook your head. "No, we’re good. Thanks."

As the waiter walked away, Elias picked up his cup, swirling the liquid inside lazily. "I’ll give you one more piece of advice," he murmured, not looking at you. "If you keep digging, you better be prepared for what you find."

You clenched your jaw. "That almost sounds like a threat."

Elias finally met your gaze again, his smile still in place but his eyes colder now. "It’s a warning."

You exhaled slowly, fingers tightening around the napkin in your lap. You had walked into this dinner thinking you'd get answers. Instead, you were leaving with more questions.

You met Elias’s gaze head-on. “What do you know about her?”

Elias took a slow sip of his drink, watching you over the rim of his cup like he had all the time in the world. “Lia?” he mused, setting it down with a soft clink. “I know quite a bit.”

Your nails dug into your palm beneath the table. “Then start talking.”

Elias exhaled through his nose, a smirk twitching at the corner of his lips. “You remind me of her, you know. Stubborn. Reckless.” His eyes darkened slightly. “Always sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

A chill ran down your spine, but you forced yourself to remain unfazed. “Did you know her well?”

Elias tilted his head, like he was debating how much to give away. “Well enough.”

Vague. Again.

You clenched your jaw. “She never mentioned you.”

His smirk deepened. “That’s because she didn’t want you to know.”

Something sharp twisted in your chest. “Why?”

Elias leaned forward slightly, resting his arms on the table. “Because she was protecting you.”

You felt your breath hitch.

Protecting you?

“What the hell does that mean?” you asked, voice tight.

Elias just watched you, unreadable. Then, after a moment, he shook his head with a quiet chuckle. “You really don’t have a clue, do you?”

Your stomach churned. You wanted to scream at him, to demand he stop playing games and just tell you the truth.

But you couldn’t let him see how much he was getting to you.

Instead, you inhaled sharply and sat back, mirroring his earlier ease. “You like talking in circles, huh?”

Elias hummed. “I like seeing how much you already know.”

You stared at him, searching his face for anything—any crack in his smug exterior that might give you an edge. “She’s dead,” you said, voice flat. “If you know something about what happened to her, I suggest you stop being cryptic.”

Something flickered in Elias’s gaze. Just for a second. But it was enough.

You straightened. “You do know something.”

Elias’s fingers tapped lazily against the table. “I know a lot of things.”

“Did you know her before she died?”

Elias smiled, but this time, it didn’t reach his eyes. “I think you already know the answer to that.”

You pulse pounded in your ears. If he was telling the truth—if Lia had been involved with him before she died—then why had your family never mentioned it?

And more importantly…

Had they known?

You swallowed hard. “What was she protecting me from?”

Elias exhaled, shaking his head. “You really are stupid if you think I am going to tell you that easily."

Elias leaned in, his voice dropping just enough to send a shiver down her spine.

Your eyes narrowed. “What do you want?”

Elias’s smirk returned, slow and deliberate. “Ah, now we’re getting somewhere.” He leaned back in his chair, stretching out like he had all the power in the world. “It’s simple, really. You do something for me, and in return, I give you the truth you’re so desperate for.”

You didn’t trust him—not even a little—but you also knew he had you exactly where he wanted you. He had answers, and you needed them.

Still, you crossed your arms, unimpressed. “You haven’t even told me what you want.”

Elias’s fingers drummed against the table, his gaze flicking over you like he was sizing her up. “There’s something I need retrieved. Something I can’t get myself. And lucky for me, you happen to be in a… unique position to help.”

That set off every alarm in your head. “Why can’t you get it yourself?”

Elias let out a low chuckle. “Because, sweetheart, some doors don’t open for people like me.”

Your stomach tightened. You already knew this was a terrible idea, but you forced yourself to keep your expression neutral. “And what exactly am I retrieving?”

His smile was razor-sharp. “A file. Locked away in a place you have access to.”

A cold weight settled in your chest. “You’re out of your mind if you think I’m stealing from my own firm.”

Elias tilted his head. “Who said anything about stealing? Just take a little peek. Let me know what it says. That’s all.”

You wanted to walk away. Every instinct screamed at you to leave, to cut ties with whatever mess Elias was dragging you into.

But then you thought of Lia.

Of the secrets.

Of the protection you never even knew you needed.

Your pulse hammered as you met Elias’s gaze again. “And in exchange, you tell me everything about Lia?”

Elias smiled like he had already won. “Every last detail.”

You exhaled slowly. You were really going to regret this.

“Fine,” you said. “Tell me what I’m looking for.”

#seventeen angst #seventeen smut #kpop ff #kpop fanfic #mingyu ff #bodyguard romance #scoups ff #seventeen ff #seventeen #kim mingyu #seventeen x reader #mingyu x reader #mingyu

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bikananjarrus · 2 days ago

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vel vel vel vel veeeellllll beloved vel!!!!!!!

this will be another seat of my pants essay so let’s see if i can keep it somewhat coherent.

first off, what a way to introduce a character! the first glimpse we get of her is through luthen’s eyes (and it’s not even a direct line of vision shot because he’s looking through a scope, but i’ll come back to that), and the first lines we hear about her is “you’ll be working for her” … “she’s going to hate this idea to start. she’s going to argue with me.” this sets vel up as someone who is stubborn, and knows what they want, especially in terms of leadership. we find out soon enough that this is very likely her first major leadership position (“you wanted to lead!”) and the way she’s been doing it so far has been working, and she doesn’t bend easily on what works. but she will concede if she knows it’s the best option, which is the case with bringing cassian clem on the team. and this quality of her leadership is absolutely one of my favorite things about her. she will bend and compromise when she needs to (even if sometimes it takes a bit more convincing); but she is also firm and will stand by what she believes. she doesn’t take the nonsense from her team when they start questioning her - she is the leader, and there’s a reason for that! she tells luthen that bringing clem on will tear the team apart, but it doesn’t, and that’s because of HER!!! she keeps them all focused, gets them back on task, and even though the team can tell she’s lying about clem always being part of the plan, she stands firm with the lie and doesn’t rat cassian out. even if she doesn’t trust him, she trusts the rest of her team, and she trusts herself. and this also demonstrates her loyalty, her commitment to other people.

and as a leader, i appreciate that it was clearly a role she wanted, and it’s equally clear that it’s a role she’s good at, but that doesn’t mean she’s not without doubts (see: the scene at the top of the dam). but when we see her have these doubts, it usually comes back to her own abilities, or her own care for the people around her getting in the way, not doubts about her team (again, she trusts them!). even when cassian tells her that skeen wanted to take off with the money, she says he wouldn’t do that - she defends him even though she knows cassian is right.

her loyalty, her leadership, and how much she cares, and cares deeply, for those close to her, are absolutely some of my favorite vel traits, which are particularly demonstrated in the aldhani arc.

now going back to the first shot we see of her + rich chandrilan girl vel. vel, like luthen and cassian, has these layers of masks and personas that she wears. the fact that the first shot we see of her is through a scope that luthen is looking through, that’s not a true image of her. and when we first see vel after the aldhani heist, all dressed up and glamorized, it’s the lifestyle she was born into, but it’s not truly her either. (i think there is definitely a part of her that is inextricably tied to that life of privilege, namely at times when you can tell she wants to be a little selfish, but i will come back to that.) but overall, the rich girl persona is not one she’s most comfortable, for sure not anymore. But she’s still very good at it! she can play the part high society expects of her! and i don’t think her ability to be a chameleon just as well as luthen and cassian is acknowledged nearly enough.

to add, vel says, “we all have our own rebellion.” i think one of vel’s rebellions is being true to herself, and her values, and being a rebel (not a rich girl) allows her to do that. part of her rebellion comes from merely existing, which is so beautiful and incredible.

going back to vel being selfish at times, which isn’t so much selfishness as it’s typically thought of in a negative way, but rather it’s want. it’s desire, and her caring for others, and it sometimes comes wrapped up in these selfish wishes (particularly with cinta) to just leave it all behind.

and to talk about this with cinta, because that’s definitely where we see it the most in the first season, vel wants. she wants cinta so deeply. vel comes from a comfortable background; she has never gone hungry a day in her life before all this, but she’s hungry for cinta. she wants cinta. and i just love that there is a strong, balanced partnership between vel and cinta, they love each other, there is a give and take, but sometimes, vel can’t help but want more. and while she certainly wants it for herself, I think it also comes from a desire to give cinta a life where she can finally be at peace and stop fighting. but vel wants that now; she wants to take cinta and just leave it all behind. and i love that cinta has to remind her that the rebellion comes first, stopping the empire comes first. because they are equal partners, and vel is committed to the rebellion. but this is where vel’s background comes in again—she hasn’t had to fight the empire for so long, from such a young age, in the way that cinta has. for cinta, this is all she knows. they are both equally committed, but sometimes i think vel forgets, slips up, probably thinks she’s asking cinta for more than she should (even though cinta absolutely loves her just as much, but just can’t stop fighting long enough to really show it), and i love that vel still says what she wants. it maybe comes off a little selfish, but it makes her infinitely more interesting. she knows what she wants (cobra & a peaceful life) and she’s not afraid to show it (and i have no idea if that all makes sense, but in short: vel’s “selfish” desires, particularly when it comes to cinta, is one of my favorite things about her.)

and since i am struggling to keep things coherent, i’ll just list a few more things i love about her: running into the smoke (!!!!); her “thank you for trying” to dr. quadpaw after nemik dies; her relationship with mon and leida; her sad little face. like has anyone ever had a face as sad as hers? i love it so much.

i could go on it to sum up: i love her and i can’t wait to see her again in s2 <3

Character Appreciation Friday - Vel Sartha

Name: Vel Sartha Played by: Faye Marsay Appearances: Aldhani, The Axe Forgets, The Eye, Announcement, Narkina 5, Nobody's Listening!, Daughter of Ferrix, Rix Road

Happy Friday and happy VELENTINE'S DAY, gang!!! Look I'm not gonna act like this is a normal one because that would be very dishonest of me. This is the most important day of the year for me, and I'd really really really love if everyone would help out with spreading appreciation and love for my number one sad girl rebel.

Please let me know what you appreciate about dear Vel in a reblog, comment, or ask!

Next week: Brasso

#don’t have a computer with me so if there’s typos it’s my phone’s fault. also i know i’m missing a million things #i’ll talk about her more when i make the vel cassian parallels post #but i think (hope) this mostly makes sense!! i just. i love her. she’s SUCH a fascinating character. and i need to see her again NOW #vel sartha #andor series

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itspileofgoodthings · 2 years ago

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it’s the way Ryan Gosling plays Ken’s feelings for Barbie for me. because the feelings are unreal and fake in the way of a doll but they’re also intensely real in the way of his actual personality/who he actually is.

#it’s the way he looks at her sometimes when she isn’t looking at him #and it’s just full of intense longing and vulnerability #so it’s that combination that I love SO much #which is over-the-top cartoonish-ness that’s full of PERSONALITY and excess and conviction #and then this core of -well I already said it but INTENSE vulnerability #it’s Michael Scott in love with Holly. It’s Schmidt in love with Cece #and the way Ryan plays it is even more so because he’s a doll and of course in a real way his love for her is not a real thing #BUT IN AN EVEN REALER WAY——#To paraphrase Michael Scott (!!!!!)#it’s the realest thing anyone in Barbieland has ever known (to paraphrase Taylor)!#like he’s the only one trying to do anything real!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!#and so for me my Barbie takes are all secondhand #because the story they’re telling has some narrative cracks and weaknesses in it #but also I kind of don’t care because they’re not focusing on the story that is the most interesting to me personally #which is this hilarious icon of a cartoon man who is—somewhere in the depths of his little plastic Ken heart—really in love #and I know it seems like I’m just repeating and twisting what the movie DOES say. that he’s in love but it’s fake and he has to get over it #to be his own person #but that’s only the one layer for me!!!!!!#and it’s a true one. I actually love his existential crisis and the moment where he’s forced to be his own person (doll)#and that’s the best thing Barbie could do for him in that moment #but it only addresses part of the situation —the part of his feelings that are fake. it doesn’t actually see or do anything #with the real love that’s also somehow by the magic of personality there #And it pretends it isn’t. BUT IT IS ALSKKSKSJEJJE #like I’m SORRY but he is just an absolute magnet for her and he’s so deeply responsive to her presence underneath all of the exaggeration #it’s in his eyes it’s in his voice!!!!! like. Sorry I know love when I see it akskksksksksjsj #and yeah that love is very decidedly not in her character and at this stage that made sense for it not to be #because of her journey to humanity etc. but I wanted them to do something with that real love in Ken and they don’t even see it #which is OKAY because tbh I’m mostly just delighted that it’s THERE #but yeah. That’s the most interesting part of the movie to me #how could it not be

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fiapple · 9 months ago

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i'm getting towards the end of the skypeia arc, & i'd like to say just how much i adore the way the female strawhats have been treated.

just... every aspect of how the way their characters have been previously contextualized influences the story-line is treated with a masterful amount of consideration. we're given so many layers to both of them that enrich not only their characters specifically, but the arc, and the one piece world as a whole. without nami & robin having their specific skills, and their specific values, without those being built upon, the story would have come to a halt.

you could not have skypeia without nami & robin being who they are as individuals. not just because they never would've gotten there without nami, but also because the way these women think is itself foundational to the machinations of the arc as a whole.

to be totally upfront, if you think any other strawhats were more central to the skypeia arc than nami & robin were you are full-on fucking lying to yourself.

#obligatory disclaimer that i’m aware luffy is the protagonist & a lot of interesting stuff is explored w him. this isn’t abt him though.#part of me wonders if this is an aspect of why people will write off this arc sometimes tbh... like that & the political themes.#but yeah anyway i get why people say that for all there are 100% misogynistic tendencies in oda's writing & character design #it is very very hard to say that he as an individual is an ideological misogynist. like the level of care he puts into his female cast mem #-ers generally speaking & how he approaches what existing as a multi-dimensional individual would look like in their specific contexts is #like... in a lot of ways still something that is unprecedented across all forms of media.#but also not the point but anyone who says nami in particular doesnt get real fights/is unskilled um... no you're wrong read her fight in #alabasta & then all of skypeia.#like in alabasta she takes on arguably a stronger opponent than sanji when considering the structuring of BW. not only that but she does s #with a weapon she has never used before while actively reading the instruction manual. and she WINS. she wins based on sheer intellect &#the ability to utilize skills the audience already knows she has. the pre-existing basic fighting skills she's introduced with are elabora #-ed upon by incorporating her skill w navigation. same with the way her cunning is used in skypeia to cover her lack of sheer brute. &#the best part about it is she's fucking tough in a way that makes sense! she isn't strong/weak just for the sake of positioning her as such #it is thoughtful & it strengthens her as a character rather than just like giving the power-scaler types smth to mindlessly chew on.#like do i wish nami got to fight more & take a more active role in that regard even if i don't think she needs to be a fighter in the same #sense as the monster trio? yes absolutely. i'm guessing this is going to be smth that bothers me potentially even more with robin.#but that does not mean her fights are not masterfully written when she gets them or that she isn't tough as a bag of nails.#respect my darling woman or die.#skypeia #nico robin #nami #grey's one piece tag

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swordmaid · 6 months ago

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having Thoughts about astarion currently and particularly abt him being undead as in I like the idea that he forgets to blink sometimes, and mimic breathing, and his skin is very pallid, his hair is a dull shade of white/grey and his red eyes looks kind of murky and there is no light in them. also like the idea that his face - even tho there’s wrinkles - looks too smooth, almost a mask, like hes very striking in an uncanny way, and if he keeps himself still he looks like a statue of some sort. and he paints colour on himself to look more alive but the pigments sits above his skin, not sinking in, and the only time that his complexion looks flushed and alive is when he’s feeding on something. most esp if he’s full and sated..! like for that brief moment his cheeks are flushed and he looks alive and thriving and panting and his eyes look more vibrant as if there’s life in there but then it disappears gradually. post canon astarion who’s no longer bound by cazador’s orders and who’s more or less free to eat whoever he wants looks more alive than bg3 spawn astarion (I think he is so malnourished in that era) and he has a slight colour on his cheeks bc he’s keeping himself fed but not enough to look fully alive, only just. think ascended astarion looks more alive than spawn though only bc I don’t think he’ll deny his whims and he’ll just eat whoever whenever while spawn has more restraint.

anyway I was also thinking of the possibility that spawn kind of drops that facade of a living creature, and he doesn’t bother putting on his pigments and makeup as much, and he uses less of his perfumes especially when he’s galavanting off to who knows where. maybe in settings if he’s visiting the city or meeting new people he’ll put his perfumes and makeup again - but sometimes he doesn’t, he doesn’t think he needs it. I also think about shri’iia liking his decay corpse smell hehe maybe she’ll find it familiar considering she grew up in the braeryn and there’s probably a corpse dumped in every gutter she’s like oh you smell like home 🥰

#like astarion looks like an embalmed corpse and a statue to me…!!!#that’s the vibe i like going for when I draw him. and it’s so interesting to see his colours compared to shri’iia bc the palette is similar #but the hues are not…! bc she’s alive and he isn’t…!#anyway re his corpse stench - I think shri’iia likes it in a way that people likes gasoline smell #like it’s stinks bad but something abt it smells good. and I think for her it smells familiar in some sicko way lmfao #esp that he probably smells like some decaying how many year old corpse #also think he’s quite vigilant in doing laundry or else his clothes are gonna stink like decay. and I like the idea that when he goes off #to the underdark to visit the underdark coven shri’iia just lounges in one of his shirts sniffing that decay smell #sometimes I get these ideas I’m like is that too weird for her but then it makes sense to her. somehow. so I’m keeping it #shut up about bg3.#bg3 spoilers

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whenthegoldrays · 1 month ago

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#sometimes I think about Big Dramatic Crush #of whom I’ve said comparatively little on here #mostly because there’s nothing to say and I never see him anymore #but it’s also like… you know how I said he was “the way I loved you I will not be embarrassed of that (just should’ve known when to quit)”?#I fear I am becoming increasingly embarrassed of the way I loved him #like idk but when I was into him I had a couple of friends who knew and I’d tell them stuff #just what was going through my head at any given moment and all my delusions and things #but nowadays I occasionally feel like … oh I could tell this as an anecdote right? I liked him and isn’t that almost funny?#but I CAN’T DO IT I CAN’T #even if it’s someone I feel I can trust! I can’t trust them with who it was or how or like… why #god I was so madly in love with him and when I look back at my slightly younger self I think girl WHY. why did you subject yourself to that #because in truth he was out of my league (and that is not a thing I say lightly or even have a habit of saying)#I always had no chance and the way I DRAGGED IT OUT #two years hung up on this man! two years of my young life!!!!!#it’s actually pathetic and I feel bad for younger Elly and her big dreams but she was so dumb for that #idk why I brought this up EITHER #it’s just midnight and the swirling thoughts are getting me and it’s the way I feel right now #feel free to ignore etc etc

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fanfoolishness · 2 months ago

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Just losing my mind at the implications that the companions have all been trying to help Rook grieve Varric, and Rook doesn’t know

Emmrich, wise and long-familiar with grief, being told by Neve and Harding what happened; understanding why sometimes he overhears Rook’s muffled voice in the Infirmary, talking to no one. He takes Rook to the Memorial Gardens and mentions he talks to his parents, thinking Rook might be comfortable with the same. Rook lights candles and rings bells but Emmrich watches, sorrowed, to see Rook still seems in deep denial.

Neve takes Rook to the Wall of Light; a Shadow Dragon Rook knows just what this means but any Rook can understand the solemnity, the power of remembrance. Neve reenergizes Brom’s light and looks to Rook, hoping Rook will mention wanting to make one for Varric. Rook is kind and comforting to Neve, but Neve is lost in wondering why Rook doesn’t take the chance to open up. She can’t figure it. Maybe Rook just can’t face it, not yet. Maybe Rook does something privately. She isn’t sure but it nags at her.

Davrin’s not big on talking about feelings. He’d rather just move on. But he sees the way Rook seems a little hollow sometimes, a little distant; he sees how Rook takes so quickly to Assan. “Hey Rook,” he says, and invites them to come with him and Assan to safe places in Arlathan, where the woods are clean and green and growing, where real sunlight dapples through the trees. Rook always seems to love these outings, seems lighter afterwards. But Davrin feels a little confused in that Rook never seems to realize the outings are mostly for them.

Taash is another person not big on feelings. But they know how much feelings can twist you up and mess with your head. When Lace tells them about Varric they feel badly for Rook, and think to how they feel when they’re struggling. Epic fights, dragon fights, drinks with the Lords. Taash is perfectly capable of doing all that on their own. But maybe bringing Rook along will help get them out of their head a little bit. Does it help? Taash isn’t sure.

Bellara’s double-versed in grief after what happens to Cyrian. Rook helped her through trying to reach him, and Bellara wonders, in her own pain, if she can help Rook a little bit too. Especially if Rook is elven, teaching Rook about the braziers and the challenges is another tool she can share about her or their people, another way that might help Rook with their grief. Neve’s told her that the Wall of Light didn’t seem to help Rook much, but maybe a different funeral tradition could help them instead. Rook helps her light the braziers and Bellara feels her heart lightening, though she wonders at Rook, who seems more moved by Bellara’s reactions than anything else.

Lucanis is nearly as allergic to dealing with feelings as Davrin is, but he immediately clocks how Neve and Harding are acting, and asks what happened before he joined them. They tell him about Varric and that they’re worried about Rook, that Rook seems to just be shoving those feelings down without dealing with them. Lucanis is no stranger to that, but while it’s fine for him, he doesn’t want to see someone who risked their life to save him share that struggle. He brings Rook to Caterina’s funeral planning to show Rook it’s okay to admit the loss and honor it. When that doesn’t seem to make a dent, he falls back to his standard - lavish meals, small gifts, coffee. He knows it would help him. He just wishes it helped Rook too.

Lace hurts the worst after losing Varric and Lace is where Solas’ magic comes the closest to faltering. Rook can see Lace is down, she’s quiet, she’s afraid after what happens with the gods escaping; but Solas’ magic holds and Rook can still never see quite why. Lace would love to sit over drinks one night and share stories about Varric, but she sees that Rook doesn’t seem ready, and she doesn’t want to push. Instead she writes letters to Ma, to the Inquisitor, to Cassandra, to Aveline, maybe even to Hawke. She writes out her stories with Varric’s old quill and she carries a bolt of Bianca with her. A dozen times she goes to talk to Rook about him, and when she tries Rook turns away or changes the subject. It hurts, but Lace knows she can’t make Rook talk about him, and she hopes in time it will get better.

This just absolutely crushes me the more I think about it 😭

Edit: Varric’s death is Rook’s personal companion quest every other single companion tries to help them with, and can’t 😭😭😭

#dragon age #datv spoilers #dragon age: the veilguard spoilers #dragon age spoilers #Varric tethras #Neve gallus #emmrich volkarin #bellara lutare #lace harding #dragon age taash #davrin dragon age #lucanis dellamorte #rook #grief #fan ages a dragon

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bi-writes · 3 months ago

Text

an eye for an eye | knight!ghost x f!reader

your husband bends to your will. men must learn from difficult lessons how far that bending goes.

type: a continuation of a hand for a hand, but can be read stand-alone (11.6k), AO3

cw: 1600s au, dark!ghost, reader described as curvier/plus-sized, graphic depictions of war + violence, possessive!ghost, war-criminal!ghost, inaccurate historical settings probably, unprotected piv, cumplay, breeding kink, size kink, simon "i'd do anything for my wife no matter the devasting consequences" riley (18+)

Your husband has an insatiable appetite. Such a big man he is; he towers over you, so much so that you must tip your head back always to look up at him. You had to make many arrangements in your house to accommodate his hunger–a pantry stocked full of eggs and less fabric for your skirts.

Your house isn’t like others. Neither you nor Ghost have ever lived in luxury. When he showed you your home for the first time, you had shaken your head–you didn’t believe that such a large place was supposed to be yours, and even now, sometimes you feel like a stranger, out of place when the maids ask you what you want for supper or where you’d like to take your afternoon tea. You don’t like the fuss, the asking, the women that curtsy when you come near, concentrated over the creases in your skirts or the loose thread of your sleeve or the wispy hairs that fall out of your braids. You are told all the time that you must behave like a duchess, that you must poise yourself with your new title and your new money, and you must do the things that duchesses do–but no one says the same to your husband.

He is still allowed to sleep in the barracks. Lick the blood off his gauntlets. Polish his sword in the dirt. He’s still allowed to be everything that you cannot be anymore, he still lives the life he had before.

He still kills; and he is still very, very good at it.

Your queen told you in a letter that the king is very pleased. Ever since your union, Ghost has been quite the conqueror. Bloodthirsty and very determined, your husband has been taking his men across the water. He is not any less impressive off land. Not even the pirates have tried to negotiate; they bend the knee or taste the salt water. You breathe shakily when you read your queen’s letters—her praise for your husband’s conquests, how blessed your family will be and how valuable you are to the crown, how grateful she is that Ghost is no longer a fiend in court but rather a little more polite and a little quieter.

All for your sake. Ghost’s name is now your own, and he refuses to embarrass you now that you have it.

You won’t lie; the bodies that Ghost has stacked since you’ve been wed do not scare you. He’s doing it for you. He has never said it out loud, never told you so, but you know it. He wants to show you what kind man that he is, what kind of soldier—you know he’s trying to prove himself worthy. If he killed a thousand men to have you, how many will he slaughter to keep you?

He sends you letters of his own. Not many, but he does send letters, and while Ghost seems to be ineloquent and entirely too brutish, he has quite the voice when he writes.

To my wife,

The sun falls quicker here. I’d like to come home. Tell me of your day, and I will tell you of mine. There were a fleet of ships that came to meet us at dawn. When we sank three, they begged for us to spare the rest.

I have you to think about now. So I burned them.

Simon

A poet, your beloved.

He signs his real name in his letters. Your eyes skim over most of it–you don’t even blink when he tells you what he does to them. Sometimes he writes in great detail about the screams of a hundred souls, the way burning flesh smells, the taste of dirt in a new place when you know it is finally yours. He doesn’t like having secrets. He tells you all his thoughts, even if they might scare you, because you are his wife, and he has discovered quite quickly that you have been cut from the same cloth.

Even when he is home, and he tells you these things all over again, he can’t help the way his cock hardens when you merely blink and ask him if he has added any scars to his collection.

Ravenous, naughty little duchess, and you are all his. He knows he picked well–he knows, he knows he wasn’t wrong when he saw you across the throne room hiding behind his queen, he knows now that he was right about what he saw in your eyes.

You do hate when he’s away. You’re not used to the maids helping you dress, and you secretly abhor the help. That is why when you hear the shuffle of your house early in the morning, your heart thuds in your chest knowing he’s home.

The staff get antsy when Simon is around. He is very good at keeping an estate for someone that has never had to or ever been taught to, but he leaves the responsibilities with you and only you every time he goes. He doesn’t trust anyone else to do it, and every time he comes back, he makes you sit on one big thigh as he teaches you something new that you need to remember for when he goes away. He demands much of those he employs, and they are eager to please him. Whether it is because they respect him or are afraid of him, you aren’t sure.

Perhaps it’s both.

You sit up as the bedroom door opens. You smile, big and wide and sleepy as he steps into the room. He shuts the door with his boot, slipping his hood off, and you sigh as he grips the clasp of his mask and unhooks it. He tosses it onto the floor, bare-faced, and as he makes his way towards the bed, he sheds the rest of his clothes until he’s completely naked.

You cannot stop yourself from the shaky breath you take. He is all muscle and fat, strong and entirely too scary, but it’s hard to focus on what he really is when he stands before you like this. He has fat thighs, big shoulders, carved muscle of intense labor around his middle and along his biceps. He has large hands with calloused palms and split knuckles, and your eyes meet his own as he comes closer. He’s so gorgeous, even with a face like that. He has a long scar that stretches from one brow to his lower jaw, another that cuts his nose and splits his lip, but those eyes are dark and lovely, and you can’t help the warmth that comes over you when he catches you staring at him, closer, right to his cock that hangs heavy between his legs.

Just as he begins to lower himself onto the bed, you hold out a hand, giggling.

“Simon, if you think you are getting into this bed without a proper bath, you’re mistaken!” You laugh, and he raises a brow.

“Mmm…” He smacks his lips together. “Tha’ right, my lady?” He clicks his tongue. “This is my bed. ’s oll mine. Every blanket…every pillow…” He grips your ankle from under the covers and yanks you towards him. “And every part of you.”

You giggle again, shaking your head, “Please, Simon!” You push him away with your toes. “They only changed the sheets yesterday. You’ll dirty them…” You flutter your lashes. “Will you bathe if I join you?”

He grins wide, licking over his teeth.

“Can’t refuse an offer like tha’.”

You hold out your hand for him, and he takes it gently. You watch as he brings your knuckles towards his mouth, and you bite back a smile when he decides to kiss each one, slow. He tugs finally, pulling you up, and you wrap your arms around his neck as he hoists you up into his arms. You would worry about your weight normally, but Simon holds you so easily, barely even a grunt as he wraps your legs around his middle. You don’t waste another second, cupping his cheeks in your hands and kissing him softly.

It’s never just a kiss with Simon. He slides one of his hands up your back, into your hair, and you whine as he tips your head back just enough to slip his tongue into your mouth. Simon doesn’t just kiss, he consumes. What he did to get back to you, the things he endured, the places he has seen and the bodies he has buried and burned and scattered across the places he now calls country, it’s always to get back to this place.

To you.

“How’s my boy?” He asks when you pull away. He carries you to another room, to where the tub sits, and he rings a bell by the door to call the maids in. You snatch a robe off a hook and cover him with it as he sits with you, but all he does is put a few fingers under your chin and make you look at him again. “Oi. Asked ya question, luv.”

Your lip wobbles a little, and you look away.

“I…” You wait until the maids have gone to fetch hot water to tell him. “I bled while you were gone. I…” You smooth your hands over the robe, distracting yourself. “I’m…I’m sorry, Simon.”

You close your eyes as he leans close, resting his forehead against yours, and you shake a little as he lets out a warm breath against your lips. He moves a warm hand over your soft stomach, cupping you there, and you lean your head back a little at the tender touch.

“It will happen,” he says finally, and your mouth opens to respond, but he sticks his thumb between your lips to shut you up. He doesn’t want to hear you blame yourself. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s his, for not being here with you, for not be able to take care of you. You give in, suckling on the salt of him, and he grits his teeth as he watches you. “I know. Seen it in m’dreams.”

Simon has dreams. Lots of dreams, but he tells you that they are not dreams, they are glimpses into something that has already happened. When you asked if he was some kind of seer, the kind that the king used to have at parties, Simon doesn’t laugh.

He says the dreams are why he knows he won’t die. Why he is never afraid, because he knows somewhere behind his eyes what’s to come even if he didn’t see the entire painting of it. It is why he knew he would marry you; it is why he paid you so much attention, why he knew he would win his battles, why he always knows whose blood it is in his mouth because he has tasted their death before and relishes in the knowing of it all, in the certainty.

It’s never I think, it is always I know, and Simon is nothing if he is not the most honest man that you know.

So if he says you will have his babe, it is as good as truth. As green as the grass grows beneath his feet, as blue as his sky, and as red as the blood that is caked underneath his nails.

When the tub is filled with water, you let Simon sink into it first. You kneel beside it, picking up a glass of oil, pouring it into your palms before sinking your hands into his hair. It’s gotten longer since he left, in need of a cut, but you smile when he leans his head back into your shoulder. You can feel his content as he relaxes into you, and you admire his physique as you use the warm water and scrub the mud and grime off of him.

“I missed you, husband,” you whisper, and he only lets you massage his hair for a few more moments before he grips you by the wrist and tugs you forward, right into the bath. “Simon!” you laugh, “my night dress—oh!—it’s ruined!”

“Too far away,” he mutters, practically ripping the silk off of you as he tosses it besides the bath. “Mmm…” He cups your breasts with two big hands, smoothing his thumbs over your nipples, and you whine a little as he pulls at them just enough to make them stiffen. “Y’should be naked when I come home,” he says lowly. “I’ll soil y’r bloody gown next time, m’lady.”

You giggle, and he smiles. A real smile. As real as he’ll ever give anyone, maybe the only one that anyone has ever even seen. He has never shown his face in court, and while it angers the women and irks the men, you revel in the fact that all of this is only for you.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

You kiss him softly. The water sloshes, warm and inviting, and sometimes you forget your life used to be anything but joy. A year ago, you would not believe that you would be here, titled, wealthy, in a stone room lit by candles bathing with a blood hungry ghost.

A year ago, you trembled whenever he looked at you. You cowered when you heard his footsteps. What a stupid little girl you had been. What a fool. She had no idea what she could have, the kinds of things she could hold in her hand.

Real power wasn’t being able to command a room with your words. Real power was being able to say anything and have it be believed as truth. Real power was making someone look in one direction and have them see what you see, even if what you see isn’t real.

He lays you down in your bed afterward and eats. Your wet hair soaks the sheets, but you can’t seem to be really bothered as he fits your legs over his shoulders and bends you at the waist, his mouth suctioned to your clit as he eats you slowly. One of his hands is spread out over your tummy, the other you can hear making a squelch as he fists his own cock. It’s slow and methodical, and he slides his tongue between your folds firm, catching what dribbles from you on the tip of his tongue before he swallows it and leans in for more.

He has eaten you in nearly every room in your house. Frightened the cooks tossing you onto the dining table, given a servant a scare as he ducked under your skirts in the library, had the gardeners fleeing as he dropped you onto the grass near the lake and disappeared with a frenzy to eat your cunt during sunrise. It’s maddening, the kind of need that Simon requires, but it’s hard to refuse when you feel so warm and bubbly and happy after he’s finished. A pampered princess you are, never lifting a finger, only awake long enough when he’s home to eat until you’re full and cum until you fall asleep again.

Maybe that’s why you’re not pregnant yet. Simon likes to be here, between your thighs, mouth fixed on your wet pussy until he’s practically exhausted himself with a sore jaw and lax tongue.

He kisses you sloppy after. Licking into your mouth, practically spitting onto your tongue, wanting you to taste—tastes so good, luvvie, don’t ya see, yeah?—wanting you to know why he’s so eager to be on his knees all the time.

You sniffle, a little dizzy, shaking your head.

“’s not what I really want,” is all you whimper, and he nods, because he knows, he always knows.

“I know, luv. I know wot ya really need.”

“I must be broken,” you sob, cradling his face in your hands, and he shakes his head.

“Not broken,” Simon assures you. He speaks so surely that it’s hard not to believe him. “It wasn’t time.”

“You can’t see the future, Simon! You don’t know!” You cry, and he snarls a little, shaking his head again.

“You listen t’me,” he growls. You shake a little as he grabs your face with one hand, fixing your jaw under his grip as he holds onto you firmly. “Wot I say goes. Y’r my wife, so listen t’me, and listen t’me good. Y’r not broken. Not time. Say it back t’me.”

Your lip trembles, and he rattles your head a little.

“Say it,” he snaps, and you hiccup.

“It’s not time,” you whisper, and he plants a fat kiss onto your tear-soaked lips.

“Just need my cock, luv,” he murmurs. “Tha’s oll. Just need me t’fuck it outta ya.”

You nod, pressing your face to his, and he tuts, reaching down and spreading your legs wide to accommodate him between them as he lays over you.

“’s oll y’need,” he repeats, and you nod again.

You have to take another bath in the same morning; and this time, you weren’t able to walk there.

You like when Simon is home because it’s quiet. The only one that dotes on you here is Simon. The maids do not dress you or do your hair or moisturize your skin. It’s always Simon.

You smile at him in the mirror as you sit at your vanity. He has a brush in one hand, and he’s using it delicately to detangle your hair how you like. His hands are practiced and gentle, and when he finishes, he leans over you as he starts to part your hair to braid it. He did not have sisters, but his mother had him always do her hair after she lost the use of her hands with age. You don’t know where his mother is, but you assume she is not here anymore, because he never invites you to meet her.

He oils your skin. He slips the robe off of you, revealing your damp skin from the bath, and he slathers oil in his hands before using it to soften your skin. He takes his time, smoothing those big hands over your shoulders, down your back, along your arms. You tilt your head back when he warms your breasts, squeezing and fondling your tits. He murmurs in your ear the entire time, and he has to fuck you with his fingers to quiet you when he stops because just his hands on your tits has you wet all over again.

He dresses you, too. Helps you slip into your undergarments, fastens the cage for your skirts over your hips. He ties them skillfully, and after he layers your skirts over the farthingale, he gets you into your corset. It’s intimate as he does this. Even with your wide skirt, he comes closer, over your shoulder, and he tugs at the laces at your back, pulling it tight with firm grunts. You sigh when he buries his face into the crook of your neck, his hand skimming over your breasts as they sit nice and perky between stiff fabric and whalebone.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Fuck, unnerving…the way ya look…”

You close your eyes, “S-Simon, please…I’m already dressed…”

He chuckles, “I know. I know.”

But when he has to leave again, you nearly come with him. You fasten his armor for him, help him slip each piece of leather on and click every piece of metal into place. You tie his cloak and slip his mask on, and you try and duck your head when you flip his hood up, but he catches you, tilting your chin up.

He huffs when he sees your face. Tears sliding down your cheeks, lips wet with them, eyes all glassy and red. He draws you up onto your toes, pressing his mouth to yours through the mask, and you hold onto him tightly, digging your nails into his chest armor and threatening to not let go.

“I want to go.“

“No.”

“Simon, let me go,” You gasp, begging, gripping his hood in firm fists and not caring that his armor is cutting into your front. “Let me go with you, I can’t do this anymore, I want to go, I can do it.”

You aren’t sure if Simon underestimates you. You think it’s more that he does not want you to see him in a place where he is most true. Where he wears the least of a disguise. He does not know he wears it the least with you, and that you have already seen his blood and how it curdles under his skin. You like it that way. You like him angry…and mean…and terrible. You like him when his sword is dirty and his armor needs polishing and his mind thinks of nothing else besides war. He should know this by now. He should know that you see him and see what he is even more than his king, more than his men.

He couldn’t scare you, even if he tried.

“War is not where women go,” Simon snaps. His tone is harsh, even for you, and you stiffen when he grips you by the jaw and rattles your head a little. “Especially not one like you, my love. War would eat ya, eat ya fuckin’ whole. Look at ya…” He huffs, deep, sliding that gloved hand down your throat to slip it beneath the neckline of your dress and fondle your breast with a firm grip. “Beautiful. Meant for my lips…for these dresses��meant to be held in my hands, not bleed from stray arrows, because tha’ is surely the least of wot they would do t’ya if they knew ya were my wife. Now ya will wipe these tears, ‘n see me off, and then ya will come back inside like a good girl, ‘n you will wait for me here until I come back.”

Your bottom lip trembles, and you scowl up at him. Not indifference, but frustration, and Simon doesn’t think it suits you.

“I’m sick of waiting for you, Simon,” you spit. “It’s all I ever do, wait. Wait for you to come back, alive or dead, I never know. And don’t say you do this for country, that is a lie.” You shove him backwards, but he barely budges when your hands touch his chest, a rigid wall that does not give. “You do it because you like it. You’re a bloodthirsty dog, and all you do is bend to our king’s will.”

A lie, but you tell it anyways, because you want something, and he will not give it to you.

“That is my duty.”

“Your duty is to me,” you snap. “Kings come and go, but I will not.” Simon stills. He glares down at you from behind his mask, and perhaps this might terrify his men, but that you are not. You are his wife, and you are protected by that title alone. The only man to ever lay a hand on you would not live to see another second, himself included. “Now you will let me join you, or so help me God, Simon, I will not be here when you return.”

You do not expect the full-bellied laugh that leaves him. His armor shakes with him, and you grind your teeth, narrowing your eyes. He uses his thumb to force his mask up, and then he cups the back of your head and draws you in for a sloppy kiss. You resist at first, but when he feeds you his tongue, you melt. You kiss him back, letting him draw you closer, and you sigh as he tangles his fingers into your hair and cradles you with those big hands.

There is nothing more to say. Simon neither confirms nor denies, but you taste it in his mouth, his devotion. Not wrong, not right, but just so–he has many responsibilities, but you are the only one that will remain the same. One day, his king will die, and he will serve another, but the space you have made beside him will never change. Even when you die, because he knows you will go before him, there will never be someone else to fill it. You and you only, the woman he found and made his, the one he demanded lest he kill his own country for it, it will always be you. Soft and sweet, you are, but the Lord knew Simon could only have one woman, and he made it be you; the one spitfire enough to defy her own king because she trusted his love enough for it.

Would you commit treason to save his life? Would you watch a king die if it meant your beloved lived?

Would he?

He thinks about what you have said when he takes his fleet across the water. He runs his tongue over his teeth behind his mask, breathing deep when he thinks about your proclamations of duty. Of change. Of what remains when other things move, of the kind of life that waits for him when he comes and goes with a king’s order. He thinks about how easily he is taken away from you, and he knows there is truth in what you feel. It is not really Simon that sacrifices, it is what he leaves behind, and that is you.

It’s never angered him before. He had accepted the fact, as early as your wedding day, that he would leave and come back, then leave again. It has always been the way of his life, come desire or not, so it bothers him that of all the things that surprised him in his life, it would be missing someone that shocked him the most.

Missing his wife. Missing the serene perfection of one woman, and the perfect place between her soft thighs. Every day that he finds himself between them is the best day of his life, he reckons, so now he feels bitter about staring at a freezing ocean amongst his men because he will go weeks without her.

Her. Her. Her.

He is bitter, yes, until he is not.

It comes in a letter from a messenger on horseback. They have been stationed in a foreign land for weeks now, watching slowly as the stone walls of a castle at their front crumples day after day from the stones filled with powder that ignite what is wood and break what is rock. The letter is sealed with wax, with the motif of a snake. It is given directly to Simon, whose name is scribbled in the letter, and when he reads it, he tastes ichor and smoke.

So the great phantom has come to seal my fate. I am not in the business of letting what is mine be taken. Even if you have brought your all, it won’t be taken from me.

I heard you have a beautiful new wife. I heard you paid for her in blood.

I shall do the same. I will hang your sword above our marriage bed.

Ghost is not someone that bends to the threats from foe he cannot look in the eye. Words are so empty. It is nothing like when he stands just a few meters apart from them, eyes fixed against one another, as they decide whether today they want to live or they want to die. The letter means nothing, but he’s surprised by the heat that bubbles under his ribs at the mention of his bride. He meant it when he said you were not meant for war, and that meant in this regard, too–nobody was allowed to talk about you, not like this, not ever.

When his king orders him home, Ghost crumples the note and tosses it into embers. He watches it burn, and then he orders his men to set to flame the ground around the stone walls.

So men like him can be goaded, it seems. His resolve is not as strong as he thought.

The weeks make you anxious. All you do is sit and collect dues and tell the maids which dress you want to wear and which you do not. It is peaceful and boring, and you wish Simon was here to make your days more exciting, but he is not.

His letters are the only things that keep you occupied, truly. He writes to you about war and loneliness, and you write to him about the mundane of domesticity and the ache he leaves behind. Sometimes, his letters come folded with pressed flowers he finds along the way, and you start to collect them, putting them away in small boxes or using them as bookmarks as you go through Simon’s library.

He has many books. His most loved books are those of war, of history, and you smooth your fingers over the pages he has dogeared and find comfort in reading the same words that he once did. You learn, as well. While in your studies as a girl, they made you learn arithmetic and the flowery bits of history and art, here in Simon’s house, you learn of strategy and weaponry and military tactic. Sometimes you disagree, and you write about these disagreements to Simon, and he writes back, pleased with your observations. He told you once that if you were a man, he would want you in that tent with him, beside him, deciding on which formations to take and when to strike. You responded saying that you could be that for him anyway. What did your sex have anything to do with whether you were right or wrong?

Simon agreed.

But I would never invite you here, dear wife. You have to understand that.

When your queen asks for your audience for dinner, you oblige easily; finally, you have something to do rather than add up numbers or sign a document on Simon’s behalf or read another fucking book.

You don’t want to wear all the costume your maids insist on, but you appease them after they repeatedly explain to you what your title means. With a drawn face, you let them tie your corset and layer your skirts, and you watch in the mirror as they braid your hair and drape large, obnoxious jewels over you. You grimace at the tiara they fit into your hair, and your elderly handmaid pinches your cheeks and tells you to put on a fair countenance, Your Grace, lest you make the Duke look ungrateful.

You bite your tongue from snapping at her. She should know that Simon would say nothing about your countenance; all he would do is fix whatever was bothering you until you smiled again.

You arrive early enough to have tea. Your queen is so excited to see you; she gushes when you meet her in the throne room, pulling you up from your curtsy so she can hug you tight, squealing. When you try to address her with a curt “Your Majesty,” she shakes her head, pressing her hands to your cheeks and giggling, “No need for formalities now. Call me Victoria.”

You hide your displeasure with a small smile. Now that you are no longer her lady-in-waiting, she allows you her name. Is it because she sees you more as equals, or because now you’re allowed to be somewhat of friends?

You must be some kind of friend. She sizes you up like you are one. She wears England’s colors this afternoon. A fire red dress adorned with gold accents, a dragon pin holding her shawl. She wears magnificent red and gold jewelry, but she’s looking at your dress, and you can see the slight twitch of her eye. You are wearing French lace, and she doesn’t like it. Or maybe she doesn’t like the color, the accents of navy blue and silver that you wear.

The skull motif that is woven into your tiara and printed on your coat and sewn into your dress. Does it insult her? That all your life, you wore nothing but browns and beiges and grays, were invisible to her, and now you represent your house, visit her as your guest, and bear an honorable name?

You were no one when you served her. Just a girl, no close family, no friends, just a distant uncle who gave you to the crown that hoped you could be of service. That was to be your duty for all your life–to serve the king’s wife until she wanted you no more or until she was gone. To cater to her every need and every wish, no matter the time of day or night.

Now you sit across her, more noble. Refined. Wearing a dress she despises, perhaps because she likes it more than her own.

Over tea, she gossips about the other ladies she has visit. You’ve heard this before, but you’ve never been included in the conversation. She talks to you, and she wants to hear your opinion, and you find yourself uneasy as you try to think of what to say. She is your queen, and you want her to like you. When you worked for her, you earned her favor by always warming up her jewels before she put them on, by making sure she had her tea ready in the morning at her bedside, by always holding the fan she so loved for when she inevitably had a hot flash. Now, as her friend, you weren’t exactly sure what to do. You suck in a soft breath and look at her, and then you purse your lips.

You think it best to agree with her. To be on her side. You might not be her direct servant any longer, but you still must fall under her favor. A queen’s favor can be just as powerful, especially if she occasionally has the ear of her husband.

“Well, that’s not very kind of her,” you say finally, and she laughs.

“No! She’s such a prude. I think her husband doesn’t sleep in her bed enough, if you know what I mean,” she winks at you. You giggle at that. “Speaking of husbands–” She pops another cake in her mouth. “How is yours?”

You reach up and tug at your necklace a bit, smiling nervously.

“Oh, uh…” You clear your throat, “He’s doing very well. I hear his latest campaign is quite the success. His majesty is very smart, heading for the east that way, I’m sure they will be victorious soon enough.”

Victoria smiles at the thought of her husband. His intelligence. She always used to talk to you about how many hours he worked, how she hated when he was away, how she wished he was home more so he could give her a son because she was so, so lonely.

“Wise words from the duchess, aye, my love?”

You jump a bit at the low voice from behind, and when you turn, you gasp, immediately standing and falling into a delicate curtsy. John Price waves his hand, coming further into the room, shaking his head.

“It’s alright,” he tells you. “Please, sit. You’re here as my guest.”

You stand and lift your head, trying to relax. You take a seat, smiling nervously, and Victoria smiles giddily at her husband. When he bends to kiss her cheek, she fawns, reaching for his hand and squeezing it before taking another piece of tart and eating it. John hums before motioning for one of the staff to fill your cup again with tea. He eyes you curiously, taking in your appearance. You sit up at that, performatively brushing off over the skull pattern on your corset. John runs his tongue over his teeth, smoothing a big palm down his wife’s long coils of hair.

“Since you’re here, I’d like a word, if that’s alright,” John says to you. His tone carries a little more authority now, and Victoria sighs, whining a little.

“John, please, she’s my friend. Can’t it wait–”

“That wasn’t a question, Victoria,” John bites. Her face falls a little. She swallows and tucks her hands into her lap. You’re reminded as you look at the slight wobble of her lip that there is no one truly above John Price, not even her. You keep your face neutral, but if you were invisible, you’d pity her.

What a shame her husband sees her as less than. How embarrassing. Your Simon would never. Your Simon waits until you finish speaking before speaking himself. Your husband kneels to take off your shoes, your husband tears your skirts to get a taste of you, your husband used his teeth to sever a man’s throat just to have your hand.

What did John Price do to get his wife? Who did John Price kill to have her hand? How many bruises did he earn around his knees on their wedding night from eating her out? As many as Simon, whose knees were black and blue by morning?

No, you suppose not. How unfortunate. How pathetic.

Victoria picks up her skirt and stands, pasting a big smile on her face. It doesn’t reach her eyes, and you can see the way her hands shake a little as she scurries off. She scowls as soon as she turns away from John, clearly annoyed.

“I’ll go check on dinner,” she says, but it is soft and unenthusiastic.

When she goes, the room falls quiet. At the nod of John’s head, the staff leave, and you keep still in your seat as John sits across from you, picking up one of the cakes in front of him and breaking off a piece to busy himself. He keeps his eyes on his task of cutting up the cake in small pieces, focused on his hands and how they work. You watch him carefully, steeling yourself.

You anticipate a conversation between man and woman, not a king and his lesser.

“Simon’s been away for some time. I bet that’s difficult for you.”

You straighten your posture, realizing what this conversation will be. By his tone, John seems to think you a bored, stupid housewife, perhaps. Uneducated. A woman, no thoughts in her head. You let your face relax, and you fold your hands in your lap. Maybe now is the time John should learn who you are and who you are not.

What you have become and what you no longer are.

“I do just fine, Your Majesty,” you say finally. You pick up a spoon and drop a cube of sugar into your tea, and you stir, picking it up to take a long sip. John is curious by your content. You have a quick tongue. “I could say the same to you, couldn’t I?”

John laughs. He narrows his eyes a bit at your clever response, taking a large bite of the cake and running a cloth over his beard. His eyes sparkle a little.

“So you know.”

“Know what, Your Majesty?”

“You know I gave Simon orders. And you know he didn’t listen to me.”

You purse your lips, but he sees the shine in your eyes. The lack of surprise. His face twitches a bit, and you shake your head. You blink slow, and it irks him to see you so calm. He is your king, and Simon answers to him, and you are his wife, so you must answer, too.

“I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”

“I could have your husband’s head cut off for treason for that, you’re aware, aren’t you?”

You tilt your head to the side. What an odd thing for John to say. What an odd thing for John to contemplate, since it would never come to pass. “Don’t be daft, my king. You wouldn’t want to do that.”

John slams his fist on the table, making the plates and cups rattle with his frustration, but you do not even flinch. You blink, stone-faced, and it makes his nostrils flare. He recognizes that glare, he knows it well. He has seen it before, stared it down many times in rooms just like this. Only now, he is not fighting for land, he fights for control of the one man that he has always been able to rely on. Simon has followed him into battles outnumbered by a thousand men, and only now he ignores an order? Only now he chooses something different?

“Now, let’s be civil, Your Majesty,” you say softly. You smile at him, leaning your head in your hand. “Is there something that you need from me? I have a feeling you might have encouraged this dinner just so you could see me in passing, so why don’t you just ask me what you wanted to ask me?”

John lets out a deep breath, leaning his elbows on the table, lowering his voice. He leans towards you, and you admire how blue his eyes are. John is quite a handsome king, but he does not captivate you. It has been a long time since John has tasted blood, and he lacks the edge that you crave dearly.

“I need him back here, is what I need,” John murmurs.

“My king, I couldn’t get him back here any more than you could, even if I wanted to.”

“Now who’s being daft?”

You scoff, leaning back in your chair. John is not a stupid man. He created a beast of a man, and he is trying not to poke it too hard. You shift, brushing down your skirts, and you let out a low breath.

“Why did he refuse?” You ask finally.

“What?”

“Why does he ignore your order to come back?” You ask again. “I can’t think of a lot of reasons why he would stay. So why did he ignore you?”

John clicks his tongue, smoothing a few of his fingers over his beard. He averts his eyes, looking out the tall windows, frowning a little at the grim weather. The weather is always grim here, but it irks him at the moment, makes him scowl a little harder.

“I was…informed that there was some sort of letter,” John explains. “Some threat.”

“I don’t follow. He gets lots of threats. And terrible letters.”

“Was about you this time, Your Grace.”

You close your eyes at that, shaking your head. Simon would never be so foolish as to be baited by baseless threats. He barely bats an eye when someone even in front of him draws his sword. He is so comforted by his ability to win, by his dreams and his visions that have not yet happened.

“That’s absurd,” you breathe. “Simon wouldn’t…”

John chuckles, but there is no humor there. “Wouldn’t he?”

“I still don’t understand what you expect me to do,” you roll your eyes, looking away. “Simon is…he’s not…he doesn’t listen. It’s why he’s good at this, isn’t it? He doesn’t really take orders, he’s…I…”

John has never complained before about the way Simon chooses to lead. Oftentimes, it is an order ignored that has made it so that he delivered another crown at John’s feet. Simon asks for forgiveness, not permission, and John has barely batted at eye at it. He sees Simon as some kind of distant son, but this refusal bothers him so?

John leans forward. “You need to understand something here, Simon is a rabid dog,” he spits. “And sometimes I let him off his lead, but this isn’t like anything I’ve had to deal with. I need you to call him back here.” He scoots closer. “England needs you to call him back here. To me.”

You narrow your eyes a little. England needs you to call him back? What kind of sick sense of patriotism is he trying to instill in you? John is stupider than he looks, to think a woman like you would show loyalty to country. You are loyal to your husband, and nothing else, because what has king and country ever really done for a woman like you except for dispose of you?

You wear Simon’s colors, not John’s, and you will wear them to your deathbed.

“If I do this for you, my king, then you owe me,” you whisper. He laughs again, no humor, and he picks up a goblet and fills it to the brim with wine. He drinks half before slamming it down onto the table, spilling it over his hand.

“Kings do not owe their subjects.”

“Quite right, Your Majesty,” you agree, picking up your napkin and dropping it onto the table. You stand, giving him a polite curtsy. “But I am not doing this as your subject.”

“Everything you do is as my subject.”

“You put your entire right to the throne on the back of one man,” you say softly. You are not accusing him, you’re reminding him of a truth. “Simon is why…he’s why your counsel still listens to you. He’s why your people are free from famine, why…why your taxes get paid on time, why your kingdom is still standing, no thanks to your father who wasted this place’s fortune on women and liquor.” You shake your head. “You have an eye for conquest, Your Majesty, but you lack the execution of any plan you conjure.”

You are not wrong, and John knows this, and it’s why he hasn’t spoken up yet or interrupted you. The man before, his own father, was a drunkard who spent all their money. He drank himself into the grave, and the only reason John stands before you now is because of Simon. A man who he fought beside, who he commanded, who once John’s duty became reality took up the mantle and finished what his father never could.

John would be in the next history book you read because of Simon, and it’s Simon’s name that will never be written. They do not bestow legacy to men who serve other men.

“Where…Where did you learn to speak to men this way?” John scoffs. “I am your king.”

You must have hit a soft spot. John is defensive now, and men only deflect and insult when they are cornered with the truth. They don’t like being held in front of a mirror.

“You are king because my husband made it so,” you correct him gently. “And Simon is a loyal dog, and that is good for your sake, because if he had any desire for your seat, it would be his.” You come closer, your heels sounding, and John glares down at you; but you glare right back because you are protected by your name and what you can do with it. John knows this, and it angers him, but he seems to have difficulty facing the truths of his own making. “But he is not your dog anymore. He’s mine.”

Your pen on paper is aggressive. You can tell because the splotches of ink are deep, bleeding black sinking into white as you put angry word to parchment. Not even a fortnight later, you are playing cards with Victoria, and you see Simon’s silhouette standing in the doorway, hood shadowing his masked face as he observes. When you look over your shoulder where John sits, and you meet his eyes, he looks away from you with a grim understanding.

Simon answers your call. Always.

At dinner, John is in better spirits. He drinks with a big smile, eats more than one plate, and he picks Victoria up by the waist to make her dance with him when he asks for the music to be played louder. Simon sits, fidgety, gloved hands moving in and out of fists as he watches you cut into your food and eat it with a blank face. He huffs beside you, his armor stiffening as he sits up straight, and you let your fork clatter onto your plate as you turn to glare at him.

“You were thinking with your cock, Simon,” you spit. “That is how men like you get killed.”

“You ‘ave no idea how men like me get killed because there are no men like me,” Simon growls. You roll your eyes, standing, and he grips your wrist angrily, tugging you close until you fall into his lap. You sigh, shaking your head, putting your hands on his broad shoulders and making him look at you.

“Maybe,” you whisper. “But I’m not wrong. It is how you’ll lose. You know better than that, Simon. To fight someone because they taunted you in a letter, it’s playing the fool.” You cup his cheeks, keeping his eyes on yours. “You don’t need me to tell you that, and yet here we are.”

He breathes slow, closing his eyes for just a moment. He thinks he came for this, just a little. For clarity. Reason. It comes from you in waves, and it’s comforting to hear. It is something he knew, and yet it only makes sense now that you have said it.

“I know,” Simon mutters. “I know. Y’r right. I’m sorry, luv.”

You ask him to apologize when he undresses you. You ask him to apologize again when he sinks into a hot bath with you. You ask him a third time when he is in your bed, a heavy weight between your thighs as he licks and sucks at the soft skin of your tummy. He begs, lowly, let me ‘ave it, and you will, but he has to say he’s sorry again.

“‘m sorry,” he breathes, sucking on your inner thigh, and you close your thighs around his head, forcing his mouth against your cunt.

“Again, Simon,” you whisper. “I wanna hear it again.”

“‘m sorry,” he slides a rough tongue between your folds, breathing shakily when he tastes the oil that he smoothed over your skin only moments ago. You taste so good, you smell so lovely, coming off of you like fumes blinding his senses so that nothing else but you makes any sense at all. When you open your eyes, you think about where you are, and you nearly come thinking about what you have wrapped around your finger.

Not even your king tells your husband what to do. Not even your king commands his men, they won’t listen, he’s not who they turn to when things go belly-up, it’s your husband, and your husband answers to you.

You weren’t sure about it until today. Seeing him when you asked him to come, it flooded you with something that hurt. You could tell from even so far away that Simon was salivating under that mask. You knew the only thing separating his mouth from your cunt were the other people around him (and they were not privy to seeing you naked).

It is such a thing to observe. John needed a lead on Simon when he was his dog. You need no such mechanism. Simon never strays, not with you. He sits proper when you ask, and he speaks when spoken to. He tears at unwanted flesh, and he comes when you call.

John cannot give him all that he desires. Perhaps he thought what Simon truly wanted was fame and fortune. Legacy. But like most things men do, John does not observe. He takes in only what is right in front of him, and he makes assumptions. Simon is not like other men. Fame and fortune do not matter. He does not care about legacy. What matters to Simon is what he can hold in his hands. The ground under his feet. The steel in his hand. The woman underneath him, spreading her legs, inviting him in.

You love Simon. You love Simon more than anything in the entire world, but it would be a lie to say that you are not at some advantage here. Simon is all-consuming. He is the pinnacle of duty and honor and everything that a man is supposed to be, but Simon is also weak. There is something that he wanted more than anything in the world, and now that he has it, he will do anything to keep it, and that makes him vulnerable. Subject to all kinds of new things. Revenge. Retaliation. Pain.

Manipulation.

Maybe you should feel bad about it. Maybe you should feel guilty, but it’s hard to feel anything like it when there’s a big bear of a man between your thighs slobbering on your pussy like dessert. It’s hard to feel anything but bliss when he’s tracing the letters of his name into your cunt and making you see stars and fucking you into the silk sheets like it’s the last time he’ll ever have you.

It is men who govern your world, and if this is how you must move in it, then so be it. You will not feel bad. You will not be sorry for doing what anyone else would do. John thought he could keep his hand there, muzzle his mutt, but you like him this way, and you’re certain John doesn’t fuck the way you do.

He’s mine.

It isn’t John that commands an army, it’s you; or maybe your cunt, but that belongs to you, too, so it is you, isn’t it? You’re the one that lets him inside, that whispers in his ear, that tells him things you know he wants to hear to make things move in your favor, so it’s you, right?

Not John. Not Victoria. Not their counsel. You. They have stepped on you your entire life. They have made you small and inferior and sad for all of your existence, and they gave you something feral knowing it could eat you alive, and now you are the hand that feeds, and they are forgetting that if they bite too hard, you have something that will surely bite harder.

A collar would suit him, you think. He would look so pretty. He already is, the terrible beast, prettiest thing you’ve ever seen (the necklace your drape over him does just fine, a pendant with his motif that you hope reminds him of you). You don’t care if people would say his face is quite ugly. It is, very much so, but you never see him this way. Whenever that mask falls, your stomach flips. He takes your breath away. His intensity, his raw form of love, the look on his face–there is nothing else in the entire world that will love you the way he loves you.

“You came back for me?” You ask. You have a leg tangled between his, and his fingers are between your thighs, a shadow of a smirk on his face as he feels the mixture of your cum and his. He grunts a little, and you tilt your head to look up at him, your chin on his chest.

“‘f course,” Simon mutters, and you kiss his chest gently, keeping your eyes on his.

“But not for John.”

He turns his head, looking down at you more intently, and he scoffs. You know it’s true, but you want to hear it, anyways. You want to hear Simon admit, unknowingly, that you are the tether.

“John is afraid, and I don’t listen to ‘im when he’s afraid. Makes bad choices.”

It’s almost adorable that this is what Simon tells himself. That he comes back for his own sake, and not for yours, even though they are one and the same, intertwined and inseparable.

“Simon,” you say softly, and he sighs, his eyes closing briefly when you kiss him gently. “You have to listen to your king when he asks you to come back. Making a…rash decision about war strategy is one thing, but…” You cup his cheek gently. “Make things easier for me, husband. If he asks you to come back, you come back.”

This time, at least. Just this time.

Simon snarls a bit, but you swallow it when you kiss him. You maneuver yourself over him, straddling his hips, and he grunts as you sink down on him. He swells hard again very quickly, releasing a deep breath as you give a slow roll of your hips.

“Make things easy for me, my love,” you whisper, and he leans his head back, putting two big hands on your ass and moving you with ease. “Appease your king, yes? For me?”

“Can’t say no when y’r pussy squeezes me like tha’, sweet’eart,” Simon groans, and you giggle, planting your hands on his chest and starting to move a little faster. You lean your head back, your mouth falling open, and you gasp when you sink down completely, your ass touching his thick thighs as you tighten around him. “Fuckin’ Christ–”

“I hate when you go,” you whine, digging your nails into his chest. He hisses, planting his feet on the bed, and he fucks up into you with a renewed fervor. “Hate when you’re not here, Simon, I-I miss you, miss this–”

“Nghh…fuck, I know,” Simon pants. “Can feel it. Feel you.” You squeal when he grips you by the waist and turns you over. He makes it seem so easy, tossing your weight underneath him, and your arms circle around his neck as you draw him closer, hanging onto him. “Y’r so fuckin’ pretty…”

“Simon–”

He kisses to devour. His jaw hinges wide to kiss you sloppy, breathing in the moans that you can’t contain. Simon always fucks so well, stretching your thighs as wide as they will accommodate so he can make room for the goliath of himself that he is. He suffocates, in a good way, and his cock never fails to stretch you for all that you are worth. Simon holds your jaw in place as he grinds into you, relishing in the wet smack of his hips against yours. The fat of you satisfies him. It makes him growl with delight when he grabs onto wide hips, your fat arse, the body that you hold that tells him you are fed and warm and content. It draws his grin wider, and it makes him drool thinking about having you again and again and again, until you beg him for reprieve and his heir sits in your womb.

Simon fucks for sport. He wants to see how stupid he can make you. He wants to know how long you’ll cry for, how fat he can make your tears. He wants to know how loud you will cry, how many times he can make you cum before you’re incoherent, he wants to know the extent to which he can use you that you will still be awake enough to say his name just one more time. Simon is not satisfied until he pushes your limits.

It is what a Riley does. They endure, and they eat, and they consume, and they take pleasure in the all-encompassing indulgement of things they have never been allowed to have. You are a woman, so he knows this will come easy for you. So often, he knows, women are not allowed to indulge at all, so he wants you to. He wants you to cry and moan and eat, and he wants you to do it bearing his name so that no one will ever tell you no.

Simon says no to kings, and they placate, or they die. His wife will be offered the same respect, and he’ll stand behind her with a sword to make it law. When you bear his children, he will expect the same of them–to give their mother utter devotion, lest they answer to his hand. There is no one above you, not God, not country, and certainly not blood. They will know what their father did to have you, and they will spill the same amount of blood to keep it that way. They will do it for you, and then they will do it for their own lovers, and if they don’t have the same sentiments, that love is not true, and Simon will not give his blessing.

Everything else is trivial. He knows this, understands it, because history repeats itself. It is cyclical, and you are right. Kings come and go. Sons die to other sons, fathers make bad decisions, and crowns are passed to bastards and back again, until lineage is merely spectacle and power changes hands often enough to lose generational merit. There is one thing that remains, and it is what you do while you are on earth, while you are standing on the ground you were born on. Even faiths change; when men find it suitable, they change the rules, and then you worship a different God, so Simon sees no point in staying loyal to any of it.

Instead, he is true to what he knows. To what he can see and what he can feel. With John, he remembers being a young man, fighting alongside him. He follows John, to an extent, because he knows what it is like to share blood with him on a muddy hill and take an arrow for him.

With you, time stands still. He saw you in a room, and he had to have you, and he brought nations to ruin to make certain no one would bat an eye when he asked for your hand. He saw you in a dream, too–he saw you laying in his bed of furs, wearing nothing but a tiara of his making, wet between the thighs because that is how it’s meant to be. He recognized you when he saw you that first time, and he doesn’t know how, but saying no to you, really saying no, will change that vision, and he couldn’t bear that.

Your voice echoes. You’re moaning, overstimulated, but he doesn’t stop. The hair around his cock rubs your clit too many times, and when you come around him, you’re a shaking, withering thing, back bowed and nipples pebbled. Your toes curl as you cry from the starry-eyed, hot pleasure, but he keeps moving, chasing something in the distance that he can taste, so close.

Yes, Simon ignored his king. Yes, Simon did not ignore you. Yes, Simon admits, he came when you called, and he doesn’t feel bad about it, he doesn’t care how it seems. He would do it again if he had the chance. John could give him the same answer as you in every timeline, but he will only move if the command comes from you, and yes, Simon knows it makes him a liability, but crowns come with costs, and this is the one John must pay.

Simon will fight any of John’s enemies, but he won’t fight fate. He won’t fight what has already been seen, and he won’t fight what he already knows will happen.

With Simon’s cock in your mouth, you can make him deliver on promises. Sucking on the girth of him, you can make him an honest man. Taking inside of your mouth what you can swallow, you can make Simon do your bidding, and it is a hard lesson that John learns.

“Do this for me,” you slobber against the underside of his cock, and Simon relents.

“Make me happy,” you say, swirling your fingers against your puffy pussy, and Simon kneels with an open mouth.

“Just this once,” you whisper with his cum on your tongue, and Simon seals his choice with his hands on your tits and the taste of himself in his mouth.

When you make eyes with John across the low lights of the throne room, he can’t help the way he admires you. You stand beside Simon, looking the essence of nobility and reverence in another intricate silver and blue dress. The train of your skirt glitters with delicate jewels hand sewn into the fabric, and the headpiece you wear adorns a skull insignia. Your corset has been tied just right, thanks to Simon’s hand, and your own fingers are clasped between his. Your corset and jewels are of exquisite detail–one of the newest designs from Paris, structured and elegant and accentuating every curve of soft skin.

You glow in the room. His wife must be wearing a dress just as expensive, probably more, and yet his eyes (and everyone else’s) cannot help but follow you. Your own eyes won’t leave Simon; you flutter your lashes whenever he looks down at you, big smile on your face, and even when there are people curtsying and bowing to you and giving Simon their gratitude between bites of cake and glugs of wine, your attention never really strays.

John feels inadequate in his own fortress; suddenly, red and gold sicken him, and England tastes sour in his mouth.

In a few generations, John’s house will likely fall. He will make heirs that will fail him, he knows this. In a few centuries, his family will not sit in the same place, but a Riley will remain right where they are supposed to be. Banners of blue and silver will always fly. If Simon does not make sure of that, then you will.

It’s what happens when you force women like you to their knees. When they grow up invisible, always in the shadows, forgotten and sold to the next man who will pay a higher price, it’s what you learned to do. It’s all you’ve ever known, to make the best out of something terrible.

Simon is the same, in that sense. You understand him in a way his king will never be able to. Simon has nothing, and neither do you, and Simon was stepped on and berated and tortured to the point of no return. It is why blood does not scare him and why death doesn’t come knocking. Time will be the only thing capable of killing him, and everyone that stands up to him learns that when they eat his blade.

In the quiet of the evening, Simon undresses you. He sits behind you on the bed, fingers pinching the bows at your back and unraveling them. He traces your corset, thumb circling over the skull pattern of the belt around the small of your waist, and he tastes something warm in his mouth at the sight of it. You look so beautiful–more beautiful than he’s ever seen you maybe, decorated in his colors and wearing his motif and sitting so pretty.

“You wanna know something…funny?” You ask quietly. Simon finds the ties of your skirts and starts to undo them. He grunts in reply; he might sound standoffish, but you know he’s listening. “John…John made it…he makes it seem like you don’t really listen to him. He implied that…in the face of adversity, you might only listen to me.” You put your hands on the front of your corset to keep it from falling. “Isn’t that funny?”

“Wot’s so funny?”

You swallow, looking down. Your hands fidget, and you take a closer look at the ring you wear, the delicate gold band he gave you not so long ago.

“I…”

“Mmm…might be right, innit?” Simon snickers after a moment. You feel him stand, and you look over your shoulder as he peels his mask off and grins down at you. He tilts his head to the side, and you smile back at him a little. “Do anythin’ for ya. Disobeying a king…” Simon cackles, tearing your corset off, tossing it onto the floor as he walks you backwards. “Ignoring one…” He shrugs, “Oll in a day, love.”

“He can hang you for it,” you whisper. “Cut off your head. Cut off mine.”

Simon lays you back on the bed, spreading you out, climbing over you. You blink up at him, and he leans down, pressing his forehead to yours.

“I would ‘ave seen it. I would know.”

He would have seen it in a dream. It would have come to him in a reflection in a pool of blood on the battlefield. It would have come to him, the voices in his head, he would have heard them amongst screaming, or perhaps in the void that he finds his mind in when he’s between your plush thighs.

You can’t help the smile that graces your face when Simon kisses the curve where your jaw meets your neck. It is fun, you suppose. Fun to control the tides that set the courses of history. It is fun and almost unbelievable that a king bends to the will of one man’s wife just because it solidifies his name.

You wrap your hand around the twine that dangles from Simon’s neck. It twirls around your fingers, easy, solid. Simon’s eyes are dark, and they are yours, and when you smile, so does he, because this is where you are meant to be, forever and always.

“What if I want more?” You ask. Simon hums, low from within his chest, and you run your tongue over your teeth. “Did you see that in your dreams, Simon? Hmm? Do you know what I’m asking for? What it is that I really want?”

Simon smiles. A dark one, with teeth, and you know he hears it. What more means for a duke and his duchess. What more means when you have all the money you could ever want, all the land you could ever need.

What more means when you have climbed your way to the top and still desire more. More, more, more. There are not many steps left to climb. There are not many places left to take, not much more of the world that can really be yours, but Simon looks ravenous, and Simon looks hungry, and if you fuck him now, you’ll have him right where you want him.

When you tug on what hangs around his neck, Simon bends. Simon follows.

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