#it's the MY BEAR WILL EAT ME IF I DO NOT RETURN TO HIM chapter | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

juletheghoul · 1 month ago

Text

his gift

a/n: I swear this is just a Marcus Acacius blog now, sorry everyone. I'm dedicating this chapter to my girlie @221bshrlocked, who I can always count on to lose her shit with me💕 I always welcome any and all comments and questions or deep dives, if you've sent me an ask for him and are thinking that I have missed it or ignored it, I'm not! I just have so many, but I promise to get through them all! Hope you enjoy 💕xo

Warnings; 18+ no minors, vague but big-legal age gap, piv sex, dirty talk, Roman era sex toy according to me (taking a big liberty) female masturbation, soft dom Marcus vibes, and soft submissive reader vibes, also some tiny allusions to being devoured? Context is important so read and be the judge, desperate, filthy Marcus, sexy bath, let me know if I missed any! **takes place between chapter X and XI**

This is the fic I referenced in this preview

Pairing: Marcus Acaciusx F!Reader

word count: 3.1k (whoops!)

reblogs are appreciated

Masterlist series masterlist

He had not mentioned anything about venturing out, you hadn’t even noticed until his guards and his attendants flank around him, his cloak being fastened to his shoulders while you frown.

“I will be back in a few hours.” He nods to his guards and they make their way towards the door ahead of him.

“May I accompany you?” It takes two of your steps to keep pace with one of his.

“No my love, you may not.” he smiles, mischief on his face and you frown further still. “I have an errand that you cannot know about, not just yet. It is a surprise.”

“A surprise? For me?” The annoyance evaporates, and curiosity fills the whole of you.

“Yes. A surprise for you, now I must go. I will see you before nightfall. I will be here in time to dine with you.” His kiss is full of promise, and you chase his mouth for a moment before he leaves with a wink.

—

He finds you in your chambers, mending a small tear in one of his togas.

“We can have someone else do that–” He frowns, but you stop him.

“I am aware, but I enjoy it. It passes the time and I am skilled with needle and thread.” Your eyes are focused on the task, cutting at the string with a small knife.

“That, I cannot deny.” He huffs out an amused breath, resigned. “Have you eaten? Shall we dine together?” he places a small bundle under the bed and your eyes track it, narrowing at him.

“And that? Is that not my surprise?” knife safely tucked into your basket of sewing supplies, you rise and move towards it but he stops you.

“Yes, but it is not for you to see just now. I will give it to you in due time.” Softly, but firmly, he guides you out of your private chamber, and towards your meal.

He speaks of nothing and everything as you eat, plans he has for the villa, people he ran into during his errand, supplies he must replenish and you listen intently.

Hours pass and you enjoy your evening with him, sitting in the peristyle drinking mulled wine and eating honey cakes while the dogs lay at your feet. You sit out there together, laughing and speaking of all manner of things until night truly settles and it is time for bed. By the time you are cleansed, and curled up in his embrace, the package is all but forgotten.

Weeks go by, and Rome beckons him once more. People he must meet with and delegations he must lead. The lines around his eyes deepen, the grey in his hair spreads, a visual representation of how it tires him but he takes it with good grace. Above all else, he is a soldier, and soldiers do not balk when duty calls.

Despite your wish to, you cannot accompany him. It is not a place for wives, my love, his tone is soft, but firm and you have no choice but to accept. There is no doubt he will return to you, but it does not make his time away any easier to bear.

You oversee his arrangements, hand-picking the robes he will take and making sure that he has everything he needs. You keep yourself busy with the tasks of preparing his journey while keeping your house in order, ignoring the glaring absence of him looming over the horizon. He does his best to reassure you even though he himself is so busy. His hand ever a comforting weight on your hip, his lips on your temple, a soft whisper in your ear.

On the day he leaves, as you walk him to the door in the blue dawn, he reminds you with a smile. “The package under the bed, open it tonight, while you are in our bed.”

His expression is one you carry with you throughout the day and it's that unshakeable foundation of obedience that stops you from running to it as soon as the door is closed. You suspect he might know this, despite never commanding or ordering you to do anything once your relationship had been established. Once the change from slave to wife had been made.

His words ring in your ears as you sit nestled in your shared bed once the house is asleep, altogether too big and too empty without his form filling it alongside you.

Curiously, you pull apart the strings tying the small bundle closed, unable to guess just what it might be.

What greets you when you finally breach it, makes you gasp out loud.

It is a polished, sizable wooden cock. Heat floods your cheeks as you hold it in your hands, the size and shape almost identical to Marcus.

A small vial of oil falls from the seemingly empty wrappings onto your lap and the intended use of this gift is quite obvious. You laugh, inspecting it in your hands, half embarrassed, mostly aroused to know that in his absence, he still wants you to be satisfied.

It feels forbidden in your hands. Smooth as glass, the grain in the wood like the stripes of a tiger. It has been years since you touched a cock not belonging to your now husband, years since you felt pleasure from anyone that was not him, with exception to yourself. Heat blooms from head to toe to imagine him having this made for you, an ache for him grows between your legs.

It is with a rebellious glee that you slip back into your nest of pillows, surrounded by the scent of him in your linens and test the efficacy of his gift.

It helps, and you do enjoy it, but in the end it isn’t him.

When he returns, you greet him without any sort of decorum. He laughs, weary and just as eager to be home with you, the strong grip of his arms around you, the desperate edge to his lips at your neck all proclaim it.

“How I have missed you, my love.” His words seep into your skin like a balm, like a breeze on a warm day and you sigh your response.

“As have I, come, let me feed you.” You pull him towards your table, calling forth a spread and your attendants are quick to obey. He smiles, obliging you despite the droop in his eyes, the weariness of travel, the toll it all takes on him.

“Eat, and then I will have water warmed for a bath, we can retreat, spend the next few days in our bed, yes?” He pulls you forward to sit on his lap, presses his face into your chest. The grit in his hair collects under your fingernails, he smells of smoke and dry heat, his own sweat, the oil he favours and no other scent has ever pleased you more.

“My wife is wise, she knows the remedy for all.” His hands are restless at your back, spanning wide on your shoulder, taking up so much space your heart races. “I would have you bathe with me.” His lips crawl across your collarbone, his voice lower, calling forth gooseflesh.

Platters of food and good wine are set down before you, but his lips only move further up your neck, before capturing your mouth in a searing kiss. A dry, calloused palm slips under your robes, across the side of your thigh before grabbing at your backside. It pulls a laugh from somewhere and you break the kiss.

“Patience my love, eat first.” Your fingers comb through his waves and he makes a noise from deep in his chest. “Eat, and then I will bathe with you.” You kiss one cheek, then the other, he lets out a breath, nodding before reaching for bread with one hand, while holding you close with the other.

He breathes out a groan when he lowers himself into the tub, steam rising, the scented oils and salts filling your nose. The tub had been filled in the peristyle, the perfect place for it amongst the greenery and warm air of dusk.

The silver of his hair darkens to iron when he tilts his head back, fingers running through the strands to slick it away from his face. Silvery scars mar his face but they do nothing to diminish his beauty, the strength in his arms, the strong grip of his hands, he’s the picture of virility and your thighs press together to finally have him back home.

“Come my love, you promised to bathe with me.” His smile is sharp, but his eyes are soft and you press forward, following, obeying, submitting to him freely and happily.

His touch is reverent, almost shy despite the edge of pure want in his expression.

“Gods above, I could devour you whole.” He pulls you closer, slippery skin gliding as you slide right into his lap. Your breasts pressed against his chest with how tightly he hugs you and you laugh, breathless. The water sloshes over the edge with every one of his movements, darkening the mosaic below but he doesn’t even notice, he doesn’t even care. Your hands sweep over his back, his shoulders and up his neck in gentle attempt to soothe, to slow him down.

“Peace Marcus, we have all night, let me reacquaint myself.” You smile, pull back when he presses forward, relishing the way he bites his bottom lip in all his bottled up desperation. “Slow, soft.” You press kisses to his cheeks, ignoring the ache in your core at just how hard his sex is under you.

His hands flex at your sides, his sincerest attempt at control and you keep your expression neutral, keep the taunt hidden, the game fair.

“I missed you Marcus, missed you so much it was like a wound.” You rake your nails across his scalp, clean the dirt and sand from his skin while his hands slip across your belly, your thighs, while his fingers graze and pinch at your nipples. The hitch in your breath bolsters him.

“My poor—“ his lips caress at the soft skin just below your ear, dragging softly along your neck as he speaks, “neglected, lonely little wife.” The press of his fingers into the cheeks of your backside is hard enough to bruise, hard enough to make you gasp softly before he claims your mouth in a kiss that blanks your thoughts, stills your hands for a moment.

“Tell me how you missed me, tell me you imagined me in our bed.” You pant into the empty air at his words, his tone, cunt clenching in painful arousal when he maneuvers you onto his cock, hot and hard and slotted perfectly between the lips of your sex. “Did you enjoy my gift in my absence?”

The head of his cock slides deliciously against your clit, slowly, maddeningly, unraveling the strings of your arousal as well as your sanity.

“Yes-“ your arms wrap around his neck, letting him rock you onto his cock in the warmth of the water, in the open air smelling of jasmine and laurel leaves, the sun baked bricks of your home.

“I want to watch you, I want to see it, the thought of you fucking yourself and thinking of me kept me awake at night, fisting my cock and coming in my hands.” His words, his intensity, the thought of it lights you up from the inside, a sunburst of arousal bright enough to blind you.

“I want you to come just like this, want you all wet and open for me when I get you in that bed my love.” His mouth lowers, lips pressing against your nipple, the warmth of his mouth and the flicking of his tongue, then the cold air against wet skin before he moves to the other breast and repeats. His hands are a brand on your hips, rocking you back and forth, that perfect slip of the head of his cock against your clit building the pleasure in your hips, in the base of your spine.

Soft, breathy moans spill from your lips and your fingers curl into his hair, holding him tightly to your breast as you climb that steady ladder higher and higher.

“Come on, my pretty girl, come on my cock, I know you can do it.” He breathes against your chest, teeth gliding against your peaked nipple and it’s like a slow wave when it crests.

His mouth sucks harshly, making you gasp, thighs trembling as he keeps rocking you, every bump tightening the muscles in your belly as you ride out the pleasure.

“That’s my good girl, my perfect little wife with her pretty little cunt.” His eyes are black pools, lust blown and wild.

You catch your breath, heart slowing as you finish cleansing him, limbs syrupy and pliant in the afterglow of your flutters.

Once finished he rises and pulls you to stand with him, he barely lets you wipe yourself down with your clean linens before he is all but pulling you towards your chambers. Naked and stumbling through the halls of your house in the red haze of passion.

When you land in your bed, he does not follow, he doesn’t line himself up and sink into you like you thought he might.

“Where is my gift?” You rise up to lean on your elbows, momentarily lost in the arousal of him before your mind catches up.

“It is where you left it, under the bed.” Once you’d finished with it, you’d cleaned it and put it back—you frown when he pulls it out and brings it with him. Once settled between your thighs he unties the covering while his cock slips over your mound, a hot, teasing weight over your sex.

“I want you to show me.” He tosses the wrappings aside before holding the wooden cock out for you. Your eyebrows rise into your hairline.

“But, but you are home, I want you—“ your fingertips reach down to tease the head of him but he slips the wooden cock into your hands instead.

“I want to see it, I want to see how you take it.” He urges, soft tone but hard gaze and your heart races. The need to obey him, to make him happy, to oblige him makes your cunt clench. You take the toy from him and he settles on his haunches, hands lifting your legs, pressing against the backs of your thighs to hold you spread open wide for his gaze.

The wood is cold against the slicked up mess of your cunt and you’re wet enough that you don’t even need the oils, it slides right in, stretching the dark pink of your insides open for his eyes.

“That’s it, fuck yourself, how does it feel?” Slowly, you spear it into yourself, in, out, wetting it in you as his hands press harder, spreading you wider.

“Feels good—“ you pant, tongue peeking out of your mouth to wet your lips.

“It does doesn’t it, look how fucking wet you are.” One of his hands slides down, his thumb sliding through your slick at the edge of where you’re spread around the thick of the wood, he smears it against the lip of your sex, petting, sliding up to work at your clit.

“I think you can go a little faster, I think you want to fuck yourself a little harder, don’t you my love?” His thumb swirls, sliding and circling around your clit as you speed up.

Your heart races, sweat beads at your temples, heat crawls across your body under the strain of it, under his heavy, burning gaze.

The sounds are obscene, the ache of working it inside you growing in your shoulder, in the tensing of your belly but you can’t stop, not with how good it feels, now with how enraptured he is at the sight—

“Is that all you can do?” He tsks, thumb working just a little bit harder until you flutter around the toy, the pleasure taking you by surprise, thighs tensing but he doesn’t let you close them, doesn’t stop swirling, and suddenly the pleasure comes again, too quick, too strong and you whine at the intensity of it.

He pulls his hand away and removes the wooden cock from your hand and from your cunt and throws it somewhere in the linens, only to replace it with his own. A mutual groan fills the air between you, high and breathless from you, low and punched out from him. He gives you no respite from your release, no softness, he ruts—fucks you like you haven’t seen him in years.

That aspect of him that you see sometimes, the caged animal within rears its head, sharp snaps of his hips into the slicked-up, swollen, dark pink of you, heavy hands and a firm grip that reminds you, schools you on the fact that you are his.

You flutter around him again, the blunt head of him stroking, petting at that bundle of nerves only he ever seems to find until you seize, scream and gush around him, soaking him in your passion.

“That’s it, that’s it my love, take it-“ he pushes forward, turning his heavy stroke into a tight grind while you balance on that edge of pain and pleasure, ecstasy and excess. Your hands press against his shoulders, the middle ground of pulling him closer and pushing him away.

His mouth sucks at the delicate skin of your neck, teeth scraping and for a heartbeat you wish, or hope, or just imagine that he might actually devour you, moan at how much the thought excites you. His groan is loud, his cock swells before the warmth of his gift fills you, his forehead moving to press to your chest so he can watch it, watch himself spearing inside.

It’s quiet in the immediate after except for the heavy thump of your pulse in your ears, and his sharp pants against your chest.

With limbs weighed down by pleasure, you lift your hands slowly and thread them through his damp waves, admiring the warm golden skin pressed to yours. The wet spot beneath you cools, making you wince in discomfort, despite how lovely it is to be surrounded by him. He senses it though, and pulls out with a hiss and hauls you into his embrace.

“Give me a few moments, and I will have someone change the linens.” You nod into the sweet smelling skin of his chest, pressing your lips to a scar on his shoulder. “I missed you.” He whispers into your temple, soft and devastating, the animal satisfied, the man in the forefront.

“I missed you too.”

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devildom-moss · 1 year ago

Note

idk how to verbalise this idea properly so bear with me but: mc whose entire logic in life is 'fuck it we ball' including when it comes to romance, so they just completely go along with any attempts at flirting in a sort of "yes, and-" fashion

which probably only encourages said suitor and then mc has the Audacity to be surprised when it gets intense enough for them to realise they're actually being seduced lol

gn mc with just the brothers for now pls!! thank u for your services

Hopefully this request is what you were looking for. Honestly, I had a bit of confusion while writing, but I tried. I went with headcanons because that seemed like the best fit. Thanks for the request.

gn!MC who casually flirts back with the demon brothers headcanons

(and then has the audacity to be surprised that they're being genuinely pursued)

(Suggestive)

Word Count: +2700

Lucifer

Lucifer is an awful flirt, trying so hard to fluster MC and convince them of his dominance. (Where’s it at though? I don’t see it.) His flirting is so suggestive that it’s actually pretty easy to just assume it’s a bit of playful teasing between friends.

For MC, it plays out like those posts that say something and then escalate immediately – something like “Kiss your homies goodnight. Kiss them with tongue. Eat their ass.”

Having an MC who flirts back with him can be a bit embarrassing, and it gets Lucifer’s hopes up so much. (“Could you pour me another cup of coffee, MC?” “Third one this morning, Luci. Not sleeping well?” “I’m afraid not. Perhaps you should come over and help – but then again, we might not get much sleep if you do.” “Aw, Luci, do you want me to fuck you senseless to help you fall asleep?” “If you’re offering, who am I to refuse.”)

He’ll be frustrated that MC keeps flirting with him, but they never follow through.

Lucifer is so horny that it’s absurd. MC could be completely normal, and this man would be thirsting. (“I really don’t want to do this lesson. This chapter is so boring.” “Normally, I wouldn’t use positive reinforcement, but if you complete your work, I’ll reward you.” “What kind of reward?” “Come to my room tonight and find out.”)

Poor MC doesn’t realize they’re being seduced until Lucifer has dragged them into his bed.

“Sleep with me.” “I’m not really tired, Lucifer.” “Good. Then you’ll have plenty of energy to make out and maybe even fuck me – if you want.” His touch would be so intimate – rubbing their inner thigh or groping their ass. “IF I WHAT?!?”

Lucifer would turn pink up to his ears. Part of him thinks MC is just teasing him again, but he would quickly realize that they’re being genuine. He’d feel absolutely humiliated. Did they not want him at all? Did all of that flirting mean nothing?

Before he could die from the shame, Lucifer would manage to blurt out, “Do you want me or not?” He wants some honest commitment in return for his affection, and if MC won’t bring that, that’s unacceptable. Of course, there is some thrill in a chase, but in that moment, Lucifer won’t have it in him. It would be a battle to fight some other day.

If MC tells him no or gives a half-hearted response, he will ask them to leave his room with one hand covering his blushing face. He wouldn’t even be able to look at them as he closed the door – and he’d probably avoid them for a day or two. (Also, he might cry a little after the door is locked).

If MC insists that they do want him, he’ll be especially needy while also acting all sadistic – attempting to tease them to distract from his own embarrassment. This poor loser will require so many kisses to reinflate his ego.

Mammon

To be fair, Mammon would bring this upon himself. He loves to act like he’s uninterested – constantly interrupting his fawning and puppy-like following of MC to save himself from the absolute humiliation of being *gasp* honest about his feelings.

I can see Mammon regularly initiating flirting, but this man can’t follow through to save his own life (maybe to save the life of someone else, though). An MC who reciprocates his flirting would leave him a blushing, flustered mess. Most of the time, his embarrassment cuts the interaction short.

“Ya just can’t get enough of the Great Mammon, can ya?” “Of course not, you handsome devil~” “I- uh! Hmph! Damn right!” he’d say it, crossing his arms and avoiding eye contact while the blush rises in his cheeks. How is MC supposed to respond?

If they tease him further and flirt more, he’ll just yell and tell them to knock it off. If they just shrug it off and move on, Mammon will be too flustered to make another move on them that day. The flirtatious spark just kind of fizzles out like a defective firecracker.

It takes a lot of boldness on Mammon’s end to get MC to realize he’s being serious. And honestly, Mammon is so adorable, MC may have the opportunity to take the initiative and push things a little further first. (You want to tell me most MCs could just flirt with Mammon, reducing him to a blushing, aggressive mess, and go back to watching that movie or playing that video game upon Mammon’s belligerent demand, and not want to kiss his face? Okay, sure.)

But let’s ignore that thought and say MC follows Mammon’s flirting in the “yes, and” fashion. After Mammon continuously sabotages his own chances, eventually, he’s going to get so frustrated that he will smother his own shyness long enough to get what he wants.

He’ll get MC alone and string together some make-shift confession – a plea for more. “Ya know, if ya wanna kiss the Great Mammon or somethin’, I’m not gonna stop ya – like, I mean, I want a little more outta ya. So, don’t hold back just cause ya think I don’t want to or nothin’.” (translation: Please kiss me. I know I act like I don’t want you, but I really, really want you to kiss me. Please, please, please.)

His face will burn, and a blush will work its way up to his ears. It’ll be hard to deny the intensity of his feelings, and it will weigh down on MC – a truth previously held in a bag on their back, tethered to dozens of helium balloons that disguised its weight, and then suddenly found every string cut loose by Mammon’s admission. He really loved them. For his confession, all Mammon would get was a stunned but heartfelt “oh.”

He gets so upset and embarrassed that MC didn’t realize he was being serious before. He went on a rollercoaster of emotions; meanwhile, this whole time, they hadn’t even taken his advances in earnest. It’s practically offensive.

The only remedy for Mammon’s bruised dignity is for MC to immediately hold and kiss him until he’s temporarily satisfied. (“Ya owe me big time for not takin’ me seriously.”)

Leviathan

I mean, he kind of has to flirt before MC can flirt back – unless we’re going to count accidentally blurting out his innermost perverted desires as flirting. Sure, I suppose it’s basically flirting to tell someone “It’s sexy when you tell me what to do. I can’t stop imagining you doing that in other settings.”

He’s so bad at flirting that nothing will happen for a long time after he realizes he’s head over heels. Levi is fine spending the rest of his (or at least MC’s) life pining for them – or at least he believes that. But the longing and desire will start to creep in, and he’ll wonder how much he can ask from MC. Friends can hold hands and maybe even cuddle, right? Maybe even kiss? Could they even –?

The thoughts eat away at him until he can’t wait for MC to make the move anymore. It slips out of him like some mating request written by Dr. Suess: “Would you –? Could you –? With an otaku? A gross, disgusting one, too?”

Levi is so visibly flustered that he doesn’t leave much room for ignorance. Even the most extreme masochist wouldn’t subject themselves to the furiously blushing, trembling state that Leviathan had worked himself into. He’d be on the brink of tears. All his hope in the world would be precariously perched on a ledge, awaiting your response.

I can’t see MC not knowing that Levi was attempting to seduce them, but perhaps the timing of it came as a surprise. Or perhaps they had never taken his affection seriously. He has so many favorites that he can’t pursue; just because he has a massive crush on MC doesn’t mean he had plans to act on it.

He will get even more embarrassed and down on himself to know that MC didn’t take him seriously at first. He understands, but that doesn’t make it any less hurtful.

He will require physical reassurance – as much of it as MC is willing to give him. And honestly, if MC doesn’t end up kissing him until he forgets how to think after his confession, he’ll probably hide in his room for a few weeks purely out of shame.

Satan

With an MC like this, the back-and-forth flirting goes on for an inordinate amount of time. Satan is not a flirt by any definition, but when there’s someone he likes, he knows how to turn on the charm. He’s smart, passionate, and mentally quick on his feet; he’s a natural charmer for the right audience.

Satan moves pretty slow when romance is concerned. If Levi wasn’t such a hopeless cause (affectionately), Satan would probably be the slowest to escalate a romantic relationship. He and MC will have a dozen dates under their belts before the desire for more had become an unbearable burden for Satan to silently ignore.

Eventually, Satan would find himself reading in his room with MC, unable to hold back anymore. He would ask, “Would you mind if I kissed you?” “No, I don’t mind if you want to.” “Could I kiss you now?” “Eh, sure.”

Everything up to that point could have been misread as platonic or some casual interest – maybe even curiosity on his end.

But he was serious, and it was evident in the way he approached MC to collect that kiss. He would straddle their hips, set their book aside (face down to mark the page like a real gentleman), and lean down for the kiss. Then, his lips would move against theirs, and the smallest sigh would escape him like a quiet release of sexual tension that had pressurized his entire body. Then, it would all click for MC.

Surprisingly, he wouldn’t be upset or humiliated if MC hadn’t taken him seriously before. In fact, he sees it as more of a personal failing, and in a low, seductive voice, he would tell them, “Allow me to prove how genuine and deep my feelings are for you.”

Asmodeus

He flirts with everyone, so how was MC supposed to know??

He asks them on dates so often. He’s probably the only one who could make out with MC and they’d still think, “yeah, we’re besties” because when Asmo pulls away with a giggle and a grin, telling them how much fun that was, it doesn’t feel serious.

It would take a moment of angst – either Asmo feeling like MC doesn’t take his advances seriously enough (and they don’t) or MC getting down on themselves – for them to realize.

Asmo would pull them into his room and leave small kisses all over them, peppering in compliments. “You’re so gorgeous, and I adore looking at your face.” Then, he would kiss their cheek. “You’re such a sweetheart.” Then, the other cheek. “I always have so much fun when I’m with you. I don’t ever want you to leave my side.” He would kiss their forehead. “I want you to feel confident; you’re such a wonderful soul.” (He would probably add more compliments if MC was feeling self-conscious.)

His words would get sweeter and more honest. “I feel seen in your eyes – like every part of me is accepted. I don’t have to play it up or try.” He would work his way down their neck with soft pecks to their skin. “I want to share everything beautiful in this world with you.” In part to avoid meeting their gaze. “I want to make you smile with everything I have.” And in part so he could whisper the words into their ear. “I want to help you whenever you need me. I’ll sit right next to you through any pain and hardships you encounter.” No one else had earned the right to hear his praise and affection. “I want to be a comfort for you – someone you can return to like a home.”

Finally, he would face them with a striking affection. “You know I’m in love with you, right? It’s not just lust and fun. You’re everything. You matter the most – after me, of course. It’s me and you and everything else.”

Asmo seduces everyone. That isn’t shocking. But this was more than seduction. It was genuine courtship. He won’t fault MC for being surprised. It caught him off guard too.

Beelzebub

Beel is not super flirty, but he makes it known that he cares through his actions. So, there aren’t many opportunities for MC to “yes, and” flirt back with him.

He asks them out to get food often and brings them snacks, but that doesn’t signal any romantic intentions. Sometimes he might stare at MC affectionately or admit how happy he is to spend time with them, but it’s nowhere near intense.

Sometimes, he asks for something more selfish. It starts small: petting his head, holding his hand, hugging him. None of those register as seduction from Beel for MC, especially compared to the affectionate nature of his twin. In fact, no one would fault MC for thinking these were platonic wants. After all, Beel has been through a lot. Sometimes this sweet, big baby boy just needs physical affection.

Then, he would get a bit bolder with his requests: “Could you feed me?” “Can I feed you?” “Would you hold me?”

As innocent and platonic as Beel may seem, he makes a lot of off-hand remarks that sound a bit perverted. “I bet MC’s lips would taste good.” “I wonder what you taste like.” “MC has nice hands. I bet they would feel good…” These comments could open the door for some flirting from MC, though. “Wanna taste me, Beel?” “Should I give you a massage? Or maybe something more?”

MC flirting with him would make his heart race. Even if MC didn’t follow through with their flirtatious offer, it would encourage Beel to keep pushing his luck.

Finally, he would ask, “Can I kiss you?”

Beel would look so shy and embarrassed, holding his hands awkwardly to his chest, that it would be hard not to take him seriously. The question – and his desire – would be a slight shock. Beel wouldn’t mind that MC was surprised, although he would be disappointed if he was turned down.

If MC takes him up on that offer, they will come to realize that his ravenous hunger showed itself through a kiss, too – as if he had been starving for MC’s touch and affection.

Belphegor

He’s so affectionate and cuddly. In that way, he’s similar to Asmo; it’s pretty hard to tell how serious and intense Belphie’s feelings are. He’s just kind of like that.

It’s common for Belphie to ask to be spoiled with affection – head pats, feeding him, hugging him, sleeping together, going out with him, praising him, holding his hand, being his pillow, etc.

His need for attention doesn’t cover up for how flushed his face gets when MC is the one to give him affection. His neediness doesn’t explain how much he clings to MC or how he blushes and tells them not to stop touching him.

So, actually, he’s less flirty than he is demanding of attention. Going along with his demands only encourages him to vocalize and act on more of his desires. He’d even ask permission to kiss them and to be kissed.

MC probably wouldn’t figure it out until Belphie starts sleepily trying to make out with them.

“Belphie, are you half-asleep?” “What? No. I’m awake. Why?” “That was a really heated kiss.” “Of course it was. Can we keep going?” “I’m sorry, what?”

“Don’t you like me back? We sleep together, go on dates, cuddle, and you even let me kiss your face and neck whenever I please. Don’t you want to go further?”

It hits them. Belphie can read the look of surprise on MC’s face, and it makes him pout. MC really should have known how he felt by then, but he’s confident that his affection is reciprocated before MC even responds.

“Sheesh. You’re really difficult, you know? I’ve had to do a lot of the work here because you’re so dense.” Belphie would straddle MC’s lap and take off his shirt. “I’ll let it go this time, but you better start putting in more effort from now on.”

A/N: Only about 1 hour left to vote in the poll. And we just got to 100 so y'all are getting 2 posts this month. Genuinely, I typed this a/n up, talking about only needing one more vote, checked it again, and the one vote is no longer needed. Good job, y'all. I swear if there are ties...

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bubbles-for-all-of-us · 2 years ago

Text

Always have but never hold

Previous chapter / Next chapter

a/n part seven folks. Still blows my mind that people are enjoying this. Will take a little break after this chapter so bear (hehe) with me please! But these two will come back to you as soon as possible.✨🤍

warnings: the usual, past trauma, forceful behavior, mental health struggles, anxiety, fire.

Parts in cursive are glimpses to the past.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Carmen knew he was sinking. The images of his previous chef shouting at him didn't ease up. It was always there. Nagging at him. Eating at him. Putting him down and making him feel small. You're terrible at this. You're not good at it. Move faster. Why are you so slow? You are nothing. You're bullshit. You'll never be good enough. Do you like letting people down? You're great at that shitface. Give up. Give up. You'll never get it. Never have what you want because you are a fuckup. A mistake.

Carmy shot up. Cold sweat dripped down his face. Mouth dry. He blinked his eyes a couple of times. Right as the doorbell rang again. His body stilled. It was already late. He had fallen asleep after he returned from the restaurant. That wasn't the plan. But he had laid down on the sofa for a moment, watching a mind-numbing show on TV. And he must have slipped into that uneasy state of slumber. The doorbell went off again. Carmy dragged a hand over his face. He thought about ignoring it. Whoever that was could fuck themselves. Until he remembered that you didn't have your keys on you, and if...

Carmy tripped over the fallen pillow as he staggered through the apartment. Towards the door. His hands were shaky as he turned the key. Yanking the door open. Chest barely managed to welcome all the oxygen he's been inhaling. Hopeful. Lightheaded. And then nothing. And suddenly, there's not enough oxygen. And his shoulders slumped. And he felt tired from that sprint he just had. He felt heavy. The light tingle in his eyes was dying.

"What do you want, sugar?", he sighed. Standing in the doorway, feeling fatigued from that one, single sentence alone. "That's one way to greet your sister", Sugar grumbled, eyes on Carmy. Carmy looked like he was dragged from hell itself. Leaning against the door for support. Carmy, who looked so tired, even sleep would help. "You won't invite me in?", she asked after a while of standing in the outside hallway. Carmy was barely a human. The last thing he needed was someone barging in.

Yet he still stepped to the side because this is sugar, and he loves her. Mikey loved her too. The three were together against the world. Should have been. Youngest or not, Carmen always felt the need to protect her. Somehow shield her from the insanity that was their family, but it rarely worked because even with all the pleading, all the just drop it, don't ask mom that, just let her be, Nat always went head first, igniting the flames even more.

"Shit, Carm... what... where...", he catches her shocked expression as she looked around the apartment. Boxes were still everywhere. But he doubted that was what had she looking stunned. There were dirty plates all over the counter and empty boxes of freezer meals. Cans of drinks. A tea towel was on the floor. The living room looked like it usually looked when art exams were coming. Carmy had dug up everything. Every single thing that, in a way, removed him from you. Was it a mess? Yes. But it was his mess. Your mess. The mess you two made. The mess of you. It was beautiful to Carmy.

He snapped out of the trance just as Natalie reached to take one of your books that was placed right by the stove. "Don't touch it", Carmy barked almost immediately. "Carmen, this is a safety hazard", Nat groaned, and even with her brother shooting daggers at her, she still lifted the book that held a whole bunch of Monet paintings. Water lilies were glancing at the two of them innocently.

"I said leave it be", Carmen wanted nothing more than to snatch the book from Nat's hands. It felt too personal for her to hold. "Clean out the trash at least", she said, moving to turn the pages. The pages. Carmen cringed. "Put the book down, Natalie. Don't fucking mess with me right now". His voice was bitter. Cold. Demanding. He rarely used it with her. It just didn't sit well with him. But this felt as if Nat was pushing her fingers deep into the wounds that Carmy bore. Turning them as she damaged the skin tissue even more.

Natalie had stopped just watching Carmy now. The eyes were nearly watery. "I thought hanging out with Claire was good for you", she muttered, and she truly couldn't have picked the worse words to say. That name alone now made Carmy sick. "Don't", was all he managed to say. Because it was true, he got excited about seeing her in the grocery store back then. And yeah, it felt almost made up when she popped up. She was a big part of his life back then, yes. And Carmy had thought about her when he just moved out. Even then, they hadn't been talking much. But then you walked in, and he saw no one else. There had always been these voices in his head. These nagging thoughts and Claire was one of them, but you killed them all. Wiped Carmy's head clean.

"Claire's a good...", Natalie stated, but Carmy moved forward straight away, ripping the book out of her hands before pointing his finger at her. "Stop pushing her on me! All of you this time! Stop it!", Carmen barked, brushing his head over his face. "Did you ever stop and considered that I was fucking happy?". Those words made Nat bleed as well. Carmen could see the way something in her chest tightened. Her face changed. He still hoped that she had always wanted what was best for him.

"I found someone who loves... loved me, and...", to change the tense felt wrong. But Carmen wasn't sure now. Wasn't sure if you were still out there. Holding onto that little flame that was the love the two of you shared. "I always wanted what's best for you ...", Natalie muttered, eyes full of tears now, glistening in the dim light of the apartment, "Does this look like the best thing for me?"

Carmy gestured around him. Around all the mess. Around himself, "When I blow my brains out just like Miney did?" Natalie's face paled, and her hand came over her chest. She held her breath for a moment before mumbling, "Don't talk shit like that! That was just some girl....", "Some girl? She's been my whole life. She made me better. She made this world better, Natalie", the sound of Carmy's voice was nothing but a silent sob. Because no matter what he did, life constantly chose to remind him that you weren't there beside him.

"Try this," the kitchen was submerged in different smells. Some old French tunes were playing. You were sitting on a little bar stool as Carmen carefully lifted a spoon toward your mouth. You instantly leaned forward, letting the flavors hit your tongue. Eyes big when the most delightful taste filled your senses, "I would sell my kidney for this", you muttered, motioning for Carmy to give you another spoonful, mouth already open. He let out a chuckle, dipping the spoon back in, "It's not that good". You let out a gasp. "Chef, I beg to differ. That's sublime! You need to add this to your menu".

It was delicate. The act of sharing food. To some, it might seem silly and stupid, but to Carmen, it was a whole lot more important. You knew that much even back then. It was his way of saying I trust you. This is me. Now you are looking at one of the rawest forms of me. Stabbing me now and making me feel like no one would be so easy. So what will you pick? It's his way of saying I love you so much that I'm sharing a part of me that's so venerable.

Your eyes shined as you wait for another spoonful, but Carmen halted his movements. "The chef is still unsure", he says, and you narrow your eyes at him, "He would like some more convincing. How about a kiss?". You watched him for a bit, slightly taken aback by his words because Carmen was so rarely in a playful mood. A smirk spreads over your face. "And does this chef kiss all of his taste testers?" That same half-smirk curves his lips as Carmen settles the spoon in the pot. "No, only the one he really fucking likes". You lick your lip nervously, biting the side of it. "Really, really, huh?", you ask in an almost teasingly innocent manner. Carmen only nodded his head as he leans forward. "Well, then... maybe your taste tester is just as desperate for the taste of the chef's lips", and that's all it took for Carme to lean toward you. For you to catch his lips between your palms as you pulled him closer.

"And then I said... Hey? You're listening?", Sydney's voice drags you out of your head, and you nod your head quickly. Eyes fell on Luca, who was a couple of steps away, making you two dinner. His back and arm muscles moved with every delicate cut that he made. "No, I hear you, and it's... well, shit,", you breathed out. Ever since the call earlier today, you've barely let go of your phone. Marcus and Sydney were both pissed. The beef was more than likely to close. The shit was falling apart. Carmy was falling apart. If he hadn't crumbled completely already...

"It messed with Marcus a lot", Sydney's voice was barely a whisper when she said that, cautiously looking at Marcus, who had slipped out to the balcony for some fresh air. "He was... well excited, you know, and I tasted it. It was fucking great. Who even gets a doughnut almost perfect on like a fourth try?", she continued to rant. Luca lifted his head to the sound of doughnuts, and you narrowed your eyes at him. Of course, that's the first thing he subconsciously reaches for. Oh, these fucking chefs trained more insanely than Pacvlov's dogs.

Silence falls, from the little screen in front of you, you can see a lost Sydney, and oddly enough, you feel guilty. As if this was your fault all along. As if you should have thought more about your flee. "Where are you anyway? Carmy goes mental at the mention of your name", Sydney killed the silence, and suddenly you don't know what to say. The obvious thing would be to say the truth, but...

"Oh am... Just you know", you muttered, but you can tell that she didn't know. "You two broke up or something?", and it's an innocent question. She's like a kid who made an absurd comment and jabbed the grownup right where it hurt the most. You can sense that even Luca stilled.

"We didn't... well, we did..." you let out a sigh, "Complicated. I'm in Copenhagen". Sydney's eyes grow big as she brings her phone closer to her face, and you cannot help but chuckle slightly. You watched little pieces put themselves together in her brain.

"I'm at a friend's house. He answered the call. Luca. He's a baker", You weren't sure why you were explaining yourself, but then something completely different shifted through Sydney's face. "Wait, Luca? THE chef Luca from Copenhagen?", and just like that, the whole relationship drama was swept away. Your eyes met Luca's, and he was already chuckling slightly. "Of course that... it definitely doesn't mean that it's THAT Luca because, like, there must be a lot of Luca's...", and here she was, muttering and falling over her words and it's making your heart clench. That's how she talked about Carmen not long ago. How she looked at him in the kitchen—that admiration. An astonishing thrill to be able to swirl around chefs like that. "Oh yeah, scratch it. It's definitely that, Luca", your eyes fall to the screen, and you see Luca leaning over your shoulder with a gentle smile on his face as he waves at Sydney.

"Hi, it's me again. Haven't called in a couple of days, and", Carmy takes a hesitant breath, "You probably were happy with not hearing from me". Another sigh leaves his lips, "I thought about Ossobuco today. So random, right? But I... I thought about our trip to Italy". The silence this time held this anticipated moment of peace almost. "You liked that dish so much I could make it for you constantly for the rest of the month, remember?", something like an almost happy cackle leaves Carmy's lips. "I'd like to cook ossobuco for you one day again", he says, and the line goes silent.

You were puffing out the last clouds from the cigarette when Luca stepped out onto the balcony. Your phone was tossed to the side. Stains of angry tears were kissed by a light evening breeze. Luca said nothing as he sat down, his hand coming to run your thigh softly. "Penny, for your thoughts?", he said quietly, his eyes now fully on you.

"Do you remember when you came to Libby's that night?", Luca's hand stopped moving; his hand was completely still on your leg now. You could tell that he was clenching his jaw tightly. He didn't want to remember, nor did you, but he still nodded. "I was so confused and scared", you muttered. "You were pumped with shit that ass gave you and dumped for later use", Luca huffed, and you cringed at his pick for words slightly. "Libby "found me", you say air quoting the last two words. "And then he fucked her as a thank you and kept doing so for the next six months till I found out", you let out a bitter laugh. Closing your eyes to fight the stinging in your eyes "Why are you bringing this up?", Luca asked. "Because it's been playing on my mind ever since I came here," you admitted, pushing your cigarette at the ashtray before lighting a new one. "I...", you shake your head slightly, "Carmy made my head less busy ", almost in disbelief. "I was almost set, like, that's it. I found my happy ever after after all that... We will get married, he'll have his restaurant, I'll open an art gallery, and we have a kid or two or twenty, I don't know", you muttered, suddenly getting so angry almost. Not sure at who exactly, but the frustration was bubbling.

"Do you remember what Pop used to say?", Luca asked, almost as if he wasn't listening to the whole random rant you just had. "He said many things, Luca", you grunted. "Love is the best thing we as humans have the privilege to give", your frown at Luca's words. Out of everything, "You love him, bunny; he loves you considering the number of times your phone pings throughout the day", Now it's Luca's turn to shake his head as he considers his next words, "I'm not justifying his actions, but as I've been saying, you didn't listen to his side of the story, and you've always wanted and wished that someone had listened to your side back then".

The restaurant felt more and more unfamiliar to Carmy as the days went by. He was late with paying bills. His brain was buzzing with Richie and his not-so-legal ways of getting the money. The place was shit. He was surprised they hadn't been closed yet. He was short on staff. Especially after Sydeny and Marcus left. Carmy had wanted to call both of them individually. He had picked up that doughnut that Marcus was eager to show him. He picked it right off the floor and put it straight into his mouth. It was amazing. Sure, it needed a couple of tweaks to perfection, but Carmy would have served it like it was.

He hadn't told anyone about... well, whatever the situation between the two of you was. But from the way Tina was looking at him, he was convinced that at least she knew. I mean, she did say, "Ask yourself why, Jeff," and "Boy, I thought you were smarter". And telling himself that he hadn't done anything that bad seemed like such a duchy thing too. Sure, he didn't flirt, they haven't kissed, and there was nothing sexual between him and Claire. They met up a couple of times. She dragged him to one party. He chased this childhood dream with her. Oh, if I just caught onto it, maybe just maybe my family will open their eyes finally too. But Carmy made awful choices along the way.

Carmen longed for you through the days. He found himself going to the office when shit hit the fan, and he would lose track of reality. Hoping to find you there. In hope to be held in your arms. Let the chaos die down. Just the more he stepped into the office, and it was emptier and emptier.

Carmen had let everyone go home earlier. He said it was because they've done an awesome job. The truth was that he just wanted to be alone. Carmen thought about cooking something. Maybe something new, but his imagination had been so dull. Nothing felt right, no matter how hard he tried.

So Carmen opted to scrub the floors, scrub the countertops, and check through the walk-in. Until he was left there. Staring numbly at the clock. Until he reached for the pack of cigarettes before realizing, after tapping his pockets multiple times, that he didn't have a lighter at hand. So Carmy leaned in carelessly, flipping the gas stove on and trying to direct the cigarette to the flame.

Then everything happens so fast, and his mind is so tired. The fire catches the rest of the countertop. Spreading. Hot tongues licking towards Carmy. But all he hears are the same words that hunt him now. You're terrible at this. You're not good at it. Move faster. Why are you so slow? You are nothing. You're bullshit. You'll never be good enough. Do you like letting people down? You're great at that shitface. Give up. Give up. You'll never get it. But it's not his old chef. Oh no, this time it's you. You scream at him through the flames, and his irrational mind panics because you're in the flames and you're... Are you burning? So he nearly leaps forward, reaching for you. And then it's no longer the nagging voices; it's his name that Carmy was hearing over and over. Louder and louder.

And then there are hands pulling him away; Carmen being pulled behind the counter; someone is extinguishing the fire; someone is holding onto him; and someone is still calling his name. But Carme stares at the fire. "Carmen", the voice called out. Pulling at his mind. Trying to ground him. Trying to make him come to his senses. "Carm", and then gentle hands caressed his jaw, pulling his face away from the stove, and there and then Carmen was convinced that he had burned. Went straight to the flames and just burned. "Are you fucking insane? Show me your hands", but he's stunned. He's... "You're not real", he muttered, shaking his head. Doubting his eyes fully "You can't...", He doesn't believe it. Reaching out, he touches the person in front of him. Worried eyes look up at him. "Y/N...", Carmen muttered, and then it's a mantra on his lips, and he's muttering it without a single breath in. And you know you shouldn't. It's bad; it's wrong, but Carmen launched himself into your hands. Arms wrapped around your middle, and you're shaking, and he's shaking, and it feels like an illusion, like a dream you two had walked into. It's probably not real Carmen thinks. And he's waiting for you to disappear to slip past his fingers, but you don't; you're here, and he's holding onto you. And finally, Carmen takes a deep breath in, and his heart kick-starts again.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Taglist: Carmy: @nishinoyahhh @thewulf @shewasthelimit @chatitajens @azxulaa @hidingfromtex @randomhoex @hopplessdreamer @lostinheavensworld @jackierose902109 @gallaghrh @gabbycoady13 @harrysmatcha @lady-bellyn @lovejoyenjoyer @infinitelycharmed23 @royalestrellas @hanula18 @thoughtfulmoonchild911 @buckys-winter-child @arieltwvdtohamflash @simsiddy @yezzyyae @hidingfromtex @toptierbunny @rooster-bradshaws @simonsaysyasss @hannahmmarie2016 @ladygrey03 @kyushii

#carmen berzatto x you #carmen berzatto imagine #carmen berzatto #carmen berzatto x reader #carmy berzatto x reader #carmy berzatto imagine #carmy berzatto #carmy berzatto x you #carmy the bear #the bear imagine #the bear tv show #the bear x you #the bear x reader

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hoseoksluna · 8 months ago

Text

RASPBERRIES | jhs ft. jjk

pairing: boyfriend!hobi x berries!oc (feat. ex-boyfriend!jk and luna)

genre: smut, angst

word count: 10.5k

summary: a step towards breaking the curse of your life—nothing could be sweeter than that, could it?

pinterest board: raspberries / taglist: join

warnings: anal sex:), blowjob, a bit of an argument?:), bathtub sex, ass eating, pussy licking, this whole chapter is a warning itself, oc and hobi are just horny, anger, crying, daddy issues, breeding kink, praise kink, spitting:), their emotions are all over the place, brief mention of suicide.

note: okay, this chapter might have salvaged this entire series. i wrote entirely through my feelings and the plot took a whole different direction. like i had something planned, but the characters do what they want. :) SORRY FOR THE CLIFFHANGER. THE CHAP WAS GETTING LONG. and i want the last (next) chapter to be juicy! please, send me your thoughts via my inboooox. i'll be waiting. do we trust jk or not? skfhskfhs. enjoy, my loves!

Perhaps, you should’ve seen it coming—the fact that Jungkook wouldn’t pick up. The rosily gold sunlight warms your fire of anger as you try and try again, the number beside his name on your screen rising and rising until another digit joins it. Something about it feels like a childish payback and you don’t really know why you like it so much. Why you like making him feel the way he made you feel when he spammed your phone after you made the worst mistake of your life by accidentally sending him the video of you professing that your intimate parts belong to Hobi.

Perhaps, it's as simple as that—it’s childish. And you find yourself to be in a safe realm for your inner child to come out and live. Come out and take revenge.

Another layer of warmth is pressed against your bare back, heavier, more homely. You swivel your head to bump into Hobi’s jaw, to catch the furrow of his brows as they serve as a shadow from the morning sun, along with the antique structure of his body. His trembling hands hook onto your shoulders, squeezing once before they drift down your arms. Inching closer, he wraps them around you in a suffocating hold. And it isn’t until he closes his lips down onto your temple and steals your phone, flinging it away, that you realize he did it in order to stifle the fire.

“That’s enough,” he whispers and it graces you with the notion that it should be saved for another time, the picture of his tremor coming forth and the question of why. It kills you, slowly, the liveliness of his emotions, portrayed so gently by his hands. Why are they shaking?

They snuffed out the fire, but the residue of the painting, colorless and bland, remains. It lines your skin—you can even see it in the streaks of the sunlight. The curves, the message. What was he punishing you for? It’s a question that now unfolds within the strange calmness descending down your body. Was he punishing you for having a man? For returning to your salvation that is in a lung burner? For going against him? Or for raising your fists—feeding him the poisonous negativity of your emotions?

The need to reach for your phone and talk to Jungkook seizes you again and you fight against Hobi’s hold, but he says no. Sternly, seriously. Tightens his hold. Doesn’t let go.

“Let it be,” he adds, rubbing your arm with the hand that lays across your chest. But you can’t, you can’t—

“Hobi, I can’t—”

Your sentence is silenced by the sudden kneading of his hands upon your knotted shoulders. Relief evaporates every need, every black fume of your doused fire. His hands bear strength now as his thumb focuses on the tightness of your muscles and you droop, you crumble. And what you didn’t expect—Hobi droops and crumbles with you.

The violence of his heart against your back, it becomes yours when he pulls you into the shadows of the wavering structure of his body. Its stones ricochet off of your decaying figure, dropping onto the floor with a loud, thunderous thud. You feel the saddened line of his mouth against your cheek, into which he sinks, quietly as a mouse, his whimper. He doesn’t cry and he doesn’t yell, his infelicity, bound to yours, radiates the entire room in gloom. Clouds swim past the sun and linger, the rosy glow snuffed out—just like your fire.

The wedding of your joy has been put off. The groom has been left at the altar, and it’s all your fault.

Why is everything so temporary?

Why are you unable to be stable? To stay submissive amidst the ups and downs of your life? To stay calm, unaffected?

You’re so weary of it. Weary of yourself, weary of your life, of the curse.

You turn around and embrace him. Feel like it’s the only right thing you can do at this very moment. Hobi welcomes you in, lets you sign and recuperate in the kingdom of his arms. Rubs your back, gathers the ends of your hair in his hands as if it were a stream of water he longed to refresh himself with.

It’s so different, to be given love when you don’t ask for it. Something opens within you, a circle of mildness that cracks its mouth wide to consume the edges of the curse until only its axis, its middle core remains. Lightness drives your hands to embrace him tighter, only for Hobi to follow the movement—lungs in sync while your heart tries to mimic his rapid movement.

It’s like a wordless eulogy. Goodbye to the old life, to the old pain, so the new can settle. Hobi can sense it, too. Supports it when he swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing against the crown of your head, wets his mouth, prepares himself to speak.

But then your phone starts ringing.

Your heart lurches forward, but you dwell in motionlessness. You don’t care anymore. Hold the serenity, the lightness in higher regard.

“Let it ring,” Hobi whispers, tracing circles on your back, the same pattern that has opened within you.

You nod against his clavicle. “I will.”

His hands descend to your waist and clenches it for a while, a sensation of groundedness washing over you, cleansing you. You kiss his collarbone. Then, a message dings.

“How about I run you a bath?” Hobi asks in your ear, nuzzling his nose in your hair, muffling out the sound of another Jungkook’s intrusion. The idea resembles a paradise to you and you beg for it with a singular, pretty word.

Scooping you up in his arms, he sets you down in front of your bathtub, your nipples brushing against his chest with the descent, awakening the dried pool of your arousal deep in your core. A fresh spring of water fills it until it brims over and so you don’t waste a drop, you slam your mouth onto his, kissing him. He hums, lowly, into your mouth, not foreseeing something like this, and the sound splashes in the pool, drenching you whole, showering your orchard in the life it needs.

Slipping your tongue inside, he lets you taste him for a mere moment, before he clasps your mouth in his hand and stares you down. “Hold it.”

Hold what? Your incessant stream of horniness for him?

Reaching over, he fills up the bath with warm water with one hand, its mist rising up your body, spreading little dots of anticipation on your skin, erasing the lines, the curves and the message of the painting you never saw, but envisioned. And before he can straighten, you pull him back up. He smiles down at you, kissing you, tenderly, mouths smacking within the briefness and the pool within you heats up.

Except for the orgasm he gave you in the middle of the night, right before dawn, neither you or him got the release you needed when you were connected. Pity ripples in your water and you grasp his manhood in your hand, semi-hard. How did he get excited this quickly? You coo, but only for yourself, drifting your hand down his poor, blue balls, squeezing them, coaxing a pained sigh out of him.

“Does it hurt?” you ask, softly, flicking your gaze up into his. They must be hurting, considering the amount of arousal that swirled inside without an ounce of alleviation.

He doesn’t respond, but that’s an answer for you. Light flows from his eyes as seriousness draws his features tight, bottom lip tucked between his teeth. You kiss his chest, gripping him a little before you let go, threading your fingers through your hair, parting them into three sections and, blindly, instinctively, you plait them into a braid, securing the end with a silk, thin scrunchie. Pink, like his imaginary wings.

“Come join me.”

Hobi shakes his head, though. Holds you steady as you swing your leg over the lip of the bathtub, sinking into the warm, misty water. At the sight of you kneeling, he lets out another pained sigh, prolonged this time and you feel so bad for him that you don’t think twice before you take him into your mouth.

“Pup, fuck,” he moans, grabbing the crown of your head as his knees shake. All of his emotions are expressed through the tremors, you note, and it drives you to open your mouth wider, swallowing him deeper. “Oh, yeah, that’s so good.”

Your walls clench and you mewl around him, dragging your tongue flat on the underside of him as you draw back, swirling the muscle around the tip of him as you grip him. You use your saliva to stroke him, making him cage in his bottom lip between his teeth again. Eyes rolled back, his reddened lip springs back, and he gazes down at you, fingers trailing down until they meet your loose plait, acknowledging themselves with the newness.

“I love your hair like this. You’re so pretty,” he comments, voice so terribly strained, and you hum, pleased to hear such a compliment. You hollow out your cheeks on his tip, sucking him, slowly, and he repeats those words you love so much, your noises of pleasure rising in pitch. “You really do love it when I say that, don’t you? God, I adore you. All of who you are.”

You withdraw, completely, without losing your grip on him, panting. Can feel your eyes send waves of love towards him as you bore them, piercingly, into his. He groans, divulging to you that he received the message, and you could burst, you could fly—turn this water into fire as his godliness from his precum sweetens your throat once you swallow, the aftertaste of him transforming you into an unknown being of holiness. You’re not God, you’re not an angel, either. You’re something else, entirely. A figment of his creation on the cusp of awakening and living. A moving picture of stability, submission and feline softness. Something he adores. Something he’ll soon love.

And it pleasures you, intensely.

“Do you adore me, pup?” Hobi asks as he wraps his hand around your braid. One time, two times, three times—until your hair is pulled so tight that he inclines your chin up to him, waiting for your answer. And he doesn’t have to voice it out—the dark side of his desire, the bad things he wants to do to you. You perceive them clouding his pearlescent eyes, making them brighter.

You wish the moon would turn its face towards you, so it could see the change that is occurring. So it could see the way you’ll use its magnetism to blanket yourself with Hobi’s darkness.

Now you’re able to. Now you’re prepared.

“I adore you, Daddy,” you breathe out, stroking him faster, your chest mimicking the rhythm. “And I want to show you just how much. You said you wanted to make me forget. Let me do that for you.”

His moan transmutes into a vulgarity, a tender shade of pink scattering along his cheeks and you could eat them. Your heart thumps, colorfully, your longing to help him forget the taste of the bane of your life growing and growing like a thick bush of raspberries. He deserves it—needs it, considering the infelicity of his that he poured over you when he held you, his lack of words shared with you. He deserves the fucking world and you’re willing to go above and beyond to give it to him. To give it to your boyfriend. Your husband.

“How? Tell me how you’re gonna do it.”

You draw your face to his cock, but he pulls you back by your braid, coaxing a dark mewl out of you. A drum begins to beat in your clit—the start of his song, incited by his darkness.

“Did I not tell you to use your words?” Hobi scolds, so awfully sternly, and you flutter all over, the peaks of your nipples stiffening, the drum picking up its rhythm. Your eyes widen as that darkness of his overwhelms you and you want more of it.

“Help me say it,” you say, your heart not letting you lie to him as the words, ‘I don’t know how to say it’ were on the tip of your tongue.

Hobi smirks, tightening his grip on your braid. Pain shoots up your scalp and even though you hiss, you like it. He inches forward, his lips a mere centimeter away. The radiation of his pleasure hits you, drifting down to your core. You almost reach your hand down to it, so the ache disappears, but you yearn to focus on him, wholly.

“If you want to suck on this cock and if you want me to praise you, then you’re gonna have to give me those pretty words that I know you’re capable of saying,” he murmurs, clicking his tongue at the halt of your hand around him and you resume, pressing play on the movie of his guttural moans—and you moan along with him, enjoying the sound.

Is that a hint of his pent-up anger? You believe, wholeheartedly, that it’s somewhere hiding in him, that he’s keeping inside, adamant on not letting it out in your presence. You want to unlock that cage and beckon it out, meet it, learn its name and its desires. And you’ll do it—just so Hobi feels better.

You can handle it.

And to do it, you linger, intentionally, in your quietness, ceasing your movement on his cock. In fact, you withdraw altogether. Arch your spine when you sit back, your breasts bouncing a little. And he lets you, unbelief slackening his hold on your braid, mouth parted. Perhaps, he’s thinking you don’t want to go along with the foreplay, so he’s taking a step back, but what he doesn’t know is that what you’re doing is as much of a means of it as it is one of healing.

There’s no way he isn’t angry at your ex-boyfriend for punishing you silently for whatever he thinks you did. There’s no way there isn’t the same fire in him that burned in you at the sight of him marking you with the palm of his hand. He saw the painting, you didn’t. There is simply no way he doesn’t want to explode.

Hobi does lots of things for you. Stifling his emotions until they lash out in the form of his tremor is one of them. And you crave, with your whole being, to do the same for him. Let him feel like he let you feel. Make him come, vividly, like he made you come.

Adore him like he adores you.

“I’m such a bad girl, aren’t I?” you purr, lifting your fingers to your breasts and swirling them around your hardened nubs. His eyes flick to them and enlarge. You spread your legs and let him see all of you, bolts of pleasure swaying your body like the water lapping at your stomach. “Withholding my words on purpose when you’re so hard, when you need me. Hm, don’t I deserve to be punished? Don’t I deserve to be punished so hard that I willingly give you my words?”

Hobi pants and his nostrils flare, chest heaving and slightly shuddering in tandem with the drum in your clit. Sweat coats the antique structure of his body, darkening it as if rain fell upon it, staining it for a little while. You want to stain it with his ivory arousal—make a magnificent sculpture out of him to remember this important moment.

His anger will change everything. His anger will be a step to breaking the curse—to settling the process of the bane, Jungkook’s intrusion. You may have decided to do this alone, but it was wrong of you. He should be the one to make order like the father he is while you stand behind him, clutching the material of his pants.

You will get him there.

“I want you to spank me.”

He doesn’t let a second pass. Doesn’t blink. “I can’t.”

Your heart cracks, but you will strength of the raspberries into it. “Yes, you can. You can make me red and you can show him. You can show him who’s the boss. Who owns me. Who has his handprint on me. It’s you and it’s always going to be you. You have every right to do what I know you want to do, Hoseok.”

He raises his brows, mouth agape. Clenches his fists. “You want me to spank you and send a picture of it to him?”

You nod, dipping your hands into water.

“Why would I stoop to his level?” he asks, scoffing, and your throat dries, struck with shock. You didn’t anticipate this kind of answer from him and you don’t know what to say, his fatherliness and dominance enveloping you in a milky blue aura of smallness. What does he want to do, then?

Hobi steps closer. Doesn’t bend at the waist. Doesn’t crouch. Doesn’t get on his knees. He lets you look up at him in your smallness. Lets you feel his control, the manliness of his stature and energy and you gulp. Turned on and intrigued at the same time.

“I’m not a boy, pup,” he says and you wish he would touch you, touch your pebbled nipples, soothingly, feeling yourself needing it as he reprimands you. “I don’t need to play games. I’m too old for this shit. This is what pubescent boys do when they feel threatened, when they feel jealous. If I were to play his game for you, I’d only encourage him. I wouldn’t be stopping it, I’d be kicking the ball over to him. Do you really think I want to do that?”

You let out a breath. Your muscles tense, ready to scream out the question that has been boiling in you all this time.

“What do you want to do?”

He sucks in a breath, baring his teeth. There it is—there is that anger, the whole resplendent, monumental rawness of it.

“What do I want to do?” he asks as if he couldn’t believe you’re asking him that question, as if he couldn’t believe you’re allowing him to have a part in it. It thrills you—and as it thrills you, it moves forward your transformation.

“Yes, tell me what you want to do. Tell me how you want to settle this.” You stand your ground, inviting him in, inviting him into your life, to have a say in it, to have a fatherly hand in it; letting the sunlight make it right, make it alive, real and serious.

“Is that what you want? For me to step in?” he whispers, that disbelief still ringing—and you pout, touched by it.

“Yes, Hobi,” you hush out, leaning over and grabbing his hands. He lets you hold them for a second before he untwines your hold and cradles your face, kneeling by the bathtub.

The light in his eyes is too overwhelming and you melt into it, your breath hitching in your throat as you surrender. He presses his lips in a firm line, his thumbs brushing away your flyaways, and you lean into his touch, head tilted to the side.

As he tastes the newness of the conjunction to your life and his, you ask again. “What do you want to do?”

He sighs and takes in heavy breaths right after, seething, pressing his forehead against yours. And as you and him close your eyes simultaneously, he finally answers. “I want to break his fucking face.”

Dots of gooseflesh chill your skin and you don’t stop yourself from humming out your pleasure of hearing that. “Yes, Hoseok.”

You feel his gaze on you as he continues—and it might as well have been him who opened your eyes. “I want to break his hands for creating that degrading, shitty painting of you. And I want to break it. Destroy it. So it never sees the light of the day again.”

You choke out a moan, your whole body set on fire—a different one, this time. A blue fire, milky blue like your aura of smallness. “Yes, Daddy.”

Hobi groans, kissing you, nastily. Tongues and clashing of teeth, hunger and anger gratified as he pours it out into your mouth. Lets you taste it, swallow it. The same fire, but brighter, bigger, scorching hot, so alluring.

You don’t have to fan the flames of his will. He’s already decided.

“Once I’m done with you, you’re gonna send him a text,” he shares his plan with you between hard kisses; you can only whimper in your neediness in response. “You’re gonna tell him that you’re coming over to his place to talk, to look at the painting.” A sigh, a suction of lips, a moan. “Alone.” A swirl of tongues until the details of his plan spiral in the same dance in your brain. “I’ll come with you. And I’ll settle this once and for all.”

He withdraws, letting you breathe. Your body tingles, your lips, especially, every nerve ending crying out in need, whimpering at the way he studies your form—eyes lifting and falling over your swells, curves and marks. And something about the way he ogles you like that makes you feral.

“Do you understand what I’m saying?” he asks, that urgency flashing again in the light of his eyes, and you nod—a thousand times. “Repeat it back to me.”

The drum in your clit becomes unbearable and you can hear its song in your brain. All thoughts fade to nothingness, memories, triggers, pains. All of it evanesces, but one thing remains.

His plan.

“I’m gonna text him that I’m coming over to his place alone to talk and you’re gonna come with me and settle this like the Daddy you are,” you stream out, panting, focusing on the sudden numbness of your lips as his kiss still engulfs them as a new memory.

Hobi grins, pleased, and it propels you so fucking quickly to lean over and lick up the underside of his now fully hard length. Even though you can’t see it, you know the grin breaks as he deeply moans, your tongue circling his sensitive, red tip. You begin to suck it, bobbing your head up and down in a short, curt motions, and he fists your braid in one hand while the other digs into your hair at the nape of your neck, holding you to him as you give him what he befittingly deserves.

“Good girl. My good fucking girl. Oh, yeah. Like that, pup. Fuck, it feels so good. Just like that,” he praises and your whole body clenches and doesn’t let up, your nectar dripping into the water. “I’m gonna fix everything and then I’m gonna make you a Mommy, arasseo?”

You growl around him, taking after him, his words intoxicating you enough to withdraw, yearning to have him inside you. But not in the place, where he engraved his enigma, the breaking of the curse. You burn to have him stretch out the hole, where no one has ever been—the one you teased him about on your first date.

He blinks at you, hearing your sound, and his grin grows all over again, massaging the back of your scalp as if you were a puppy. You reciprocate it, devilish with your own plan. Feral, feline, and incessantly horny for him.

The water reaches your belly button and you turn off the tap without breaking the contact. Then, you tug his hand, inviting him into the bathtub.

“Let’s pretend,” you say, knowing beforehand that he’ll get the message, the meaning of your vague words, and Hobi curses, pleasing you, brushing his hair out of his forehead, exposing the undercut that makes you even wetter.

Such a beautiful Father.

You tug him again. Create space for him in your tiny bathtub and he loosens your breath when he gets in and manhandles you—pushing you flush to his body and over his lap, his hands coming over your bum, kneading it, his slender fingers sneaking to the little hole that craves him. The sunlit water sloshes and it’s so intimate—the way it ripples around your body and his, stilling as he looks deeply into your eyes, the two of his digits circling around that virgin part of you.

He’s going to consume the little purity you have left and there’s nothing you want more at this moment.

“You want me here?” he murmurs, growling as he feels you open for him there when he prods it, and you drip, drip, drip onto his thighs.

You kiss him, chastely, in his fashion, willingly giving over your purity. “And from the back.”

He chuckles, flashing his white teeth, and you want them all over your body. The effulgence of his blush, too.

“Lie back. I’ll get you ready for it.”

Preparation, such an important word in your relationship.

You do as he says, giddy, leaning against the rounded wall of the bathtub. Yelp as he raises your hips above the surface of the water and right onto his mouth, delving onto your pussy without a second spared, licking over the entirety of her, mouth open, letting you see everything.

“Fuck,” he moans, smacking his mouth, and your legs hanging in the air begin to tremble. “I can feel you throb for me. You wanna be Mommy so bad, don’t you?”

You can’t stop it, the scream of agreement that emits out of your mouth; that goes on once he swirls his tongue around that drumming pulse, learning its song—because as soon as he does, he sucks it, possessing it. Your orgasm crests and his hands never shake, never waver, holding you up as if in Greek celebration.

You can feel the stone burst forth from your legs, completing, little by little, your transformation. He’s creating a sculpture out of you. Not of Virgin Mary, not of Mary Magdalene, either. A sculpture, authentic, of you. And on the cusp of your orgasm, he takes his tongue to your other, tiny hole, fucking you there with a verve as if he sensed the work of his hands that resume the godly abuse on your clit after he tells you to place your feet on the rim of the tub.

And when you come, you’re white, smooth, magnificent and whole.

You’re you, in the simplest of words.

Mind spinning, swimming in the delight of groundedness, authenticity and love, all your body asks for is to be taken. You go to turn around, but Hobi stops you with a hand on your waist.

“I want to look at you when I fill you up,” he croaks out, shades of pinks adorning him. As he is the God of everything, you think at heart he must be the God of all pink flowers with the way they blossom underneath his skin. You believe the same flowers will sprout out of your stone as soon as you’re stuffed full and feignedly bred. “I want to see the look on your face when you feel our kids inside you.”

Our kids. You close your eyes at the wave of a profound emotion sprinkling over you and you feel like crying, feel like sobbing, begging him for it, wanting your old life to be finally ended, killed, destroyed, wanting to cling to him with your whole being and newness, to his godliness, his flowers, his masculine fatherliness. You want to live in him, and the notion, the craving is so intense in you that you exhale it out with every breath, with every pleading word you give him.

“Please, breed me. Please, please, please.”

He sucks in that breath, eyes large and dazzling, filled with so much tenderness and adoration. Pulls you flush to his body again, raising you just a little bit as he lines himself up at your little hole. Spits on his fingers while boring that gaze into yours, so terribly up close, his knuckles brushing against the flesh of your bum as he spreads that lubrication over his tip. Does it again, rubs it over your hole. And a perverse obsession with it overpowers you, seizes you in its grasp, and you crave it.

You gaze your lips along his, sharing a breath that is perfumed with the scent of roses. “Spit in my mouth.”

Those eyes of his narrow in dark, dark pleasure and he nods in a promise. Driving your fingers up his undercut, you let your body follow his guidance as he sinks you down on him, stealing your mouth in a deep, long kiss that showers your figure in those familiar tingles. Discomfort parts them while you stretch around his tip, though, and he doesn’t stop kissing you, even when you mewl. In fact, he steps into that realm of the painful sensation by thumbing your clit, by toying with your tongue, and whimpering into your mouth when you convulse around him. Gets rid of anything that prevents you from accommodating him.

Your thighs burn at the slowness of your descent, but once he’s nestled, at home, and you feel so full that you could come from it alone, Hobi breaks the kiss; and using the height difference, he spits into your waiting mouth, growling. Even his saliva is filled with powerful godliness and when you swallow and show him, the same power becomes yours.

And he smiles. It seems as though he can see it on you and his mouth widens in a lopsided grin. You clench around him.

“You’re such a good pup,” he praises and you do it again, coaxing a growl out of him. He still remains motionless, waiting for you to get used to him, and your love for him grows owing to that. “That was your reward.” A sigh, a grin. “Now I’m gonna fuck you hard.”

You latch onto his neck, trembling like him. “Yes, please, Daddy.”

It’s not just your life and his that joined. It’s your soul and his that becomes one singular face of joy when he begins to pound you. He whispers to you to keep holding onto him like that as he drives in and out of your little hole with such rapidness and hardness that you lose your own knowledge of your name. All you know is his.

Hobi. Hoseok. Daddy.

And you whisper it, you say it, you scream it. All while the water sloshes around you; all while you stretch and tighten around him and his praises for you are strained, choked out, giving you all of his strength while remaining full of it as if he never gave you an ounce of it.

His eyes never leave you, never stray away from your emotions, your pleasure, the twists of your features, the opening and closing of your mouth. And you look right back, your feline energy dousing him in sweat and ardor, the force that furrows his brows, that tightens his lips in a firm line and loosens it in pleasure as he bares his all.

And suddenly, you’re up in the air and your wet back soaks your bed sheets. Hobi rummages in your Nike box under your bed and you feel yourself stretched open, a gaping hole for him. You gasp when you drift your finger along it and you already miss him there.

Hobi chuckles at your disbelief, your most favorite toy in his hand. A pink egg—a clit sucker and a vibrator at the same time, though the vibrations never did much for you. It’s the pressure, sucking waves that kept you company in your singleness before Jungkook and after, save for the waves of the sea.

“You never thought you could stretch like that, huh?”

The ‘huh’ pinches you, but you shake that feeling away, understanding Hobi’s dislike when you asked him to spank you. A momentary sensation before your horniness washes it away at the soft sound of the toy coming to life.

“Do you have lube somewhere?” Hobi asks, but you can’t speak. You point to the bedside table and he’s quick to slide it open, fishing out your raspberry and strawberry scented lube.

What a coincidence.

And you laugh when he squirts it on you from a distance, its coldness refreshing like a lick of ice cream to your heated body. And Hobi laughs along, smearing it all over you, especially over your still gaping, red hole, fingering you there with two fingers, fleetingly, just to tease you, just to pull those sounds out of you that get his head back in the game.

Then he’s inside, back home. You can’t keep your eyes open and Hobi can’t swallow down his noises, growling and humming as loud as his body asks, ramming into you until all you can hear is his pleasure and the music of skin slapping on skin.

And when you least expect it, he places the pulsing toy on your swollen clit.

Your muscles strain, tense and taut, your throat dead silent as you can’t speak, can’t compose any sort of song of the delight that paralyzes your body. You scratch your nails down his back in effort to declare to him the beauty of his artwork and Hobi whimpers, pounding you into the mattress while keeping the toy steady, your breasts bouncing up and down, gleaming in the sunlight, pebbled, aroused, begging for his tongue when he looks down at them, his blush deepening.

“Look at me,” he commands, stopping, so you can focus, and you begin to inhale quick, staccato breaths as your orgasm nears, the pressure in your tummy coiling and coiling, threatening to rip. You open your eyes, just in time to catch his endeared coo—because he can see how close you are. His lungs mimic the same rhythm, abdominal muscles prominent and defined as he, again, gives you his all. “There, baby?” he asks, speaking of the placement of the toy, and you’re only able to nod. “Ready to become a Mommy? Daddy is right there with you, pup. You squeeze around me so well, you’re doing such a good job. We’re gonna come together, yeah? You want to come with Daddy?” Another nod—because you’re trying your hardest to stall your orgasm as he jackhammers your little hole. You thank him in your heart, like the God he is, that he’s keeping the toy steady because if he were to move it… you’d come on the spot. “Say ‘yes, Daddy’ or I’m not letting you come.”

You hiccup, shuddering so awfully pitifully while your cat-like aura of power strengthens, giving you all that you need to say it. And your eyes narrow in that sultriness, mouth pouts and you dig your claws deeper into his back, making him fuck your ass harder in payback that feels more than fucking delicious.

“Yes, Daddy. Fuck, fuck. Give it to me, please. Make me a Mommy, please, fuck. Daddy, Daddy, Daddy—”

And it’s a litany without end as Hobi moves the toy side to side and sweeps you off your feet, bringing you over the threshold of your shared home with you as his bride in his arms. You come, violently, its electric sparks shocking Hobi and he pumps you full of his cum, never stopping his hard motions, even as he twitches, growls—praising you, groaning the two words you like—and shudders just like you. He fucks you through your feigned impregnation, throwing the toy away when you squeak in overstimulation in the middle of your delirium, and he kisses you as if he hadn’t done so in a thousand years, sucking your lips so hard that they must bruise, his mound hitting your clit and stimulating it further. The warmth, the wetness—tears line your eyes and the same ones wet his eyelashes as he presses his elbows on either side of your head, panting against you, his nose brushing yours. He stares down at you, a look full of shadowed, yet pure love, the realization that you’ve done it, at last, but differently, bathing his face in light that blinds you—and blinds your tears, drying them as you smile up at him, running your fingers through his hair, through his undercut.

“I got a big load for you, pup,” he croaks out, fucking you, slowly. “I can’t fucking stop coming. You feel so good. I’m weak for you, fuck.”

You sob, finding your voice, made tender by his cock. “Give it to me, Hobi. I want it all. All your kids.”

He moans and proves it to you how weak he is by emanating such a pathetic sound that forces you, most saccharinely, to clench around him all over again, milking him out of every drop you stirred but never drank.

And for it, Hobi marks you in the middle of your breasts. A big, red hickey, redolent of your raspberries. You hold him to your chest, like the Mommy he made you into, as he sucks onto your skin, nibbling, licking, the noises akin to blowing those raspberries while he makes sure the bruise lingers for as long as possible. Then, he travels to the peak of your left nipple, trailing his tongue flat over the curve on his way up, and you’re wet, bespeckled with his children that trickle out of you as another wave of sopping arousal comes over you, because he begins to make love to that stiffened pebble. You cry out, tug his ruined hair, try to tell him you can’t anymore and Hobi hears you, takes care of you.

Drags his teeth along your nub. Flicks his eyes up to you as he sucks. “Milkie, please, Mommy.”

You burst into a roaring laughter, your shoulders shaking, arousal erased, and Hobi chuckles, lifting himself onto his hands and kissing your forehead. He moves you to your side of the bed, your skin dry and scented by him, soothed by his natural scent and the residue of his patchouli fragrance. And you revel in it, as he leaves you for a moment to fetch some wet wipes, with which he, mirthlessly, cleans you off his stickiness. His aversion to it makes an indentation in his face as his brows curl downward, features solemn and terribly serious.

Such an abrupt, speedy change of energy. Laughter dies out and fades into nothingness that spreads across your private atmosphere shared with him. Your mouth emulates the form of his dourness, cheerlessness blotching your now clean skin with invisible, downcast glitter that scarcely shines in the sunlight—and even that lessens, a cloud expanding over it, dimming it.

You touch his face and he looks up.

“Just a little more time and it’ll be here,” you say, seeping that hope, that promise into his pores by swiping your thumb along his warm cheek. “And then my belly will be big and full. And you’ll be Daddy Hobi.”

He smiles, sadly, eyes glistening, and he kisses your nose, folding into your chest. You caress him, his hair, his back—discover plump, thick marks of your fingernails and you lighten your touch, barely grazing his skin with the tips of your fingers. When he resurfaces, another, different dents embellish his face—the fresh memory of the way he’s accepted hope on your bosom and you kiss him, sealing it. Kiss that downturned smile. That red nose, those brisk cheeks. And his eyelids, wetted by his eyelashes.

“How do you like your coffee in the morning?” Hobi asks, turning over a new leaf, moving past.

You brush his hair back, enjoying the silky feel of his strands slipping through your fingers. “With you.”

He blushes, profusely, and you’re struck by the impression that he’s falling for you. There’s no fight this time, no war, only housewarming, submission and stability. You grip his hair, thank him with the silent gesture that also expresses how much it means to you because you, too, have fallen for him. With your heart, with your soul—with your entire being that has undergone so many transformations.

Now you’re climbing a mountain with him and on its peak, your children, your home, your future await you. You’re almost there. You’ve become who you were meant to become and Hobi has received the promise of his deepest longing.

One more thing, one more lift of the knee and you’re there, hand in hand with him—your husband, your God.

He kisses you one last time, tells you to rest while he makes you coffee and breakfast. Hands you your phone. Helps you think of a short message that you immediately, without a thought spared, send. And while you lightly slumber, you dream of the promise, of the hope. Dream of your swollen belly, the ethereal picture revealing you looking at yourself in a floor-length mirror as Hobi stands behind you, assuaging you of the weight of your child by holding it with both of his hands, his imaginary wings, fully rosy, carrying half of it, folded over his knuckles, your fingers sunk between his and the feathers, silky, soft like his hair. It melts into another scene, in which you both hold the child, hip to hip, gazing at the mountain you climbed together once upon a time and the child, bearing a heavenly, delectable concoction of your and his features, cannot pull away their eyes from the peak. Their hair blows in the wind, rippling like their Father’s wings, and you and Hobi break their hypnotion by kissing each of their cheek.

Hobi wakes you up with the same kiss—as if he was kissing you and not his child. And something about it heals you, gravely.

You tell him about it over coffee and breakfast and he weeps. And while you weep with him, your tears fall for another, secret reason. For the period that you slept, Hobi baked vanilla pastries with raspberries and you would tell him about it, too, but you’d sit at the table all day. He has a curse to break and you don’t wish to prolong the time, not when you sense that it’s burdening him.

Because his shirt is blood-splattered, he takes you to his house. And what you’ve never expected to happen—you meet his roommate.

A munchkin cat with the littlest legs you’ve ever seen. Black and white coat blankets her chunky body and you sink onto your knees, extending your fingers to her tiny pink snout, just like her Daddy’s, and you die as the fur baby sniffs you and doesn’t run away in fear. It keeps smelling you in curiosity and you think it’s due to the fact she can recognize Hobi’s scent all over you. You’re so absorbed by the furry animal that you don’t even care to look around the vastness of its home and, like your child, you get broken out of the spell when Hobi chuckles.

“Pet her. She likes you,” he says and you hear the familiar clanging of keys being set on the table, the leather of his wallet sliding along the wood and the thud of his phone as he empties out his pockets.

Giddiness seizes you.

You stroke down the baby’s fur on its head, cooing at its softness, at the way the wisps whirl in the air the more you pet it. And you squeal when she leans in into your touch as Hobi did not that long ago. Now you know who he gets it from.

You take it into your arms, scratching its neck. It purrs and your heart springs, eager to embrace it.

“Is it a boy or a girl?” you ask, enthralled by it, nuzzling your face into her fur.

Hobi pets your head and you feel as small as the baby. You look up at him, knowing you radiate, visibly, the energy. He smiles down at you, shines down his love and joy clutches you so hard that you can’t breathe.

“A girl,” he says, his smile widening, and before you can ask about her name, he already tells you. “Her name is Luna.”

Luna. She’s your new best friend, your little baby, and you begin to entertain the idea of bringing her along to your misfit visit to your ex-boyfriend’s apartment because you can’t let go of her. Not when she purrs most homely, most happily. Not when she likes you so much that she’s not afraid of you.

You haven’t grown up with animals, so when the opportunity comes and you get into contact with them, it’s difficult for you to unattach yourself from them.

Luna is yours now.

Hobi pivots on his feet and you’re quick to scurry onto yours, following him into his bedroom. As you carry her, you take a moment to look around his living room. The color beige lines every detail of its spaciousness. From the walls, to the pigmentation of the stones that decorate the side, where a huge flatscreen hangs up, to the smooth floors that glow in the light. Beige, whites and grays, with the tiniest hints of browns, greens and yellows. Small plants and bigger palms sit in the corners, by the windows, and they give the room those colors—as well as his collection, which comes as the biggest surprise of all, of his modern art. You can see a rainbow of Bearbricks everywhere you look, especially in the brown kingdom of his bedroom.

Those pretty one-eyed fuckers stare at you there. Along with their KAWS brothers. And they’re colossal.

Hobi’s back faces you as he rummages in his closet. You kiss Luna on her empty head before you set her on the bed, walking over to Hobi amidst the dimmed light. His curtains are pulled in tight and you think about how he must’ve been getting ready for bed when he called you last night, only to sleep in your light-filled bed. You wrap your arms around him, too hasty with your need to give him your affection—you smear your foundation on his blue shirt, staining it further. And you kiss his back, planting a red lipstick mark right in the middle. It’s going in the laundry bin, anyway.

Hobi reaches his hands back, fingers tapping along the open back of your white top, drumming there and you smile, finding it cute.

“You really like those figurines,” you murmur, propping your chin on his spine, drumming your fingers on his abdomen in similar fashion.

He laughs, softly, as if embarrassed, and you dig your claws, faintly, into his skin. No embarrassment for him—you’re not letting that in within him.

“Don’t you fear they watch you while you sleep?”

Now he laughs through his nose, swiveling his head halfway. “They’re my dream catchers.”

You hum, endearingly, in high pitch, liking the sound of that. Wonder if he knows that he’s such a poet. “Everything you say is so poetic.”

He massages your waist, deepening your hum. “Something tells me that’s your doing.” You punctuate the sound with a vulgar word and he squeezes the place he holds. No laughter, only alluring, affectionate seriousness. You sigh, blissfully. “I actually have a book of poetry here.”

Your brows rise. “What?”

Hobi clasps your hand, dragging you to his small library that is organized with his dream catchers. He pulls out a thick book with a white cover and hands it to you.

Birthday letters by Ted Hughes. The husband of Sylvia Plath, the reason behind her suicide. The female poet who loved E. E. Cummings, the female poet, whom you loved, too, in your lonely girlhood. Who always inspired your longing to die as the curse over your life went on.

It’s surreal to be holding a link to her when you’re standing at the end of the chapter of this curse.

You didn’t die.

“I stole it from my school library,” Hobi explains with that lopsided smile of his, so fond, so full of old memories that you’re learning at this moment. Time stands still and you strain your ears, wanting to hear every syllable of it. “Everytime I would go hide there, mess around or just study, I’d always see this book. It would always be right in front of me. I thought, and I still do, that it has some kind of meaning. That it somehow needs to be in my life. So I took it. And it’s been here for more than a decade. I’ve never even read it.”

You pout, touched by the symbolism, by the fact he never opened it. “Never?”

Hobi shakes his head, shortly. “Never.”

You look down at it, caress its cover. “Maybe it’s a dream catcher, too.”

His mouth ends curl. “Open it. Read me something.”

His fingers begin to undo the buttons of his shirt and you sense the magnetism of the symbolism attached to the book closing over you. You watch the work of his hands as you slip your digit into the middle of the book. Page one hundred and forty two. Portraits, the title of the unknown poem. But you don’t read it until he bares his chest and sits down on the edge of the bed.

You stand between his outstretched legs. He rubs the back of your knees, waiting.

You skim your eyes over the page and break, prematurely.

Licking your lips, you begin.

“What happened to Howard’s portrait of you? / I wanted that painting.”

You lose a breath, your throat constricting, and you gaze down at Hobi to see him lost in a thought that you can’t discern.

Can he perceive the link? Does he realize who Howard is as you bring that poem into reality with your recitation?

You continue, biting your lip, momentarily.

“Spirits helped Howard, ‘Sometimes / When I’m panting, I hear a voice, a / woman’s, / calling Howard, Howard — faint, / far-off, / fading.”

Your phone dings in the front pocket of your ivory mini skirt—Howard has texted you back. The book droops out of your grasp as you fish out the device, your screen enveloping the room in a small twirl of brightness.

Jungkook: my door is always open for you

You pocket it back, the light snuffed out. The book quivers and you steady it with your other hand. “Jungkook texted me back.”

Hobi is deathly still, in an uncanny way. “What did he say?”

You lick your lips, but it’s not enough moisture. “That his door is always open for me.”

He props an elbow on his knee, his teeth nibbling on a fleck of skin upon his thumb. “Keep reading.”

Your breath shakes. You risk the question swathing your heart, needing to know whether you’re on the same page before you can go on. “Can you see the correlation?”

He blinks, rapidly, as if awoken. “To what? You mean to the painting of you that I’m about to break?”

You nod, relieved that he sees it, but the heaviness loiters. Slightly, you fear the next lines. “Jungkook is Howard.”

His eyes stray, his being crestfallen, his mouth biting into his cuticle. He doesn’t say anything and you’re not sure if you should read on, but he taps the back of your knee that he still holds, propelling you to do so.

In fact, he tugs on it, guiding you to sit on his thigh—like you did in your favorite reading armchair when you cleaned his wound. You flutter a kiss on the healing bruise that has the colors of his home and with a wet thumb, Hobi angles the book so he can read along with you, staining the page with his humanity, imprinting his presence, the gravity of the moment into it.

It took a decade for the time to be right. Enough for him to read this.

With you.

You push away the panic regarding him not reacting to your affection, figuring the importance of this moment is held in higher regard. Clearing your throat, you continue.

“He got carried away / When he started feeding his colors / into your image,” you stop, the words affecting your vocal cords with emotions. Hobi is the only one who knows what colors Jungkook used in the painting. How can a random page in a random book describe the flavor of the bane of the curse upon your life? How is it possible? You take a moment to regain your composure, willing smoothness into your voice. Hobi rubs your thigh with his hand, thumb tracing patterns, a help in need. “He glowed / At his crucible, on its tripod. / How many sessions? / Yaddo fall. Woodstoves. Rain, / Rain, rain in the conifers.” The rain that fell upon Hobi when you exited the museum after you talked to Jungkook. The rain that brought you closer to him as he shrouded you and himself in your trenchcoat. The memory is sweet, another help in need.

“Tribal / conflict / Of crows and their echoes. You deepened. / Molten, luminous, looking at us / From that window of Howard’s vision of you.”

Your scream in the middle of the night after that morning at the museum; the physical violence that followed after. The painting that was created in the same hours.

“Yourself lifted out of yourself / in a flaming of oils, your lips exact.”

The flaming of your reddened bum within Jungkook’s made-up world of the painting; the punishment that you broke out of his clutches and became your own person.

You suddenly understand it, the painting.

You feel sick.

The poem is a maze, but Hobi looks as though he has the sixth sense that enables him to navigate through it. You’re burdened by your emotions, dragging your feet as you follow him, looking at him. He burns his sight into the scattered words, not breathing, not blinking, his thumb stuck in his mouth. He’s connecting the dots, the wheels turning in his brain.

Luna crawls onto the other side of his lap, the third help in need.

You take a deep breath.

“Suddenly — ‘What’s that? Who’s that?’ / out of the gloomy neglected chamber behind you / Somebody had emerged, hunched, gloating at you, / Just behind your shoulder — a cowled / Humanoid of raggy shadows. Who?”

The squeaks of breaks behind you, Jungkook stepping out of his car and joining the demon of shame looming at you, waiting for you to end your phone call with Hobi.

“Howard was surprised. He smiled at it. / “If I see it there, I paint it. I like it / When things like that happen. He just came.’ / Came from where? Mystery smudge extra, / Stalking the glaze wetness / Of your new-fired idol brilliance. / I saw it with horrible premonition. / You were alone there, pregnant, and unprotected.”

You snap the book shut, the lump in your throat so enormous in size that it alone begs you not to read on. Your chin quivers, but no tears come out, mind barren as the words alone, pregnant and unprotected echo within there. On an ungodly, immoral loop.

Hobi takes the book from you and flings it into a corner of his room, hitting a lonesome gray figurine that topples over. Your eyes witness the movement, but you don’t grasp it. Numbness seizes you, the paralyzation of bizarreness that causes bile to push through the lump in your throat.

You gag.

“Where’s your bathroom?”

Hobi is quick on his feet, but you don’t make it. The vomit spills through the cup of your palm over your mouth, staining your white top. Hobi carries you to his toilet, stained just the same. Holds your hair as you retch your guts out—the letters of the poem, the realization of its meaning, the symbolism, the raspberry pastries. Presses his lips against the nape of your neck, holding you together.

Wipes your chin with toilet paper. Puts his plastic cup with cold water to your mouth to wash it clean with.

Rips the three pages of the poem out of the spine of the book in taciturn fury, its ending never to be known.

You watch him do it, with the same speechlessness, and you’re not sorry for the prosaic lawlessness—it strengthens you and it relieves you. Watch the tremor of his hands, after, as he constringes the poisonous papers in his fists. The book abandoned back in the corner with the figurine, vanquished.

He paces the room, fleetingly, stopping in front of you. Gets on both of his knees. Grips your hands, with the crumpled papers. Kisses them. Over and over.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers onto them. The noise of the papers is like the shaking of leaves and you want to leave. You want this wretched thing settled. The smell of your puke hits your nostrils and it’s what prevents you from folding into him in the way he did this morning.

“Nothing to be sorry for, baby. It’s fate,” you reassure, tearing the papers from his hold and throwing them away from his sight. Yours, too. It’s not his fault that the curse sneaked into something intimate he desired to share with you. But your heart aches that it did it before he knew you all those years ago, planted in its mind false beauty, only to cause ruination. You need it gone. “Help me take this off. Let’s go.”

He sighs and the sadness of the sound deepens your ache, though all you can do is accept it and fight. The will is enough—if the conscious will is there, things will change, things will move forward and all will settle into place.

Tomorrow will look different.

Hobi dressed you in his clothing. A white linen shirt, to match your skirt. One would say it’s oversized, the way the fabric puffs and slides off your shoulder, not an item of masculine affection. You left your bra hanging by its strap on the handle of his closet. Left the buttons undone. Left the bruise between your breasts unconcealed, proudly, for every eye to see. He tied it in the middle, a tiny sliver of your midriff exposing tanned skin, because the hem would only bunch up the waistband of your skirt as it reached way down below. It could’ve been a dress alone, meant for loungewear, but you weren’t going to do much lounging.

Hobi dressed you for war.

He himself matched you. A white polo, beige pants, a vivid green beanie to hide the sweat coating his tousled hair. A king, ready to march.

The king is dead, long live the king.

You know the ending. You trust Hobi, you believe in him. So did Luna when he grabbed his keys, phone and wallet. She meowed so much encouragement that it curled a smile on yours and Hobi’s face. You nuzzled her, considering saying goodbye to her harder than facing Jungkook, the dead king, but her purring made it better. It was a promise that she would be here with another set of fluff balls of encouragement once you come back from the war.

You thought the ride to Jungkook’s apartment would be silent, but no. Hobi put on his The Weeknd playlist, the dark, ambient songs from The Trilogy album saturating the shifting atmosphere. Placed his hand on your thigh while he drove. Things seemed normal as they did before shit hit the fan. Your body submitted to that impression and so you pretended it was so. Relived, quietly, in your mind the way you rubbed your clothed pussy on that very seat, steering him into insanity, which he controlled so well.

A coping mechanism, that lustfulness. As you know it. But oddly, it didn’t turn you on. No, it composed you—tranquilized your emotions, so they wouldn’t be burdensome in the battle.

“What are you thinking about?” Hobi asked, knowing he was five minutes away from Jungkook’s apartment. He didn’t live far away from him.

Bizarreness.

He probably noticed your lack of visible reaction to your favorite singer.

“I’m having flashbacks.”

A beat of pause. “About?”

“About the way I drove you insane when I stuck my hand in my panties.”

He hummed, softly, the noise barely audible. “You got so wet just from me praising you.”

You sighed, delighted. “I did.”

“I’ll never forget the fact that I ate you out first before I kissed you.”

You smiled, wrapping your fingers around his wrist. “It comforts me,” you admitted, baring your private soul. “Sex. Lust. It’s not always dirty to me and it doesn’t always make me horny. It makes me feel safe.”

He thought about your words, thumb searching for yours, waggling. You closed your palm over the back of his hand on the shift stick, hooking your thumb over his.

“How did that painting make you feel?”

You didn’t feel much. Just one singular emotion. “Furious.”

“Why?”

“It makes me angry that he thinks he still has a right to control my life. That he took what I consider to be safe and made it unsafe.”

He ruined the act of spanking for Hobi, which ultimately ruined it for you. It scarred him enough that he wasn’t able to do it to you when you asked him. And for that, you’ll never be able to forgive Jungkook.

Hobi clenched his jaw. “When we get inside, I want you to think twice before you look at that painting. You’ve gone through a lot these past twenty-four hours. Put your well-being first, okay?”

Your veins pump warmth into your heavy heart due to his care and you kiss his knuckles, leaning your cheek into them. “Okay.”

“Good. I’ll break it anyways.”

The deal rings in the hallway as you walk towards his door, Hobi two steps behind you, obfuscating his presence. You rack your knuckles on the wood, your stomach rolling, your blood curdling into bits of frozen cranberries, and your lungs lack air. You don’t know if you can do this, if you can be posturing stoicness when the threat is right in front of you. You wish Luna were here with you, her fluffy wisps a reminder of her encouragement. You can’t even find her on the material of your skirt, for she’s as much clothed in white as you.

The door opens, revealing a distressed, wrinkly Jungkook with the stars in his eyes tear-stained. The lines of his sleep shoot across his bare chest, down to his abdomen that he sucks in at the sight of you. And you don’t hate him for the way his eyes skip to the bruise in the middle of your breasts—because it were your eyes first that skimmed that low on him first.

Shame stops your blood flow, which restores your forgotten memory of how further aroused your body became when you saw his excited manhood in the picture he sent you. It floods back at full speed, in tandem with the bile in your throat.

“I didn’t expect you to come over so soon,” he says, confusion rasping his tone, and his wide eyes narrow once they whisk to a taller head behind you. He doesn’t say anything to acknowledge his presence, despite the fact you expected that much from him. A rude remark, the closing of doors. Anything but him opening the door wider and turning around, wordlessly inviting you in.

And Hobi.

The bile lowers. You exchange a worried look with him, but he runs a hand down the length of your hair upon your back.

Bloodthirst flashes in his eyes.

And you’re no longer sure if his plan is the right one to unravel.

𓂃 ౨ৎ LOVE-KISSED BABIES: @tkslovechild, @jjk7k, @parkinglot-nights, @bethvar, @Sexytholland, @yoongibaybee, @crystaleah,@fennecnco, @lil-kpopstan.

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Chapter 8: Devour

Series: “Eat Your Heart Out” Pairing: Hannibal Lecter x Female! Reader x Will Graham Word count: 4,3k+ Warnings: canon-typical warnings, canon divergence A/n: Here we go! A part of Su-zakana and we're slowly diving into our connection with Hannibal (unedited)

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You return home with Will that night after a long day of investigating the crime scene, only to find the house empty and the shadows of night already filling the rooms. The air carries a stillness, as if the house is holding its breath in anticipation of something—perhaps in preparation for what comes next.

The dogs are sleeping peacefully by the fire, their heads lifting with perked-up ears as they sense an intruder. But once they notice their owners, they just wag their tails and shortly after, return to sleep, reassured by your presence.

“Let’s talk then,” Will says, his voice quiet yet determined as he breaks the silence that hangs heavy in the air.

Your heart skips a beat at his words, a flutter of anticipation mingled with apprehension. This is the moment you’ve both been avoiding yet yearning for—the inevitable confrontation. With a steadying breath, you gather your courage, readying yourself.

You step further into the house, shedding your coat and snowy boots, feeling the weight of the day lift as you leave the wintry chill behind.

“I thought the only thing that could haunt my dreams is my sister’s death,” you admit, your voice tinged with a hint of vulnerability as you confront the unsettling thoughts that have been plaguing you.

“Is it your father?” Will asks, his tone gentle yet probing.

“He was an asshole,” you reply bluntly, a trace of bitterness creeping into your voice as you recall the painful memories associated with that poor excuse of a man.

“I know. That’s why I’m asking.”

“He doesn’t deserve to be in my nightmares. I don’t even think about him, Will,” you insist, the words tasting bitter on your tongue, knowing all too well that it’s a lie. The weight of unspoken truths hangs heavy in the air between you both. You can’t ever tell him the truth.

A flash of understanding crosses Will’s face as he takes in your words. Unlike most people, he can see through your denial, knowing that there’s more to your feelings than you’re letting on.

He studies your expression for a moment in consideration before speaking again, his tone laced with tenderness. “You do think about him, don’t you?” he asks quietly, his eyes searching yours for confirmation.

You turn around instantly to avoid his gaze, walking over to the bed and plopping down on it with a heavy sigh, the weight of those words bearing down on you like a crushing burden. You change the course of the conversation. “It’s… It’s Hannibal.”

“He’s in your nightmares?”

“He never leaves them,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper, the truth hanging heavy in the air between you and Will. The mere thought of Hannibal’s presence infiltrating your dreams sends a shiver down your spine, reminding you of the insidious grip he still holds on your psyche. “He appears as this black creature, its eyes so black they resemble holes, a giant set of antlers growing out of its skull. In one of them, it impaled my hands on them.”

There’s a spark of recognition in Will’s eyes. He used to have them too, but they subsided once you came back. He knows this monster very well; it’s engraved in his memory. The shadow of Hannibal Lecter looms large over both of your lives, leaving an indelible mark that cannot be easily erased.

“Left me hanging there, face to face with this thing. Blood running down my arms...” You let out a trembly sigh. “The worst part is, there’s no pain. No distraction. It’s just me and him.”

He knows full well what it’s like to have Hannibal’s monstrous presence seep its way into your nightmares, haunting your sleep with his malevolent presence.

“You’re trapped,” he observes softly, his tone touched with empathy, “with him.”

Will joins you on the bed with a heavy sigh. He reaches out to offer you his hand, the gesture filled with an underlying sentiment of comfort and reassurance. His hands are cold—a grounding kind of chilliness.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have dragged you into this.”

“You didn’t drag me into anything, Will. We’re in this together,” you assure him, your voice steady despite the lingering unease in your heart. “And we’ll find a way to face it together.”

“It’s not good for you. I see it so clearly.”

You see it too, more than clearly. Hannibal Lecter should never have entered your life, and you should never have entered his.

You’re not sure if it’s something particular he did, but it’s not just your nightmares he occupies—it’s your thoughts and fantasies. It fills your mind with immeasurable guilt because how could you do that to Will? How could you think about someone other than him like that?

From the moment you met Will Graham, you knew he was your everything. No man has ever come close to filling the void in your soul that he filled. No man has ever engraved himself in your memory like Will did. He was truly your everything. And now? Hannibal Lecter occupies your thoughts just as much as Will does—it’s unnerving.

“I don’t know what to do,” he admits, head bowed in defeat, so you reach out and raise it with your fingers gently gripping his chin.

“We keep moving forward, Will,” you say softly, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek as light as a butterfly’s touch. “If you want to help all those people then let him devour us. Let him pray we’re not poisonous.”

“Literally?”

“Not literally, you fool.”

A few days later, you find yourself in front of Hannibal Lecter’s office, patiently waiting for his patient to emerge. You hadn’t expected to end up here at all, nor did you anticipate being the one to seek him out. How the tables have turned...

The young woman exits the room just twenty minutes later. She doesn’t rush, taking her sweet time to put her coat on and greet you with a “good evening” that sounds just a tiny bit snobbish. You wish you had you had the same luxury of time to savor such small moments.

The sound of your knuckles rapping against the wooden door echoes through the corridor. You wait patiently, anticipation stirring within you as you wonder how Hannibal will receive your unexpected visit.

A faint “come in” follows from within.

You push open the door, stepping into Hannibal Lecter’s office with a mixture of apprehension and determination. The room is bathed in soft lamplight, casting long shadows across the elegant furnishings. Hannibal sits behind his desk, his posture relaxed yet attentive as he regards you with a curious gaze.

“Mrs. Graham, I didn’t expect you,” Hannibal’s voice is smooth and composed, betraying little of his inner thoughts. You offer a polite smile, though inside, your nerves are coiled tight.

“I didn’t expect to end up here today either,” you admit. It’s the truth. You don’t have any idea why you’re here.

“Perhaps you’re here to talk about Will?” Hannibal suggests, his tone measured and probing, yet not demanding. He appears content merely with your presence.

“I’m really not sure,” you confess with a quiet chuckle, the sound barely audible in the air between you.

“Would you like to take a seat?”

“I’d like that,” you respond a bit too quickly, mentally cursing yourself for the slight hint of eagerness in your voice. “If you don’t have another patient waiting, of course.”

“I’m done for the day,” he says with a smile that tells you he definitely noticed your tone. That’s not good. Or maybe it is?

You take a seat in one of the armchairs, crossing your legs and looking at him expectantly. With a deep breath, you let your shoulders relax slightly. Hannibal takes the other armchair and mirrors your posture, crossing his legs and folding his hands atop them in a manner that echoes your own.

“Something tells me you’re not here because of Will.”

“You might be right about that.”

“Then why are you here, Mrs. Graham?” Hannibal inquires, his tone soft but curious, his gaze fixed on you with an intensity that makes you feel like he’s peeling back layers of your psyche yet again. “Because of our unfinished conversation, perhaps?”

“Do you consider it unfinished?” You tilt your head slightly, a ghost of a smile playing over your lips.

“Indeed,” Hannibal responds, his own lips curving into a faint smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Our last discussion left many avenues unexplored, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I believe the last thing I asked about was the purpose of your previous visit,” you say, your tone measured and composed.

“I recall that,” Hannibal acknowledges with a nod. “A valid inquiry, indeed.”

You nod your head and look at him expectantly, feeling a quiet buzzing in the back of your head. The black creature stands behind Hannibal, expressionless and looming like a silent sentinel. You discreetly rub your eyes with your fingers, not expecting it to help, but to your surprise, it does. The monster is gone, leaving not even a shadow after its disappearance.

“Would you like me to be perfectly honest with you?”

You take a moment to gather your thoughts, weighing your words carefully before responding. “Yes, please,” you reply, meeting Hannibal’s gaze with unwavering determination. You brace yourself for whatever truth he’s about to reveal.

“I’ve been Will’s therapist for a while,” he begins, his hands finding their rightful place on the armrests. You can’t help but notice how majestic he looks in his domain. “You seem to be a person of significant importance in his life. Yet, I haven’t heard much about you. Not until recently, and even now, Will seems to be avoiding discussing your role in his life.”

Hannibal meets your gaze head-on, boring into your soul. His stare alone makes you want to tell him everything—things he’s not supposed to know and things he has no right to know.

You remember the words you said to Will. They echo in your head, bouncing off the walls of your skull. Let him devour us. Let him pray we’re not poisonous. They dissipate as you draw in a deep breath and release it slowly.

“Our paths to this moment haven’t exactly been peaceful,” you admit, idly playing with the edge of your skirt—not out of nerves, but to subtly direct Hannibal’s attention there.

The tactic proves effective as his gaze follows the movement, tracing down the length of your crossed legs to the black heels you wore during the dinner at his place. You’re almost certain it triggers memories of that day—the elegant green dress, the atmosphere thick with tension and intrigue.

You hold his gaze steadily, letting the silence stretch between you as you wait for him to respond. There’s a tension in the air, a palpable energy that crackles with anticipation.

Hannibal’s lips curve into a faint smile, a glint of amusement dancing in his eyes as he meets your gaze once more. “Ah, the witness protection program,” he muses, his tone laced with intrigue. “It certainly has a way of reshaping one’s path, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, it does,” you agree, a hint of mystery in your tone. “You might be surprised to find out just how much.”

Hannibal’s smile widens slightly. “Not a lot of things surprise me anymore, Mrs. Graham.”

You lean just a little bit closer in the armchair, your eyes narrowing slightly as you focus on Hannibal. There’s a sense of anticipation in the air, as if you’re both teetering on the edge of a revelation.

“I see what Will sees in you,” he says, his tone soft yet filled with depth, as if acknowledging a truth that transcends mere observation.

Hannibal’s gaze holds yours, his expression unreadable yet strangely intense. It’s as if he’s peering into the depths of your soul, searching for something that even you might not fully understand.

“Do you, Doctor Lecter?”

“Indeed, Mrs. Graham,” he replies, unwavering.

The air between you crackles with tension, igniting sparks that dance between the two of you. Despite being different people, there’s an undeniable similarity that hangs between you, palpable even without knowing him intimately.

“Would you like to tell me more about your time in witness protection?”

Hannibal’s question catches you off guard. You blink rapidly, surprised by his inquiry. You had hoped he would honor the unspoken promise he made to Will, naively believing he wouldn’t pry into the matter. Wrong.

“It’s been peaceful. Tough to leave everything and everyone behind, but not working in the FBI has been a blessing,” you respond, offering a brief summary of your experience.

“But now you’re back in the field, why?”

“Curiosity, perhaps. A desire to be part of something meaningful again,” you reply, keeping your answer vague yet suggestive.

Hannibal shakes his head with a quiet chuckle. “You’re quite good at deception, aren’t you?”

Your mouth quirks up in amusement that he figured you out so easily. For some reason, it doesn’t make you sweat as it should. If he could uncover your lie that quickly, it meant he could unearth much more with just as much ease. It definitely should make you nervous.

“That’s what working in the BAU does to you,” you reply with a wry smile, hoping to brush off any further questions. “Makes lying your second nature.”

“You don’t have to lie to me, my dear.”

My dear—the nickname reverbarates in your mind, melting your brain with it’s sweet tone. I shouldn’t be here. Your cheeks flush with warmth, a sensation you’re not particularly fond of. You’re no longer a young schoolgirl harboring a crush on her professor. You shouldn’t feel like this.

Hannibal lets his eyes stray toward the elegant watch on his wrist, his lips pressing into a thin line. Hannibal sighs deeply, his gaze filled with longing as it returns to your face. Such a beautiful creature, he muses silently.

“I’m afraid our meeting must come to an end sooner than I’d like,” Hannibal explains, a regretful tone in his voice. “Time seems to slip away all too quickly in our conversations.”

Thank heavens.

“I understand,” you reply, masking a pinch of disappointment that creeps into your heart. “Thank you for your time, Doctor Lecter.”

“It’s Hannibal,” he reminds you with a hint of amusement in his voice.

“Hannibal,” you murmur his name, tasting it on your tongue yet again as you stand up, smoothing out your skirt. “We’ll meet again very soon.”

Knocking on the door of the stranger’s shed elicits a cacophony of barks and screeches from the animals inside, their alarm evident. You lock eyes with Will inquisitively. You were well-acquainted with the case of Sarah Craber’s murder and the circumstances surrounding the discovery of her body. It was poetic. Not beautiful, but undeniably poetic.

When no one appears in the doorway, you let yourself in reluctantly. You follow Jack and Will inside, making a point to be the last one to enter. It generally makes you appear less threatening.

“Scare them when ya knock like that,” the manly voice is uninvating, perhaps carrying a hint of shyness.

“Apologies for the disturbance,” you offer with a polite nod, acknowledging the man’s comment and the subtle hint of shyness in his voice.

Jack simply shakes his head, still not accustomed to your courteous approach with suspects and witnesses. He’s always leaned towards a more direct method, but he couldn’t deny the effectiveness of your approach, which often yielded the best results.

“Peter Bernardone?” Jack questions.

The man in question reacts suspiciously, awkwardly turning his back toward your little group, trying to avoid your eyes.

“Sir?” Jack tries again, while you and Will exchange uncertain glances, unsure of how to react. “You don’t seem to be curious about who we are.”

“Who are you?” he mutters, barely audible. It’s evident that the question is forced out of him—an awkward effort not to appear suspicious.

“I’m Agent Jack Crawford with the FBI. This is Will Graham and Agent Avant,” he introduces you to the man. You walk around the small building, observing the various animals in cages. The place feels familiar, although you’re certain you’ve never been here before. Perhaps it’s these creatures that remind you of Will’s habit of collecting stray dogs.

“We’re here to ask you some questions about someone you may have had contact with when you worked at the Blackbriar Stables. A woman named Sarah Craber. Her body was recently found… in unusual circumstances.”

“I know,” Peter Bernardone interjects, sounding just a little guilty. “I know. I heard.”

You lean over one of the cages, locking eyes with a white rabbit. Its red eye resembles a small bead, peering straight at you yet seeming to look right through you at the same time. It’s beautiful yet unsettling. You’re glad Will takes in dogs and not bunnies.

“There was a bird in her chest. Did you hear about that?” Will looks around the shed before his gaze finds you, a small quirk of his mouth appearing when he notices you leaning over one of the cages, observing the little creature.

“Was the bird alive?” the man questions, more concerned about the animal than about the dead woman.

This question seems to catch all of your attention, as you look at Bernardone, surprised and intrigued, as do Jack and Will. Crawford wears a smugness in his expression that seems to say, “I told you so.”

“Yes.”

The man staggers, “Who— who— who taking care of the bird?”

You feel a pang of sympathy for him, for reasons you can’t quite articulate. You probably shouldn’t, but you can’t help it. You can’t fathom him strangling an innocent girl to death. Yet, the world is cruel and deceptive, and even the most innocent-looking people can be capable of terrible things. People are flawed, and God knows that His creations can act worse than animals at times.

“Don’t worry about it, Mr. Bernardone. We wouldn’t leave it to die,” you reassure him, gently inserting your finger between the metal rods of the cage to stroke the soft, white fur of the animal. You smile when it doesn’t shy away.

The man’s shoulders drop a little in relief. A good sign.

“How well did you know Sarah Craber?” Jack questions.

“I didn’t know her,” Peter shakes his head, still avoiding eye contact with any of you.

Jack takes a step closer, and Peter freezes, looking like a deer caught in headlights, unsure where to direct his gaze or where to move.

“Would you mind looking at a photograph?” your boss persists.

“I—” Peter stammers once more, his voice barely above a mumble. “I know who she is. I didn’t— I didn’t know her.”

Will and Jack exchange a silent glance, piquing your interest more than the rabbit, so you decide to leave it alone. You step a little closer, joining Will by his side. His hand reaches for yours, clad in warm gloves.

“Just… take a look to be sure.” Jack reaches out his hand, holding the photograph out toward Peter.

It takes a moment before he finally extends his hand for the photo, his head turned in the other direction.

“I feel bad for him,” you whisper to Will, low enough not to be heard by the two other men.

“I do too,” Will responds softly, his voice carrying a hint of empathy as he grips your fingers just a little tighter.

Peter glances at the picture of Sarah Craber for a fleeting moment, his brain seemingly struggling to process the image before he returns it with an outstretched hand, his head once again turned away, eyes closed shut.

Will’s eyes dart between Jack and Peter, his gaze shifting rapidly as he processes the interaction, piecing together the puzzle before him. “Did you get your head injury when you were working at the stables, Peter?”

The man in question point his finger at his head. “Yeah, okay. Kicked by a horse. Boom.”

“That’s an atypical motor response,” Will concludes, taking a step closer. “Peter’s abilities to look and touch can only happen as separate events.”

It all makes sense now.

“It’s aggravated by stress, right?”

“Are you feeling stressed, Mr. Bernardone?” you inquire in a gentle tone.

“Yeah, I’m worried about the bird.”

“Would you like us to bring it to you?”

The man doesn’t meet your gaze, his head bowed and his eyes blinking rapidly. He’s clearly overwhelmed by the situation, with too many questions and unfamiliar faces and voices.

“Yes. Worried about the bird. I’m sad for her death, sad for the horse, but I…” He looks at Will then at you. “I can only help the bird.”

As you exit the building, you can’t help but hope for the chance to visit again, under much kinder circumstances. You’re sure Peter Bernardone isn’t the killer, and Will seems to share your conclusion.

“I don’t know if he’s the killer, Jack,” he says, uncertainty shading his tone. He exhales, the breath visible in the cold air as a puff of fog. “If he is, he never meant to be. And if he isn’t, he knows who is.”

“He’s not the killer,” you affirm, your voice carrying a tone of conviction stronger than Will’s.

You don’t say anything else, tucking your hands into the pockets of your black coat as you stride toward Jack’s car, a quiet whistle escaping your lips. The icy air nips at your cheeks and nose. God, I wish I were sunbathing in the Bahamas.

The Chinese food lacks its usual flavor, failing to satisfy your appetite as it typically does. Seated cross-legged on the floor in front of the fireplace, you absentmindedly poke at your pasta with chopsticks, lacking the usual enthusiasm for your meal.

“What’s wrong?” Will asks, his posture relaxed as he sits slouched in the armchair nearby, clearly not sharing your lack of enthusiasm.

You sigh deeply, punctuating your discontent with the last stab of the chopsticks into the takeout box before rising to your feet. With a resigned shrug, you leave it perched on the windowsill behind Will’s armchair, a silent testament to your waning appetite. You return to your previously occupied spot on the carpet, folding your legs beneath you as you settle back down, the fire casting a warm glow over the room.

“Jack’s got me looking at dead bodies again. Makes me wanna throw up,” you admit, the words carrying a hint of frustration and discomfort.

Will stops his movements, chopsticks halfway in the air, his gaze shifting from the food to you.

“You were supposed to work with the witnesses and suspects only,” he says, his tone tinged with more than annoyance as he lets the food fall back into the small box and leaves it on the windowsill next to yours.

“I thought so too. Turns out Jack doesn’t really keep his promises.”

“That’s not okay.”

“It’s not,” you agree, glancing at him in your peripheral vision.

The silence stretches between the two of you as you both gaze into the dancing flames of the fire. The crackling of the fire fills the room, punctuating the quiet tension that hangs in the air. Each flicker of the flames casts fleeting shadows across the walls, adding to the somber atmosphere. Despite the warmth emanating from the hearth, a chill seems to settle in the room, matching the unease that lingers between you and Will.

“I went to see Hannibal,” you confess, your voice breaking the silence with an impulsive urgency.

Will’s expression shifts subtly, a mix of surprise and curiosity flashing across his features before he masks it with a neutral facade. “Why?” he asks, his tone carefully measured.

“I don’t know.”

“Curiosity?”

“Might be.”

Will nods slowly, his eyes studying you intently. “What did you two talk about?”

As you sit in the flickering glow of the fire, contemplating your words, Will’s attention shifts fully to you, his expression a mixture of curiosity and concern. He leans forward slightly, waiting for you to continue, his eyes searching your face for even a little hint.

“You and me, our paths.”

Will nods slowly, his gaze still fixed on you, waiting for you to elaborate. The weight of his silent anticipation hangs heavy in the air, urging you to delve deeper into your thoughts.

You take a deep breath, gathering your thoughts before continuing. “Our paths, they seem to keep intersecting, don’t they? Whether by fate or some other force, we’re constantly drawn together, tangled in each other’s lives.” You pause, searching for the right words to convey the complexity of your connection with Will. “It’s like we’re two parallel lines that can never quite stay apart, no matter how much we try.”

“We’re intertwined in ways that neither of us fully understands,” you continue, your voice carrying a mixture of resignation and longing. “And sometimes, I wonder if that’s a good thing or a curse. But regardless, here we are, facing whatever comes our way together.”

The man nods silently, his expression reflecting surprise at your mention of fate. It’s been some time since you broached the topic, and he had assumed you no longer believed in its influence. Yet, as he considers your words, he realizes he’s pondered the same question himself on numerous occasions.

A blessing or a curse. Will is not offended in the slightest. You clashed on more than one occasion, burning down anything that crossed you paths at the wrong time. Yet, you always end up together, as if some unseen force continually draws you back into each other’s orbit.

You offer a small smile in response to his silent acknowledgment, realizing that perhaps there’s more to your connection than mere coincidence or happenstance. Despite the uncertainties and complexities of your relationship, there’s a shared understanding that binds you together, transcending the barriers of logic and reason.

“I love you, Will. With all my heart.”

“Well… I’m sure you can’t love me more than I love you. I’ve waited for you my whole life.”

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raspberrybesitos · 1 year ago

Text

Woven in the Stars | din djarin x f!reader

Series masterlist | Main masterlist

Chapter 2 - Cosmically Sewn

Rating: 18+ MDNI

Word count: ~4k

Chapter summary: Din returns to town with Grogu, meeting with you to get custom clothes. Getting acquainted with the pair, you strike up an offer that could bring you and Din even closer. Will Din accept?

Chapter warnings: slow burn, mutual pining, dad!Din, flirting, one (1) use of the word “daddy” in a nonsexual way, reader refers to Din as ‘Mando’ (for now 🤭), POV switching, inaccurate star wars info, liberties taken with the Creed, reader is female, no mention of hair type/skin color/body type, NO USE OF Y/N, none really mostly just pining and fluff

A/N: hi everybody!!! tank you for sticking with me, life has been so hectic lately to say the least 🙃 but these two are finally acquainted with one another! the smut will happen eventually so bear with me y’all! i will throw y’all a bone occasionally, but the freak narsty smut happens all at the end. gotta let these two babies pine and let that slow burn burnnnn! can y’all sense i’m a sucker for the buildup? hehehe anyway i hope y’all enjoy! 🩵 not beta'd, all mistakes are my own.

Divider by @saradika

the first emboldened word = Din’s POV

the first italicized word = Your POV

Stirring in the plush, handsewn sheets, Din’s eyes flutter open, adjusting to the beaming sunlight. Groaning, he huffs as he rubs the shadow of stubble growing on his face, as he recalls what he did last night before falling asleep. Dread washes over him as he thinks of how he has to face you at the market later.

With a deep sigh, he rises from the bed and tidily makes his bed before padding into Grogu’s room. Thankfully, he’s still sleeping, still cuddled up with the stuffed bantha you gave to him.

You are everywhere he looks. How have you infiltrated his mind so quickly?

Din heads down the hall and into the refresher, opting to take a long shower while Grogu still sleeps. The scalding water soothes the dull aches that still linger in his body from years of battling. He scrubs hard, attempting to wash away what he did last night, the guilt and shame.

He shuts the water off and dries off before trudging back down the hall and into his room. As he slips on his flight suit, soft coos make his ears perk up. He smooths out the wrinkles in his shirt as he goes to peer into Grogu’s room. The child now wide awake and still gripping onto the bantha. He squeals at the sight of his father, hands up and stretched forward.

Din cradles him in one arm as he walks out into the kitchen, starting their daily routine. One that consists of breakfast for Grogu, and sometimes Din. If he’s not eating breakfast with his son, he’s usually doing some work - whether that be house work or having comm link meetings with Teva or Karga.

Today, it’s just breakfast for the two of them. Grogu brushes the stubble on his father’s face while he prepares their meal. In the past, he’d tell Grogu to stop touching his helmet. Things have changed.

Din no longer wears his helmet around Grogu so long as they’re alone in their home. He’s part of his clan now, having adopted him. Seeing that Bo-Katan and a few others who’ve walked both worlds, and being exposed to different Mandalorians who practice the culture differently, he’s decided to take some liberties with the Creed. He wants his son to see him, all of him after losing him once. Also, Grogu is still far too young to partake in the Creed, so he should be allowed to see his father.

He prepares breakfast for the both of them, sitting Grogu down in his chair as he serves them both. His son squeals as his father serves him and sits beside him. Mirroring each other, the clan eats in silence. Grogu busies himself with his meal, completely oblivious to his spiraling father.

How is he supposed to face you again today? Why did he do that last night? Maker, he needs to regain his sense of self control. He knew domestic life was going to be an adjustment, but he didn’t think he’d let himself slip up so easily, so quickly. For stars sake, he’s already thinking about sharing a life with someone, with you. He has other things to take care of before he can even give that a second thought. Like settling in, helping Grogu adjust to this new life, prioritizing his contract work with Teva, and the occasional tasks from Karga. He hopes he can act normally today. You caught him off guard yesterday, but hopefully he can prepare himself to see your beautiful face.

A whine pulls him from his thoughts. Grogu has crawled into his lap, pouting up at him with those big brown eyes, meaning he’s still hungry. Din hands him his spoon, and turns him around to face the table. Grogu squeals with delight as he rapidly devours the rest of his father’s food.

With a tiny burp, Grogu plops down into Din’s lap and sinks into the warmth of his chest. Din rises to his feet and pads into his son’s room, cleaning him up and changing him into a spare tunic. He settles Grogu in his pram, nuzzling the new stuffed bantha that he’s quickly attached to next to him, and walks across the hall to put on his armor.

As he reaches for his helmet, he calls out for Grogu before placing it on his head. “Come on, Grogu, let’s go.” A hissing sound erupts as he slips his helmet on, and he rushes back into the living room, slinging the sack over his shoulder while Grogu plays in the pram with his bantha. Another reminder of you, he exhales a deep modulated sigh as he braces himself for a day at the plaza. Embarrassment coursing through him as he and Grogu head out the door and off on their journey for today.

Maker give him strength.

The town bustles as the sweltering sun beams down onto the plaza. Setting up the last display at your textile stall, you wipe the bead of sweat that’s formed at your brow. Mando is supposed to return with Grogu today, making you feel particularly giddy about seeing the mandalorian again. You’ve heard tales about mandalorians your whole life, and have even seen some in passing having lived on Nevarro for a few years now. However, something about him was so enthralling.

You couldn’t place it. Perhaps it was the way he was so caring and gentle with his son, or perhaps it was his demeanor which was surprisingly a lot more open than you had expected. Most encounters with mandalorians are short, as they are not people of many words - but not with him. Something about the man in beskar has captivated you, unable to shake him from your head since meeting him yesterday.

Subconsciously, you’ve never taken this much interest in a commission before. You’d even selected an array of fabrics for him to choose from for Grogu. You tell yourself it’s because of the unorthodox, sweet duo. The green baby having captured your heart the second you laid eyes on him, his curious eyes wandering and babbles that escaped him having tugged at your heart strings. You wondered how he ended up with his father, the resemblance between them obviously nonexistent, but you didn’t ask. It’s not your place to know, let alone judge, unless Mando feels comfortable telling you.

You should know better than anyone how complicated familial relationships can be. That family does not always correlate to blood relation, being adopted since birth after your biological parents had given you up to your mother and father. You believe that the stars lead you to people. They lead you to your family - your parents, your brother, your sisters. You are their daughter, their sister despite what biology may say.

Oh how you miss them all so much. What you’d give to see them again. You hope they’re alright, that the krayt dragon hasn’t reached them despite all the time that has passed.

Biting back tears, you shake your head and pack the selected textiles into a box and place them in your home-turned-shop. Working out of your home has its perks - never having to leave. It’s also got its downsides with the lack of space. It can get crammed sometimes, and it’s hard to not bring work home with you - literally and figuratively. Big commissions can be stressful, and dealing with a particularly aggravating vendor neighbor doesn’t help.

Recounting your last encounter with him, it was thankfully diffused quickly by your other neighbors. He’d yelled at some innocent kids who were eyeing the fruits he sells, calling them thieves and accusing everyone of being one after he’d had a few pieces of fruit stolen from his stand. You’d intervened first, scolded him for yelling at children and consoling them by offering them some candy from your stash. Thankfully the other neighbors despised him as well and jumped into your’s and the children’s defenses. He backed off and hasn’t said anything since. Hopefully it stays that way.

Thank the Maker he doesn’t actually live next to you.

The sound of your name pulls you from your recollection and back into reality. You rush outside and your breath hitches in your throat. There he is, in all his shiny glory. If he’s this captivating with his helmet on, you can’t help but wonder what he looks like underneath it.

You wave at them, beaming as Grogu returns a wave with his tiny hand as he holds the stuffed bantha you gifted him just yesterday. Din desperately tries to keep his composure as he approaches you, trying not to think of what he’d done last night. His hands having grown clammy under his gloves, his helmet suddenly feeling hotter as the sight of you sends his head spinning.

You’re radiant, as if you belong in the stars in the evening skies - outshining every galaxy he’s ever seen. Your energy is infectious, making his heartbeat stutter.

“Hi, baby! I see you brought your new toy with you! Do you like it?” You ask, voice full of glee. Grogu happily garbles an incomprehensible response, but you take it as a ‘yes’ and burst into a fit of giggles. Your laugh like music to his ears, he bites back a groan under his helmet.

Is there any part of you that isn’t beautiful?

“Hi, Mando,” you giggle. It sucks the air out of his lungs hearing your breathy laugh and his name from your lips. Sweat forms on his brow and he wishes he could wipe it away. He fidgets with his holster, giving you a nod. “Hi, cyar’ika,” he nervously stammers, the affectionate name having escaped his mouth without thinking. Your brow quirks as your lips pull into a grin. “I’ve never heard that before. Is that your native tongue?” You inquire, fully intrigued by the name.

Fuck. He didn’t mean to let the name slip.

“It is. It’s Mando’a, the language of my people.” Your smile grows larger, making Din’s heart beat faster and body grow hotter. “It sounds lovely! What does that word mean? Should I be insulted?” You playfully tease him. Unbeknownst to you, his eyes bug out of his head as his cheeks grow red. “What? No, it was not an insult, I promise. It means, uh… it means ‘friend,’” he lies. You nod, narrowing your eyes at him as if you don’t believe him.

“Okay. If you say so, Mando,” you tell him, coyly winking at him. He clears his throat as awkward tension fills the silence between you two.

Grogu’s squealing breaks the tension, making you laugh. “You ready for some new clothes, baby?!” You ask him, scooping him up from his pram, eliciting a giggle from the baby.

His heart feels like it’s going to burst through the beskar.

Tickling the child, he laughs excitedly as you set him on one of the tables at your stall. “Wait here,” you tell the clan as you disappear into your studio. You return with a box containing something. You place the box on the table, Grogu cooing in curiosity. Din tilts his head to the side.

“What’s this?” He asks, making you beam.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I selected some fabrics for you to choose from based on what he was wearing yesterday! But also, please feel free to browse around the other selections,” you explain with a sparkle in your eyes as you smile at him, laughing as Grogu grabs one of your fingers to balance himself as he wobbles to the box.

He’s undeserving of your kindness, unable to fathom what he’s done to be on the receiving end of it.

“You didn’t have to do that, cyar’ika,” he nearly whispers. Your face is beginning to ache with the amount you’ve been smiling since he arrived. “It was no problem, Mando. I hope you like some of the selections. You can tell me if you don’t, you can be honest with me. Trust me, I can take it,” you tell him with a coy smile and a wink, making him suck in a sharp breath.

Keep it together, Din.

“Th-they’re lovely, cyar’ika. Thank you very much, I’m perfectly happy with any of the fabrics you’ve chosen,” he tells you. “Are you sure? Because I-I can pick out some more,” you say timidly.

Is he making you flustered? No. There’s no way.

“No need. They’re perfect.” You give him a nod and tuck your bottom lip between your teeth. “How about we let Grogu choose his favorites from the pile?” He says, subconsciously inching closer to you. “O-Okay,” you stutter.

You bend down to meet Grogu’s height. “Grogu! Which one do you like, baby?” You gently ask him as you hold up two pieces of fabric for him to choose from. He points to one in your left hand with a grunt. You repeat the process two more times, the smile never leaving yours or Din’s faces.

He watches quietly as you swipe your measuring tape from your apron, wrapping it around Grogu who garbles in confusion as he wonders what’s going on. He looks up at you with his big brown eyes, tiny teeth peeking out from his mouth. You smile and scrunch your nose at him, speaking to him about different things like toys, candy, animals, anything a child would like. You intently listen to every garble that streams from Grogu as if you can understand him, showing him enthusiasm as he babbles.

Din can feel his body heating up, his chest feeling fuzzy as he watches you interact with his son.

Grogu goes for something in one of your pockets - the pin cushion. You and Din panic, you get to him before he pricks himself on a needle. “No no, baby! Those are sharp, they can hurt you. Here, you can play with this instead,” you say, handing him a spare one sans pins. You remove the one from your apron and toss it onto a table behind you, probably to ensure he doesn’t reach it at all.

How are you so maternal? Is it instinctual or do you have children of your own?

“You’re really good with him,” he says, moreso to himself rather than you. “Hmm?” You say, lifting your head and eyes wide as you meet his gaze. His heart feels like it’s going to combust every time you look at him.

“What?” He asks. A smile splays on your face, teeth poking through your lips. “What did you say? I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch what you said,” you explain.

“Y-you’re, uh, you’re really good with him. Most people can’t keep up with his hyperness, but you can.” He sees something flash across your eyes.

Bashfulness?

“Oh. Thank you, that’s very kind,” you say, voice hushed and shy. “Do, um, do you have any children of your own, if you don’t mind me asking?” He can’t help, but ask - curious as to how you’re so good with his son, curious if you’ve got a riduur at home.

“No! No children, just me at home. I did have a little sister and have just always had a soft spot for kids, but no… no children,” you tell him, a noticeable deflation in your voice as you bring up your sister.

Did. He catches that, unable to miss the use of past tense. Feeling like he’s already pried from you, he nods. “Well, you’re a natural. Plus, he likes you,” Din says, offering some sort of comfort and shifting the focus of the conversation.

Grogu chirps from below the both of you, making you smile. You boop his nose, making him laugh. “I like him too. We’re best friends now, aren’t we, baby?” You ask him, tickling his sides as Grogu’s laughter grows louder. “Better watch out, Mando. I think I’ve taken the throne as his favorite,” you say through your giggles. Din watches from behind his helmet as you cradle Grogu, his heart taking flight at the sight in front of him.

“I don’t doubt that, cyar’ika.”

“So… can I ask what brings you into town, besides clothes for Grogu?” You ask, marking measurements on the selected fabric.

“Uh, yes, uh, we’re actually also here to gather some things for a fence I’m building. I’ve got a pond in front of our house and Grogu keeps torturing the frogs. I also don’t want him falling in, so I’m buying the last of the supplies to block it off.”

Your heart softens at the mandalorian’s concern. Going above and beyond for his son.

“Those poor frogs,” you giggle at the thought of Grogu messing with them. “Yeah, if he keeps eating them, he’s going to turn into one,” he huffs. Grogu snaps his head up, garbling what seems like a question.

“Have you started building the fence yet?” You through a fit of laughter.

“I have not, I’ve been occupied with some last minute tasks High Magistrate Karga asked me to complete. But I plan to start soon, possibly within the next week.”

You hum as silence settles amongst you three. A thought pops into your head, recounting the time you spent helping your father around the moisture farm back home on Tatooine as a young girl. Building and repairing fences and traps with your brother around the farm, your father adamant on ridding your home of womp rats.

Without even thinking about your next words, they eagerly roll off your tongue. Not sure why you’d go so far to extend a helping hand, but not questioning yourself either.

“Would you like some help?” Mando tilts his head to the side. “W-with the fence! That is,” you say, trailing off at the end. “Oh, that’s quite alright, cyar’ika. It’s a lot of work, and I couldn’t ask another task of you.”

“It’d be no problem! I’m more than happy to help, if you’ll let me.”

You’ve never been so eager to do farm work in your life. Surely, your father would laugh at your enthusiasm.

“Cyar’ika, you’re very kind, but I’d be indebted to you should you help me. In fact, I already am with the garments you’re crafting for Grogu.” You playfully roll your eyes

“Again with the formalities. You aren’t indebted to me, Mando! This is my job. Helping would be considered a favor, helping out a friend.”

“Friend.” Mando states.

“Yeah. Isn’t that what you call me? ‘Cya-cy-cyar’,” you stumble through the pronunciation. Mando barks out a hearty laugh, sending a flurry of butterflies swarming in your belly.

“Yes, we are friends, cyar’ika. You can just call me ‘Mando’ or ‘friend.’ We’ll work on your pronunciation later, don’t want you hurting yourself now,” he teases. Your scrunch your face up, mouth gaped open. “Wow! How rude of you, Mando! Give a lady some grace, why don’t you?!” You squeak, unable to contain the surprise in your voice as a huge smile breaks out onto your face, taken aback by his sudden playfulness.

“I’m sorry, cyar’ika. How can I re-earn your good graces?” A smile evident in his voice.

Your face feels like it’s going to fall off if you keep smiling.

“For starters, you can tell me what that word really means. I’m only fluent in Basic and Jawaese,” you say with a wink, trying to make him feel equally as flustered.

“Jawaese? Are you not native to Nevarro?”

You shake your head as you measure Grogu once more, jotting down his measurements, playfully booping his nose to keep him entertained. “I am not. Tatooine was my home, it’s where I was born and where I grew up.”

He nods, carefully catching a wobbling Grogu. “So what brought you here?” You smirk. “I could ask you the same, Mando… if that is your real name,” you tease. The mandalorian chuckles under his helmet.

Oh what you’d give to see his smile.

“Maybe I’ll tell you… should you ever choose to tell me your given name,” you tease.

“Fair enough. I’ll tell you everything one day, cyar’ika.”

One day. Is he possibly considering telling you his name?

“One day,” you repeat. Your gaze never leaves his, staring into the blacked-out T in his helmet, hoping he can see the desire in your eyes. The silence is broken with the clearing of Mando’s throat.

“I plan on starting next week. Does that work for you, cyar’ika?”

You nod a little too eagerly, automatically agreeing despite not having checked your deadline schedules for other commissions. “It does! I’ll even bring over Grogu’s new tunics next week, they’ll be ready by then,” you excitedly say, folding the paper containing Grogu’s measurements and tucking it into your apron. Tucking your pencil behind your ear, you fold the fabrics up and carefully place them back in the box.

Grogu picks one up and hands it to you, melting your heart. You graciously pout, cooing at him. “Thank you, baby!” You squeal, gently caressing his cheek. He nuzzles into your touch.

He’s got you wrapped around his little green finger.

A pang of disappointment hits your heart, your time with the clan coming to a close.

You sigh as you tuck the box of fabric under one of the tables behind you. Silence hangs in the air, fiddling with your apron as you’re unable to say goodbye.

“Well… I guess we’ll be seeing you next week, cyar’ika?” Mando says, making you perk up at the sound of his voice. “Yes, yes you will, Mando.” You can’t help but smile at the thought of spending time with the duo.

“Good. I can’t wait, mesh’la,” he says quietly. Your brows reach your hairline at the new nickname. “Okay, now what does that one mean, Mando? You better not be insulting me!” You exclaim, poking fun at him, but genuinely curious as to what he’s saying.

“I would never, cyar’ika! Like I said, I’ll tell you one day,” he assures you. You sarcastically hum, reaching for something else in your pocket and hand Grogu yet another piece of candy.

“Here you go, little man. Thank you for being so good today, baby!” You tell him, helping him unwrap the lollipop as he squeals with excitement. He incoherently babbles as you discard the wrapper.

“None for daddy though, he’s being a meanie,” you pretend to whisper to Grogu. Your head snaps up at the sound of a groan.

“You alright, Mando?” You ask, brows pinched together. “Y-yeah, cyar’ika. I’m fine. J-just s-sometimes… this… helmet gives me, uh, a headache. I’m fine though,” he stammers. Your worry not quite dissolving.

“I’m sorry, Mando. Would you like some medicine? I think I might have some inside,” you worriedly ramble. He waves you off. “It’s alright, cyar’ika. I promise. Th-thank you for all your help today, truly,” he nervously says. Taking his word, you nod.

“Well, I’m here if you ever need anything. And of course, it was my pleasure,” you say as you extend your hand to him, smiling as you do so. He quickly glances down to your hand, his large gloved hand fully encasing yours, his thick fingers brushing against yours in the process. He gently shakes your hand, giving it a soft squeeze in between, flashing him a gentle smile.

Is he smiling under there? You hope so.

“See you next week, cyar’ika,” he says, his hand still in yours. “I’ll see you both next week, Mando,” you say breathlessly. He sets your hand down, but doesn’t let go. You can sense his hesitation, but what could he be hesitating about?

“Have a lovely day… mesh’la,” he rasps with a tender, but swift swirl of his thumb on your hand. Sparks of electricity bolt throughout your body, your hand feeling as if it’s ablaze. He quickly drops your hand, gathering Grogu in his arms and settling him in his pram.

“Thank you. You too, Mando,” you nearly whisper, still relishing in the lingering feeling of his hand in yours. “Bye, cyar’ika,” he says with a wave, Grogu mirroring his father’s actions. “Bye, Mando. Bye, Grogu!” You say, returning the wave to the father-son duo. They part from your stall.

There’s a few customers browsing around your stall, but you hardly notice them as your mind swirls from what just happened between you and Mando.

What was that?

A customer comes up to you to ask a question. You shake the thoughts from your head and go about the work day. Anticipation blooms within you as the day drags on.

Next week can’t come fast enough.

we've finally been introduced to our reader (or as Din likes to call you, 'Cyari'ka' hehehe) and now the plot has been set up for some major pining! we've even caught a glimpse of backstory for reader!

i truly hope your suspension of disbelief allows you to picture yourself when reading this, because i like to picture myself while writing! Din wants reader aka you! 🫶🏼

anyway, thank you so much for reading! i'd love to know your thoughts in the comments, my asks, or dms 🩷

tag list: @javierpena-inatacvest @gracieheartspedro @undrthelights @tinygarbage @bastardmandennis @party-hearses @nostalxgic @mandoisapunk @pedrostories @anoverwhelmingdin @diguise7 @survivingandenduring @missladym1981 @stilllivindue2spite @dindjarinsmut @coquettegingette @firstofficerwiggles @christinamadsen @leithatnight

if your name is crossed out, it means i couldn't tag you ):

#fic: woven in the stars #din djarin #din djarin fic #din djarin x female reader #din djarin x f!reader #din djarin x reader #din djarin fluff #din djarin series #the mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x f!reader #the mandalorian x female reader #mando monday

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whumpsday · 1 year ago

Note

you got an ask about this like, a year ago (and absolutely feel free to ignore this if you want to) but could we get a drabble of jim holding human!kane's hand as he introduces him to the sun sometime?🥺

takes place after chapter 18 but before chapter 52

Chronological masterlist / Writing order masterlist

content: impossible "anon magic"-type AU, recovery, comfort, referenced past torture

No one could explain it. One day, Kane woke up as a human, and that was that.

Jim had expected Kane to freak out, and he did a little, of course. But overall, it was a relief to them both. Kane made no secret of how overjoyed he was at the development. Despite his shortened lifespan and decreased strength, Kane was all-too-pleased with his new species. Where Jim considered being human a vulnerability, Kane could only find safety.

No risk of future hostility from the hunters that had hurt him. Protection under human territory law. The ability to eat regular food. No danger from the sun. As Kane told it, he even considered the lack of immortality a boon, his ability to experience pain capped below where it was for a vampire–his new form would perish long before it could ever experience being burned alive for days on end.

Of course, he'd freed Kane immediately, now that he posed no danger, but Kane had nowhere to go. He couldn’t exactly return to vampire territory. So he'd just... stayed. That was alright, Jim supposed. He’d already gotten used to having him around, and he didn't even have to feed him his blood anymore. He couldn’t bear the thought of forcing him to navigate the world all on his own as a new human.

Plus, he had to admit that watching Kane's face light up whenever he tried a new food was endearing.

Kane never left the house. Not during the night, when Jim warned him to be extra-careful of the new danger of vampires now that he was human, and certainly not during the day. Despite his freshly human skin, Kane remained utterly terrified of the sun.

Months after the change, it was taking his toll. Jim knew what that was like, the fatigue he’d experienced after Kane kept him away from the sun for the five years of his captivity. Kane was human now, and had never had a drop of healthy sunlight in his entire life.

So, after weeks of gentle coaxing, here they were.

Kane stood petrified in the living room as Jim slowly opened the curtain, firmly in the shade as natural light flooded into the room.

"It's okay," Jim said softly, stepping into the sun himself, warm and pleasant on his skin.

Kane stared at him wide-eyed and frozen, like he'd rather stepped into a cloud of poison.

"Here.” Jim extended an ar out of the sunned area, offering it. “Take my hand. We’ll do it together. It’ll be okay.”

“What if– what if I burn anyway?” Kane asked, making no attempt to come nearer.

“We’ll go slow. Just a fingertip, and if you burn, you can go right back out again. No one’s gonna make you stay in the sun. I’m not gonna make you stay in the sun.” Jim kept his hand out, waiting. “C’mon. You can’t put it off forever, humans need sun. It’ll be okay. No hurting.”

Kane, to his credit, took a tiny step forward. “You won’t pull me?” he asked, his voice small. He looked so much more vulnerable as a human, and he’d already looked plenty vulnerable before.

“Swear on my life, man. No pulling. You set the pace.” Jim beckoned him closer. “C’mon. You’re doing great.”

The little bit of praise seemed to motivate him, and Kane stepped closer still. His eyes crept away from Jim, to the unshielded window, following the ray of sunshine across the room until he lost his nerve. “I’m sorry. I can’t. I’m sorry, no no no, please don’t make me, I can’t!”

“It’s okay.” Jim stepped out of the sunbeam, going to Kane and taking his hand in the shade. “Not gonna make you do anything. It’s all you, remember?”

Kane gripped his hand lightly, still used to moderating vampiric strength he no longer possessed. “I’m sorry for being so difficult.”

“Pssh. After what you’ve been through, I’d be surprised if this wasn’t difficult. You’re doing great just by trying. Promise,” Jim assured him, giving his hand a squeeze. “I was difficult too, doing stuff for the first time. Gave Liz a headache taking me to the doctor when I had to get my blood drawn. But look at me now, I was doing it every day for your breakfast before you got all human-y. You’ve got this.”

It was something Jim had often felt ashamed of. But now, seeing Kane struggle too… maybe this stuff was just hard, and that’s fine.

Kane nodded slowly, taking his hand back. “Okay. Okay. I’ve got this. I–I’m going to do it.”

Breath held, he slowly closed the gap with one pointer finger outstretched. He finally touched the tip of his finger to the sun–and shrieked, pulling it back instantly and clutching it in his other hand.

“Shit! Are you hurt?” Jim asked. “For the life of me, I swear I totally thought it wouldn’t hurt you. You’re completely human in every other way. Oh my god, Kane, I–”

“It didn’t hurt,” Kane said softly, uncurling his hand to stare at his unharmed finger. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I did that. I thought it would hurt.”

Jim sighed with relief, giving Kane a pat on the shoulder. “Well, that’s good. Just nerves, then. You wanna try a little more?”

Kane hesitated, but nodded after a moment. “Alright. I’ll try.”

Jim walked back into the sun, holding his hand out into the shade. “Just come on over to me.”

With a deep breath, Kane took his hand. It was shaking, now, but Jim held it securely, hoping it’d make the guy feel a little safer. “I won’t pull you. You come to me.”

And he did. Inch by inch, his hand crept into the sun. There was no burst of pain, no burns blooming across his skin. The sun felt… pleasant, somehow, like a warm bath made of air. It was like nothing he’d ever felt before. Despite the terror, his body seemed to yearn for more, wanting to bask in it.

He stepped forward all at once, into Jim’s arms.

i'm back!! expect more writing soon!! ty to the anon who sent this ask and this anon who somehow shook me out of my slump

#kane and jim au #whump #my writing #comfort #whump recovery

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kurishiri · 5 months ago

Text

21 . . . alfons main story — mad love

꒰ ִ ֺ ⊹ @ notice ⊹ ֺ ִ ꒱ this translation may not be 100% accurate or contain creative liberties due to characterization or narrative flow purposes. if you enjoy, please consider reblogging, but don’t repost these or claim these as your own!

— though not required by any means, for full enjoyment of this chapter, i would recommend reading the past records featuring elbie and al 🍎🪞 there’s just some context in that story that can give some more meaning to elbie’s dialogue here, i feel!

— cw: not much, i think, alfons is very silly, hehe.

With Roger running while carrying Alfons, he was taken back to Crown castle——

And then he started to perform an emergency operation.

Beyond the horizon, the light colors of twilight started to blur, and the sky started to darken.

Kate: .........

I couldn’t even so much as sleep a wink, so I ended up sitting on the staircase that led down to the basement, hugging my knees.

All I could do was pray with all my heart.

Kate: Alfons...

Just when my hands grasped on each other, I heard footsteps ascending from the basement, causing me to sharply raise my head,

Elbert: .........

and there stood Lord Elbert,

who had been called to the basement at the start of the surgery.

Kate: ...Lord Elbert, is Alfons alright...?

Elbert: ...I’m unsure. Roger had said... there was no way to tell.

His blue eyes then turned to the direction of the basement, and as if being pulled along, I, too, followed his gaze to the stairs that led down.

There was no sign of Roger coming out.

(Which would mean he’s still undergoing treatment...)

When I stared at the closed door, Lord Elbert lightly put his hand against the wall.

Kate: Lord Elbert.

When I took a look at his face, it seemed so white, I felt as though I could see right through him.

Kate: You’re pale as a sheet... are you alright?

Elbert: Yes. It’s just... I shared a bit of my blood with Al.

Kate: Sharing... blood?

Elbert: Supposedly, they call it a blood transfusion. It’s a way to replenish even a little bit of the blood that has been lost.

(So such a method was out there... it’s the first I’ve heard of it.)

Kate: ...All that to say, he had lost so much blood that he needed to use such a method, right?

Elbert: Yes, that’s right. ...That said, he had also mentioned that blood types must be compatible with one another... so there is also a risk that such a process becomes fatal.

Kate: ...!

Elbert: So... it is possible that my blood may kill Alfons.

E: But, even so——I just couldn’t bear the possibility that he just die... when I could have done something.

E: ...So, I want to apologize for that.

I sucked in a gasp, and in response, Lord Elbert’s expression seemed to morph in distress.

Kate: Why the apology... but anyhow, thank you, for telling me.

(No matter how fatal or high the risk...)

(If there is any possibility at all that Alfons could be saved, then I don’t mind betting on it.)

Once again, I turned toward the door to the basement while supporting Lord Elbert.

Kate: You’ve just had your blood drawn, so it would be dangerous walking around alone. I’ll walk you back.

Elbert: Thank you for the offer... but, I would like to stay.

Kate: ...Are you sure you’re alright not resting?

Elbert: Yes, it should be fine... I have some trouble resting, if I had to say...

(...Ahh, so it wasn’t just me.)

Perhaps the uncertainty and fear that had been burning in my chest seemed to eat away at Lord Elbert from the inside in the same way.

Leaning against the wall, Lord Elbert slid down to a seated position, and I joined him, returning to the position I was just in before.

Kate: .........

I felt that if it stayed silent between us, I would end up bolting downstairs to the basement, so I racked my mind for words.

Then, suddenly, a certain thought came to mind...

Kate: Lord Elbert, could I ask... why do you hold Alfons so dear?

It was a question that had always tickled me.

(I do know that when they had met, Alfons was a child with vague origins, who had been assisting a doctor.)

(And that Lord Elbert had Alfons live in the estate and had him name himself a noble, keeping him by his side.)

(And that he, an aristocrat with a good upbringing, placed his full, unwavering trust in someone who played around and lived a decadent and indulgent lifestyle...)

And how Lord Elbert had a great many feelings for Alfons, to the point he was angered at he had up and left on his own after only leaving behind a note,

and how, even now, he tried his best to bear the responsibility of his life and death.

(So, I can’t help but wonder — just why did he go to such lengths?)

Lord Elbert slowly blinked as though recalling something.

Elbert: ...When we had met, he——Al had given me the words I wanted to hear.

That voice seemed to hold an ever so slightly different tone from how it was normally melancholic,

and even in the sigh that escaped from his lips seemed to be seeped with warmth.

Elbert: It was the first time we had even seen each other. So he shouldn’t have known about my circumstances, or anything, really...

E: But at that moment, it felt as though he had understood what was in my heart like the back of his hand as he gave me such words.

E: And, someone like that — to know what somebody else wants when they are struggling... they must have been someone who had endured unimaginable pain themself.

E: And Al must have been such a person.

E: Though he had always worn a smile, it seemed a little sad as well. So that is why...

E: I... could hardly leave him alone.

(Lord Elbert...)

Perhaps, when they met, both of them had been left with wounds that resembled one another.

With no one to protect them, and alone in this darkness——all they had was each other.

I imagined such a scene in my mind.

Elbert: But, there were times when Al... would occasionally try to disappear from my side.

Kate: Wh...

Elbert: And, to be fair, I had never thought that the day when Al felt he wouldn’t want to disappear himself would ever come...

E: But, as for me, I knew in my heart that I would never allow such a day to come when Al disappeared on his own.

Then, a small smile played on Lord Elbert’s lips.

Elbert: I have no way of knowing whether my blood is compatible with Al’s or not.

E: ...But, if it is, then I win. And if it isn’t, then I lose.

I assumed his blood was drawn from his left arm, because Lord Elbert gently rubbed over it with his fingers.

And those eyes seemed so tense that they could have snapped——

Kate: Me too...

I felt his heart might break and shatter to pieces as if it were made of glass, scattering about,

and words escaped from me, gushing out.

Kate: I made a bet with Alfons, too. That if he woke up, he would try to return my feelings.

Elbert: ...Al? He had made such a promise...?

Lord Elbert seemed surprised to hear, as his eyes widened.

Kate: I can’t say I have the greatest luck when it comes to bets... but I like to say I’m pretty strong when it counts... so that’s why...

K: Your blood will be compatible, Lord Elbert — I’m more than sure of it.

K: Let’s both win this together and make Alfons wave a white flag in surrender...

Though my logic was all over a mess, I just wanted to do something to get rid of the uncertainty.

My voice trembled in an attempt to convince myself,

and Lord Elbert gave me a soft smile, as though he were gently taking in my bluff with both of his hands.

Elbert: ...Yes, let’s.

E: And, to tell you the truth, between Al and I, I have never once lost a bet against him as well.

——In the end, Alfons’ surgery ended only after dawn had broken.

I asked if I could go down to the basement until Alfons regained consciousness...

But taking into consideration the risk of infection and my fatigue, Roger had said he ‘couldn’t allow it,’

stopping me in my tracks, so I ended up returning to my room to catch up on sleep.

Even so, though, I got up early the next morning and ran for the basement.

That then continued to the next day, and the day after that. I would go and check to see whether Alfons had regained consciousness——

And when night fell, I would return to my room, feeling as though my heart had been pierced through. That was my every day.

——That was, until something strange suddenly occurred.

(What the...?)

When I ran at the break of dawn down to the basement——it was empty.

The bed Alfons had been using was now clean and neatly done, without a trace of a person having used it at all to be seen...

Kate: Wh—h-huh...?

(Did... did he wake up...?)

(But then, even so, what is this feeling...)

——Something felt oddly off.

(If he woke up, then why did he let neither Roger or me know?)

(And, even if he had woken up, would that really mean he would be able to move freely around?)

(Yeah, there is definitely something off...)

With a sense of unease piling atop one another at the sight of the empty bed, I dashed in a fret out of the basement.

And when wanting to ask if anyone knew of the situation, I made my way to the dining room, where I knew some of them were——

Roger: Hey there, lil lady, I see you’re an early bird as ever.

Ellis: Morning, Kate. What do you want for breakfast?

There Roger and Ellis were, eating breakfast like nothing was off.

Kate: G-good morning... uhm——

Roger: Hm? Something wrong?

Recently, Roger had looked a bit sleep deprived himself due to watching over Alfons,

but seeing as his expression seemed more clear, I only felt my anxiety grow.

Ellis: Ah, you’re curious about what’s for breakfast? Here, today we have the egg muffins that you said you liked before.

(I mean, yes, it’s true I do think the egg muffins here are second to none...)

(There was something else I needed to know——)

Kate: Is Alfons here...!?

Ellis: Huh...?

Roger: ...? What’s gotten into you?

Both of them looked as though they had next to no clue what I was talking about——and my mind went blank then.

Kate: Wait... huh, but... what...?

(Don’t tell me... did they actually... forget?)

(Like, maybe he had used his ability on everyone again and went off somewhere?)

(That, or——)

“Without leaving your mark on anyone’s memories——”

If he lost his life, he would disappear from any and all memory.

Remembering his tragic fate, I felt the depths of my heart go cold.

Kate: Don’t tell me he... no way, but... how...

(But then, if that were the case, then why do I still remember him...?)

Kate: Uhm, do you really not know!? Where Alfons is, I mean...

Ellis: Well, umm...

Kate: Oh, you know, that Alfons...!

K: Also known as the man who, well, loves to go out to play at night, and for every question you ask he talks so much that he could fit in ten lies in a single answer, and——

K: He’s utterly halfhearted, and has anything but morals, and, and...!

Roger: And that ‘Alfons’ you’re speaking of——he’s standing right behind you, you know.

Kate: ...............He’s what now?

At that moment, I heard a voice from behind me——one I could never mistake for anyone else’s.

Alfons: Now wait just a minute, why spoil the fun so soon like that?

A: I had wanted to look on at her making a ruckus while ever the more panicked, but now that has gone straight out the window, you know.

Kate: Wh-wha...!?

When I turned around, Alfons was there, standing right behind me.

[1] Are you a ghost? (+4 / +4)

[2] Is this real?

[3] Is this an illusion?

Kate: Don’t tell me, are you a ghost?

Alfons: Ahha! Come see for yourself, why don’t you? I have legs, do I not?

He appeared in front of me so suddenly, all I could do was stare at his face in a daze.

Alfons: Even so, how dull your sense must be.

Casting me a sidelong glance, he even gave a dramatic yawn.

Alfons: All I ever did was hold my breath and hide myself, and yet you did not notice even a trace of me... pulling a trick on you was such a bore I just couldn’t help but even let out a yawn, you see.

(It... it’s really Alfons...)

He was awake, he was standing here and out of bed, and he was talking.

I should have long been used to such a scene, but still, my words were lost, and I could only continue to stare at him with unblinking eyes.

Alfons: Come now, you hardly need to stand there in a daze. Why don’t you see if this person before you is your most beloved Alfons or not?

A: And to do so, you must check eeevery inch of my body, no?

He scooped up my hand and brought my fingers to his chest, so that they touched where his heart was.

The moment those fingers felt that warmth that told me he was indeed living, I soundly knew that the ‘reality’ I had sought was here before my eyes.

(This really is Alfons... in the flesh.)

Those lips that were curved into a light smile, those eyes that seemed to see what lie ahead,

that expression that gleamed with a teasing air... everything before my eyes was proof that he was here as an existence before me——

Kate: ——!!

‘You’re the utter worst, pulling a prank like that.’ ‘Stop with these pointless things.’

The list of things I wanted to say to him then and there was endless.

But, all of those things were drowned out by a single emotion.

Kate: Alfons...!

A happiness I could hardly put in words burst within me,

and before I knew it, I was hugging Alfons,

Alfons: Whoops...

and as he caught me, he stumbled back two or three steps.

He was practically sandwiched between me and the wall at this point, but even so, I couldn’t bring myself to let go of him.

Alfons: Hehe... mind you, I am still very much an injured person, so if you would be so kind, could you go a tad easier on me?

Kate: Absolutely not...!

K: You could use a bit of pain to reflect on yourself...

And so, I hugged him tighter.

Alfons: Ow, ow, ow...

His pained voice echoed in my ears.

With my ears pressed to his chest, I could hear his heartbeat.

I could feel his warmth.

(...Alfons is still right here. He hasn’t disappeared.)

And that alone was enough to make me so happy, I couldn’t care less about anything else now.

Kate: ...You remember the bet we made, don’t you?

Alfons: The bet, you say?

Kate: That if you were to survive, in your words, you would love me back to the fullest...

—— Flashback ——

Alfons: ...Then... how about we make a bet... the two of us?

Kate: ...? A bet...?

Alfons: If I die, then I win. I bid you adieu, and have a lovely rest of your life.

A: But, if I happen to survive this ordeal... then you win.

A: And, just as you so wish, I will love you back to the fullest——

A: And tear your life to bits and pieces.

—— End flashback ——

Even now, I could hear his voice, having left its mark in me, so clear in my ears.

Kate: ...I won that bet.

to be continued…

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#sometimes i think if this were not an otoge ..#elbie and al would have kithed #ikemen villains #ikevil #イケメンヴィラン #ikevil alfons #ikevil alfons sylvatica #alfons sylvatica #ikemen villains alfons #cybird ikemen series #cybird ikemen #cybird otome #ikemen series #otome game #otome #ikevil translation #ikevil translations

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rolfedewolfefan16 · 10 days ago

Text

Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing

VILLAIN ROLFE AU OFFICIAL STORY

Chapter 2: Rolfe was angry. Like really angry. He couldn’t believe that his own mother couldn’t remember him. He couldn’t believe his brother didn’t appreciate his services. He couldn’t believe he was homeless. And now, without his puppets, he couldn’t do anything to gain some quick cash. The only money he had was a lonesome 10 dollar bill he stuffed in his pocket. Night arrived shortly after and that was the coldest, hungriest night Rolfe has ever spent. The wolf barely slept, he just huddled himself in a corner of a dark alley, thinking back of what happened that day. What if he did things differently? What if he never went to that club? What if he never saw that puppeteer in the first place? These thoughts circled his head until he finally drifted to sleep. He awoke to a hand shaking his shoulder. Rolfe saw a silhouette of a plump man, his eyes blinded by the morning sun.

“Are you okay?” the man asked, in a heavy Jersey accent. Rolfe rubbed his eyes and yawned.

“Not really,” Rolfe muttered.

“I’m really hungry, and cold and my bladder is killing me!” Rolfe mentioned. The man shook his head and grabbed Rolfe by his paw.

“Well I own the restaurant by this alley. You can use the bathroom there and I can cook you something to eat. On the house,” The man said, with a wholesome smile. He wore a red flannel with grey tech pants and a white apron. He had some stubble on chucky chin and a head of short, curly, black hair.

“Thank you,” Rolfe said, standing up. Rolfe towered over the plump man as he followed from behind….

Rolfe got out of the bathroom and saw the plump man greasing a pan with butter. Rolfe took a seat at a table near the big glass windows with acrylic writing. He took a glimpse at the busy streets of Kansas City, cars and officers every which way. He spotted a tall woman with a short pink dress and a ridiculous hat walk by, walking her small, stubby bull dog. Then he spotted some pigeons pecking at a cardboard boat tray smothered in bits of leftover food and sauces. For a moment, there was silence. Rolfe felt as if this horrible pounding he had heard for so long had finally gone away. The silence was broken by the plump man’s voice.

“So do you usually sleep in the back of people’s alleys or is that just a preference?” The man asked. Rolfe chuckled.

“No, my ideal place to sleep is in a bed, with a roof over my head. But sadly I couldn’t manage to find one last night,” he said, his voice slowly becoming more melancholy as he spoke.

“Well, what the hell happened, son?” The man asked. Rolfe led out a sigh as he fiddled with his claws.

“I got kicked out of my home last night. My mom became an addict and my brother couldn’t bear the responsibility anymore, so…” Rolfe said, his ears drooping.

“Well do you mind me asking, how old are you? Surely you're old enough to take care of yourself?” The man said, handing Rolfe a cup of coffee.

“I just turned 22 this year. And I’m sure I’m old enough to take care of myself but you see, I don’t know a thing about paying bills or investing or getting a job or any of that adult stuff,” Rolfe responded, taking the cup of coffee and taking a sip.

“How come?” The man asked, returning to the kitchen.

“I never learned. My mother never taught me and my brother was always out working,” Rolfe said.

“Jeepers. Well I suggest you find a job first. That shouldn’t be too hard considering how many open spots there are nowadays,” The man said, dipping a piece of bread into some batter and plopping it into a hot pan.

“That’s the thing though! I did have a job…before so that is. I was a ventriloquist. But my mother and brother kept every penny I owned and they tore all my puppets apart!” Rolfe complained.

“You know if you're into that kind of stuff I heard they’re hiring a band member at this new location. They call it “ShowBiz Pizza Place” starring a band of misfits who call themselves “The Rock-afire Explosion” The man said, handing Rolfe the poster. Rolfe stared at the ad for a while.

“Why would I want to join a band? I don’t know a thing about music,” Rolfe admitted. The man chuckled.

“Son, it's show business. It can mean anything in the entertainment field! Dancing, singing, acting, even ventriloquism,” The man replied. Rolfe was now more than convinced.

“I’ll say that works! But I don’t have a puppet!? And I can’t possibly go make one now! It takes days. Not to mention money,” Rolfe caviled. The plump man placed a heaping plate of french toast, sunny side-up eggs, bacon strips and fat pineapple sausage in front of him.

“I don’t see that as a problem. All you need to do is audition. Who says you need a puppet for the act? Plus you can change your voice by range right? Not a lot of people can do that, son,"said the man, handing Rolfe a fork. Rolfe jabbed the fork into sausage and dipped it in the egg yolks before taking a giant bite.

“I guess so,” he said through a mouthful of food. The man sat down with him.

“Why don’t we do this? You help me wash the mountain of dishes I have in the back, And I’ll pay you a good 50,” The man suggested. Rolfe’s eyes lit up, he soon remembered his manners.

“Oh no, that’s far too much,” he said.

“I insist! Trust me it's a lot! Plus, you should have enough to make yourself a puppet for the audition if you really want it that badly,” The man said. Rolfe smiled as he took a forkful of french toast.

“Thank you sir,” Rolfe said.

“You may address me as, Marty,” The man winked. After breakfast, Rolfe got to work, putting an apron and yellow rubber gloves on. Marty wasn’t kidding. The pile of dishes was huge, stacking up high inches from the ceiling vent. As sponge met dish, Rolfe began to daydream of his future life. He figured if he could pass the audition he too could be just as famous as his father. Just think, Rolfe DeWolfe the greatest entertainer the world has ever seen! Millions would line up outside the door just to see his acts and hear his voice. Rolfe knew he could sing quite decently. He figured his voice suited jazz and disco much more than pop or rock or whatever it was the band might play. That’s why he liked it so much. Rolfe never dared sing or perform out in public unless he was sure his family wasn’t around. However due to his impressive range, Rolfe was sure he could manage any challenge the band might give him. That’s why he was confident he would succeed.

“You know, Marty?” Rolfe spoke out loud, trying to talk over the radio.

“I’m gonna be famous one day! And the whole world’s gonna know my name! Just you wait!” Rolfe laughed. Marty chuckled.

“I’m looking forward to seeing you on the television. Why don’t you show me what you got and I’ll be the judge of that,” Marty offered. Rolfe gave him a grin and cleared his throat.

“Give me a second-” he said. He heard the radio playing a familiar voice. Frank Sinatra! Perfect!

“Come fly with me! Let’s fly, let’s fly away! If you can use some exotic booze, there’s a bar in far Bombay. Come on and fly with me, let’s fly, let’s fly away!” Rolfe sang. His mouth didn’t move, not once. Marty clapped, giving whistles and shouts.

“Woah! I tell ya kid, that’s mighty impressive! You're going to land the role for sure!” Marty cheered. Rolfe went back to washing dishes.

“I sure hope so,” he smiled sheepishly….. After a little while of silence, Rolfe spoke.

“So Marty, do you have any big dreams?” Rolfe asked. Marty placed his broom down and nodded.

“This restaurant of mine, see it’s family owned…was family owned. I wanted to carry on the tradition but after my divorce things haven’t been easy. And now business is slow. My only dream is for business to be booming again. For this restaurant to never be forgotten,” Marty explained. Rolfe felt bad. He had no idea what Marty had gone through. Yet again, not a single person came into the restaurant during his stay. Perhaps it was best if Rolfe just kept quiet for the remainder of the time…

Finally, for what felt like forever, Rolfe finished his dish duty and stood by the front door waiting for Marty.

“Here ya go, kid,” Marty said, handing Rolfe the 50 dollar bill, as promised and a slice of cherry pie in a paper bag.

“Take care of yourself. And good luck,"he told him. Rolfe couldn’t help but cry a little. He never felt this wholesome affection, not even in his own home. Rolfe gave Marty a tight hug.

“I won’t forget this. I swear, once I’m famous I’ll make sure to promote you!” Rolfe said.

“Thanks, son. Goodbye, now,” Marty waved. Rolfe gave him one last hug before walking out the door, bag and poster in hand. That day Rolfe made himself a promise. Money was luxury and he was going to make sure he got a lot of it! Rolfe was going to make his dreams come true one way or another. He just hoped he wasn’t too late…

#showbiz #rolfe dewolfe #rock afire explosion #villian au #alternate universe #short story #original story

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bitethedevil · 6 months ago

Text

The Virtue of Chastity (Chapter 1/2)

Tags: Corruption, Dark!Raphael, Dub-Con, Nun gets corrupted by devil-trope

TW: Dubious Consent, Depictions of Illness, Death, NSFW Content, Mention of Thoughts of Suicide

AO3 LINK

(Chapter 2)

Summary:

A cleric of Ilmater is mourning the loss of someone dear to her. Lucian, an earlier patient of hers who she loved dearly, had died from his illness, but not before revealing that he had sold his soul to a devil. Destroyed by the knowledge she cannot save him from his suffering in the afterlife, she runs into a strange man by the name Raphael. He says he can fix it all and bring her the soul of her dear Lucian.

He is also oddly fascinated by the fact that she has sworn a Vow of Chastity, and he seems to know an awful lot about her and her relationship with Lucian.

AN: Basically: Nun gets corrupted by the devil-trope. Raphael is a bit of a creep in this one. Not my most edited fic. I wrote this whole thing over the span of a day, but felt like sharing anyway.

It was a warm summer’s day. The birds were singing, and the sun was kissing her tear-stained cheeks, almost as if everything around her was reveling in her suffering. She just could not stop crying. As a cleric of Ilmater she had done everything she could to save Lucian, and yet, it had not been enough. Ilmater had bid her to bear the sufferings of others, but this time she had been robbed of the opportunity to do so.

When Lucian came to the temple the very first time, he had already been sick for months. The disease was taking more and more each day, but it was an excruciatingly slow process. She had gotten to know him well. Despite all the pain he was in, he had always found it in him to make jokes and keep his spirits high in her company. They had become close.

It was clear that Lucian also wanted more, but he did not want to burden her when he knew that he was going to die, and it was not as if she was able to return his love either. She was trying to live up to the virtue name she had taken on after her parents died and she swore a vow. The act of loving someone else in that manner was forbidden. She was not supposed to have relationship or love anyone above others. Her purpose was to serve the Crying God and thus her purpose was to suffer.

Her biggest trial in suffering began when the sickness had started eating at Lucian’s mind. She had gone to his bed to tend to him, as she always had, and one day he did not recognize her. His eyes had widened in fear as he looked at her red skin and the horns on her head, and he had recoiled from her, shouting: ‘No no no, leave me alone, devil! You can’t take my soul! I’m not dead yet! Please!’

Her heart sank at his words, and she knew that he would never find peace, not even in death. Ilmater would not be able to soothe his soul in the afterlife, for his soul had already been given away. Not a tenday after, Lucian died and was then buried in the graveyard outside the temple. She had come there to sit at his grave every time she could sneak out there without any of the other clerics noticing.

She heard a sound behind her and quickly dried the tears from her eyes before getting up in a hurry. She cleared her throat and turned her face downwards so that he would not be able to see that she had cried.

“Forgive me,” she hurriedly apologized and dried off more of her tears with her sleeve, trying to ready herself to face who she thought to be Father Marcus. “I was just getting some sun. I will be in for prayer in a moment.”

“Please, take your time,” she heard some say in a smooth voice that was not Father Marcus’s. “I am in no hurry.”

She turned around. It was a darkhaired man in clothing that looked to be more expensive than the homes of some of her patients. He was leaning on a cane. She lowered her head and forced a polite smile.

“Forgive me,” she said. “I thought you were someone else. Our Martyred Father welcomes you to his temple. Can I help you, Saer?”

The man smiled and then moved closer to her. A pained expression came over his face as he began to walk. She quickly moved over to him once she saw that his legs were troubling him. She let him lean on her as she moved him to sit on the bench. He was wearing some expensive perfume and there was some other unidentifiable smell that violated her nostrils as she did so, though she was too polite to wrinkle her nose at it.

“Thank you, dear,” the man said. “I have come for the ‘alleviation of my suffering’ as so many others do at this temple of yours. I merely wanted to have a look around, when I stumbled upon you.”

That did seem odd. She could not help looking him over again. The temples of Ilmater usually only helped the poor, the old and the unfortunate. This man looked like he did not fall into any of those categories. He was middle-aged and clearly wealthy. He smiled at her expression.

“Yes, I am aware that I may not look like your other patients,” he said. “Though I can assure you that I am in dire need of help, with no family or loved ones to take care of me. Please sit.”

She lowered her gaze. She had not meant to be so transparent in her thoughts. She sat down beside him, leaving some space between them.

“Apologies,” she said. “Any and all who are suffering are welcomed in the temple.”

He chuckled at that.

“My, what an apologetic young lady you are,” he said. “You have not wronged me in any way or sense, dear, so let us put a lid on all the ‘forgive me’s and ‘apologies’. It does get so awfully tiring with repetition in conversation.”

“Forgive—” she stopped herself and sighed before looking at him with a polite smile. “I should go inside, Saer.”

When she looked at him, there was a hint of concern on his features. He reached out and cradled her face with his hand and ran a thumb over her cheek. She froze completely at the touch.

“You’ve been crying,” he cooed. “Poor thing.”

She removed his hand with the wariness of someone removing a knife that was being held to their throat.

“Saer—”

“Raphael,” he said.

“Raphael…” she repeated and gave him a tight smile. “I had thought that Father Marcus might have explained this to you when you arrived, but it is strictly forbidden to touch any of the clerics here. But no worries…You did not know, but please do remember this in the future.”

“My apologies,” he said in a tone that slightly suggested that he did not mean it in the least. “I too have a difficult time ignoring other people’s suffering, I’m afraid. I would assume we have that in common, my dear. What is your name?”

“Chastity,” she said and folded her hands in her lap.

“Chastity…” he repeated, a smile widening on his face “What a lovely name…And why is it that the clerics here are not to be touched? I would assume that you are allowed to touch your patients, or else it would make your mission here very difficult.”

“Some of the clerics here have taken vows,” she explained. “We touch the patients, yes, but they are not allowed to touch the clerics.”

He nodded. He kept trying to chase her eye contact with the angle of his head every time she lowered her gaze.

“Aah yes, I see,” he purred. “There are three different vows that clerics of Ilmater can undertake, isn’t there? Should I venture a guess which category you fall under, Chastity?”

She smiled at his little joke out of politeness.

“You are quite observant,” she said.

“That I am. So, tell me, Chastity,” he said. “Who is this ‘Lucian’ to you? It was his grave you were weeping at, was it not?”

She looked up at him at the mention of Lucian’s name. Her expression fell into one of sadness, but she quickly schooled her features.

“A former patient of mine,” she answered in a quiet voice. “I really should get back inside. There is so much work to do.”

She got up from the bench, and the man’s gaze followed her as she did.

“And things were just getting interesting,” he said in feigned disappointment. “No matter. I’m certain I will see you around. It was a pleasure to meet you, Chastity.”

“And you, Saer,” she replied quickly before rushing inside.

“Chastity, a moment please, when you are done.”

She looked up at Father Marcus. She feared that she was in trouble or that her daily visits to the graveyard had been discovered. She turned her attention back to her patient and gave her a tight smile as she tried to push down her anxiety and finish bandaging her up. Once she was done, she wiped her bloodied hands in a piece of cloth and walked up to Father Marcus.

“Yes, Father?” she asked.

Father Marcus was quiet for a moment too long like he always was. He was looking at her intently, his brow furrowing and the wrinkles there creasing as he studied her, as if he was trying to remember what he was supposed to ask her. He was getting old, so she was beginning to get used to it.

“Oh yes,” he said. “You are going to a house in the Upper City later today.”

She was relieved that she was not in trouble, but she was however confused about his request. They never visited the homes of their patients, as they were always transported to the temple for care instead. She did have a vague idea of who she would be visiting, however. She had only met one patient who seemed wealthy enough to live in that part of the city.

“The Upper City, Father?” she asked. “What for exactly?”

“There is a man who needs alleviating,” Father Marcus answered. “I have the directions written down for you.”

“But Father we never—”

The old man looked away and waved his hand. A gesture she was more than familiar with throughout her time at the temple, meaning: We are done speaking. Do as I say. She sighed. It irked her to have to walk all the way to the Upper City for this patient. They never made exceptions. This was preferential treatment to someone who was rich, and that was not what the temple or Ilmater’s teachings stood for.

She took the scroll from his hand and read it. It contained directions and the necessary supplies she needed to bring. She gathered what she needed and left the temple. She rarely ever left the temple, and she hated walking around in the city. There was so much suffering everywhere: orphans, people who were selling themselves, people without homes… There was enough to fill the temple a hundred times.

The amount of suffering around her lessened the closer she got to the Upper City. Then it was the disgusting level of excess and greed that made her uncomfortable. The people around her were dressed in clothing so expensive that it could feed multiple families in the Lower City. She eventually made it to the grand mansion of her patient. A tiefling servant let her inside and herded her to his master’s chambers.

It was an odd feeling to walk through the halls of the mansion. There were small signs here and there that suggested a larger family with children lived there, and yet, it was completely quiet and empty. Surely, if there had been a larger family living there, Raphael would not have needed the help of the temple. Then again, it could be that he had lost his family or some other misfortune. Father Marcus had always taught her that it was best not to meddle and to keep your mouth shut, so she did.

When she entered Raphael’s chambers, he was seated in an armchair, reading a book. His cane was resting against the chair. He looked up at her when she entered and gave her a big smile before gesturing to the servant to leave them.

“Chastity,” he greeted. “How lovely that you could take the time out of your no doubt very busy schedule to visit me. I would get up to greet you properly, but I am sure you will forgive this rude lack of formality. My legs are aching terribly.”

She bowed her head in greeting. She felt awkward. She had not been in a room alone with a patient ever. There had always been other patients or clerics about somewhere. Not only that, but she was in a room alone with a man. It did something to her nerves. She moved closer.

“I have brought some potions that should help,” she said quietly and fiddled with the bag of supplies in her hands.

He looked her up and down, his gaze landing on her face. He was studying her.

“Is something the matter?” he asked in a gentle voice. “You’re shaking.”

“Forgive me—”

Raphael stopped her with a finger in the air, as if to remind her of their previous conversation and his opinion on her apologetic nature. She shut her mouth and gave him a tightlipped smile.

“This is new to me,” she explained. “We never venture outside the temple unless it is urgent, or we are bringing in a new patient.”

“Ah, I see,” he said and nodded. “No need to be nervous here. I won’t harm you. I can also assure you that this might be a wonderful opportunity for you. I tend to help those who help me, as I am sure your dear Father Marcus can confirm.”

Ah. Raphael was donating to the temple and that was the reason for this preferential treatment. She should have known. It put more pressure on her, because the gods know that the temple needed the gold.

She simply nodded and came closer. She looked at Raphael’s legs and then at his face.

“I’ll need to examine you first,” she said. “This would really be easier if you were laying down. Do you think we can move you to the bed?”

“No, I’m afraid not,” he answered.

She looked him over again and then gave him a little nod. She sat down on the carpet in front of him with her knees under her. She could have sworn she saw Raphael smirk as she lowered herself to the floor. She could feel his eyes on her, though she kept her gaze lowered.

“Please tell me if anything hurts,” she said and gently put her hands on one of his calves.

She pressed slightly to feel for knots or any deformities. There was nothing. His calf was surprisingly muscular for someone who could not move around much, she noticed. She felt his other leg and the result was the same.

“It’s further up,” he said.

She moved her hands to his knee and pressed down gently on it. Nothing.

“Further,” he purred.

She glanced up at him for a moment before moving her hands up to his lower thigh.

“Further…”

She moved her hands up further and he made a show of wincing.

“Yes, right there,” he groaned.

She pressed on his upper thigh, feeling her way around it. She massaged it slightly, making him groan again.

“I don’t feel any knots or anything,” she stated and moved to the other thigh to do the same thing.

As she did, she suddenly noticed the growing bulge in his pants. She looked the other way and continued her work. It was not unusual. This sometimes happened with male patients and often they could not control it, she had been taught. Though most usually had the decency to be embarrassed, but not him. After a few more moments she let go of his leg and got up off the floor. She grabbed her bag of supplies and brought them to his desk.

“I hope you do not mind that I borrow your space,” she said. “In my hurry, I did not have the time to prepare the potions beforehand.”

“Please,” he said and gestured to the desk. “Did I embarrass you, dear? That pretty red skin of yours seems a tad more red than usual, if my eyes do not fail me.”

There was clear amusement in his voice. She turned her back to him as she worked on the potions. She was flustered. So flustered that a reply did not come. He chuckled at her silence.

“Tell me, Chastity,” he said. “What is the purpose of swearing a vow like yours?”

She fumbled a bit with the ingredients in her hands as she was asked that question. By Ilmater’s hands, why was this man making her so uncomfortable? She steadied her hand and took a deep breath before replying.

“Because I want to be of service to Ilmater. Because my parents handed me to the temple when they both got sick and soon after died. I chose the virtue name Chastity and swore a vow soon after. I want to honor them by helping others, like the temple tried to help my parents and I, and the best way to do so is to stay focused on a greater purpose instead of the selfish desires that control us. That is why I took my vow.”

“My condolences,” he said from behind her. “I have always found the odd tradition of tiefling virtue names to seem so limiting. Surely, all of ones goals cannot be summed up so easily…but as long as you are happy, of course …”

She was relieved when he seemed to let it go. She kept cutting the ingredients to the potion in peace, enjoying the quiet despite still feeling tense. She could feel him staring into her back. He spoke again after a long while.

“I hope you will excuse my curiosity, but…have you ever been with anyone?” he asked casually.

“No,” she answered without hesitation. “And I never will.”

“Not even your dear Lucian?” he asked in that same casual tone.

A shiver ran down her back at the question. It was all too personal all of a sudden. She shook her head before looking at him.

“Please don’t speak of him to me,” she warned, though she tried to keep her tone light and cordial.

Raphael ignored her warning.

“His death weighs heavily on you, doesn’t it?” he asked with feigned concern. “Father Marcus told me that he almost did not get a proper burial, since he owes his soul to a devil. How very unfortunate.”

She could feel the tears welling up in her eyes at the mention of it.

“Don’t,” she said. “Please…”

“I am sorry, my dear,” he said in a soft voice. “I did not mean to upset you. I simply meant what a terrible situation that must be. You clearly loved him. You had taken care of him for so long and you don’t even get the peace of knowing that he is in a better place. Instead, you are left here all alone, with no one to hold you or comfort you as you bear the burden of so many on your shoulders. I feel for you, I truly do.”

She was shaking again, but not from being uncomfortable. She was instead trying to hold back her emotions. It was scary how well this stranger knew of her situation. A tear rolled down her cheek and she hastily wiped it away with the sleeve of her robe.

“Shhh-shh-shh, it’s fine, my dear. Cry,” he cooed gently and held out a hand to her. “Come here.”

She stared at his hand as if it would strike out and hit her. She was not supposed to let others touch her. On the other hand, Father Marcus would be furious if she lost them a sponsor that they definitely needed with the way things were. That is not to mention all the people they could help with this man’s money.

She swallowed hard and walked closer to him. He took her hand and pulled her to sit in his lap in one swift movement. She struggled, but his firm grip around her waist did not allow her to move away. One of his hands went up to cradle her head and push it gently to his shoulder, like a parent comforting a child might do.

“Relax,” he cooed and gently ran his fingers through her hair. “I won’t hurt you and no one has to know. It will be our little secret, hm?”

She could not control it. She started sobbing. She had not been held, let alone touched, by anyone since her parents died. She found herself clinging to this stranger that she barely knew. She would crawl into him if she could. The closeness was intoxicating. For a moment she felt safe and cared for.

“Oh, sweet girl,” he cooed. “Let me help carry the burden of all that suffering you have held for others for so many years.”

She nodded. She could barely breathe from crying so much. He nuzzled his nose into her hair and then whispered in her ear.

“You have been so awfully kind to me, Chastity,” he whispered. “Let me be kind to you in return. If you keep assisting me and being so wonderfully obedient, then I promise to rid you of all of your troubles. I will return your beloved Lucian to you so he will not have to suffer anymore.”

She felt a painful glimmer of hope in her heart. She sniffled into his doublet.

“You can’t bring him back…”

Raphael placed a chaste kiss on the top of her head.

“No, I’m afraid I can’t,” he said. “But I can put an end to his suffering. I happen to have some very powerful connections, you know. I can retrieve his soul from the Hells and give it to you.”

She shakes her head and dries her tears. It was too good to be true.

“I don’t believe you,” she said.

He smiled and pulled something from his pocket. A large iron coin. He handed it to her. She could feel immediately that it was not a normal coin. It felt familiar when she held it. It was as if she was sitting at Lucian’s bed, listening to his terrible jokes and laughing with him. The coin felt like him. There was both awe and sadness in her eyes as her breath hitched and tears started falling once again. Raphael gently took it from her hands and stuffed it back in his pocket.

“Do you believe me now?” he asked and caressed her side in a comforting manner.

“How did you—”

“Ah,” he interrupted with a smile. “I cannot tell you, but I am a man of my word. If you serve me, I’ll serve you.”

“Why?” she asked next. “Why me?”

Raphael ran his hand up and down her side as he studied her with a smile.

“Like I said, I find it difficult to see people suffering around me,” he purred and let go off her so she could move off his lap. “Off you go back to your temple, dear…before you have any unholy thoughts. If I see you again, I will take it as an agreement to this little arrangement.”

Her mind was buzzing with thoughts as she left the mansion and the Upper City.

#raphael bg3 #raphael the cambion #bg3 raphael #raphael x oc #baldur's gate 3

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