#lady honeycomb

[honeycomb-hachi]

On the behalf of Mr. Compress (@marbled-magician), he will be out of commission for a bit. Do not worry, he is okay!

[gertstarlight]

south asian sapphics in media <3

[caeneuszayd]

*CHANTING* RENEGADE NELL RENEGADE NELL RENEGADE NELL!

Listen I started this show yesterday (Friday night) and just finished it at 7 am Eastern Saturday It was SO FUCKING GOOD

PLEASE GO WATCH IT SO DISNEY DOESN’T CANCEL IT

I am begging for season two to turn into an enemies to lovers plot I am foaming at the mouth for Nell and Lady Sofia I am literally OBSESSED 😭😭😭

I went on to ao3 and there is NOT ONE FIC PLEASE LESBIANS GO WATCH THIS SHOW IMMEDIATELY SO I HAVE FIC TO READ BY DINNER TIME

[honey-minded-hivemind]

For the Hulk vs. Wolverine/Wolverine and the X-Men platonic yandere au, imagine a Reader who was either being spied on by Weapon X, or who somehow just kept following them from time to time, maybe foiling their plans (and trying to keep the poor traumatized *ssholes alive)... H*ck, maybe Reader was someone who was a potential candidate for the program...

Reader just ends up stuck with them somehow, keeps stopping them from dying or being killed off, and is at first hated or seen as weak... Except Reader still does them solids and favors without asking for anything in return or expecting anything, which leads to the growth of some... softer... feelings of the mutants for once. Because that little idiot who keeps being nice, even if they're hurt for it, is THEIR sweet little idiot or friend or pup or whatever. So they obviously should be allowed to stay...

It comes to a head when Reader actually tries to leave, be it move on to other things or somehwefe new, or abandon the group if they were part of the program, leading to mixed emotions and reactions...

🧡🦡Logan would want Reader to leave, h*ck, he's probably setting something up so they can leave amd slip away without anyone catching them. If he can, he'd leave with them... This helps activate his dad instincts, and whether he remembers this or not, he does remember Reader's scent, and that he sees them as someone to protect...

🦁🦷Sabretooth hates the idea of Reader leaving, having a soft spot for them and Logan, but would rather have them with him, make them stronger, get them to stay and not even think of leaving the program him! Would hunt them down and try try force them to stay, would even make them forget certai things if he could.

🎭💙Mystique, if she was still there at that point in time, would realize she wants Reader someone safe, where they can have a life, be innocent or at least free, and tries to help them, even if it's only in small ways. Would toss someone off a cliff for getting in Reader's way of escaping (so, the majority of everyone-)

❤🐼Deadpool would find the idea funny. Leave them? After everything? Quite the kidder, eh, kiddo? Well... that joke wasn't very funny, was it? He's against it, but treats it like a game. He won't stop Reader from trying... but he will chase them and give them a hard time, eventually dragging them back, because, look, hey, they're his buddy~! And buddies don't leave buddies behind! Reader put so much effort into them already, so why give in now?

⚡💛Maverick, if he is there at that point in time, wants what he thinks is best for Reader (his small memories/dad instincts popping up). He thinks they're safe wherever he is, so if he's with Weapon X, then Reader will join them, no matter how much of a tantrum them throw. He understands it's not... soft, being what they are or doing what they do, but he can keep them safe. The rest of the mutants? The people they all hint for a living? They can't. So it's best Reader gives in and joins them and makes it easier on themself, or they'll have to use discipline, and no one wants that...

🔪🗡Lady Deathstrike is probably fond of Reader, especially if they were kind to her or said she was beautiful or right about something. She doesn't care much if they stay or if they go, but she wants to know where they are, who they're with, and wants updates on everything they do. She's controlling, wanting a perfect version of them...

🩸🐙Omega Red would probably not care much either way. If he's soft for Reader, they were likely treating him like a person, someone who bleeds and can hurt and who needs care. Would agree Reader should stay with them, but wouldn't want to break them too much... If he thought they'd be killed, I will say he would let them go. Whatever chance guarantees their survival is what he chooses in the end...

🦡💛 If Laura/X-23 is around (depends on when this takes place), she'd be younger, so she views Reader as the closest she has to a sibling or friend. Wants them, because they're comforting and nice and sneak her treats, but doesn't understand yet that if they stayed or joined them, they'd be broken the way she and the others are... If Reader did leave, they left Laura a few gifts, mainly anything Reader had that Laura liked, so she'd have some form of comfort after Reader was gone...

No matter what, they're all somehow attached, whether they like it or not, and Reader attempting to leave them would likely crack the fragile peace they made... And if Reader did manage to escape... they're going to have to watch their back for a very long time...

(Imagine this if you want for X-Men Evolution! I'm just trying out this other X-Mem series and seeing if I like it! Enjoy this honey fresh from the comb!💛🧡🐝🍯🧪)

[nellie-the-toad]

[cindyslesbian]

hii renegade nell fans!! i made a discord server!!!!!!1! yippee 🥳

[1dream-of-me]

i might be so out of lane here but I genuinely ship Polly/Lady Eularia for so many reasons, and honestly here’s why;

For one, Nell has no interest in Polly which she shows on multiple occasions like not reacting to the kiss, never wondering where Polly is/what she’s doing, and not thinking about her after everything is done and over and they’re all ready to go home—hell, Nell plans to live towns away from Polly anyways in the Talbot, long distance relationships are practically nonexistent in this time period unless they’ve been together before the distance. (This is not dissing on Polly/Nell, it’s lowkey a cute ship, I’m just showing why I back this particular ship). Quite frankly Nell hasn’t put a stop to it because she’s not the kind of woman who would. She relishes in it because she’s likely never had an adoring fan before, and simply doesn’t know how to handle the dynamic, so she lets it be.

besides, Polly doesn’t actually desire Nell. Nell likely knows that. After all Polly and Nell have hardly had a complete conversation, and every imagination Polly has of Nell is out of character for her. Polly doesn’t know Nell, she knows the idea of her that gives Polly the sense of adventure and passion she craves.

there’s also the fact that Polly was raised with wealth, Nell doesn’t have wealth and presumably never has (though she has very fine clothing when we first meet her, that might just be because she’s the MC). Polly hasn’t thought about the fact she has no technical wealth (as it all belongs to her father who wants to marry her off into a wealthy family instead), and neither does Nell. That’d mean no fancy dresses, nice bed, warm baths with the oils she likely uses as she’s a Lady. There aren’t any luxuries that would come with, and if she ever saw behind the red-heart glasses she’d see that this badass woman Nell is would be terrifying to be in a relationship with solely because she’d be constantly worried about her wife’s/gf’s health and well being. Also, she’d have to work. Likely at the Talbot or doing something else so they could have money. Polly has never worked a day in her life for anything, not until she gets hired at the paper, which I also have notices on.

Eularia actually sees Polly. She genuinely sees her talent with words and writing, and she knows she would be a good replacement for her last editor. It wasn’t a temporary job, it was permanent one. She could’ve just said “i need this spot filled while I find another”, and that’d be it until she found another editor, but no—she wanted Polly. Nell only recognized Polly’s writing because it was complimenting her eyes in a way that seemed foreign to her, not necessarily that it was good or anything, she had just been put in the limelight. It was a compliment, and while we don’t really know what Nell was thinking, she walked right past that too.

another note about Polly having never worked a day in her life, this job is her passion. She likes reading and writing, it’s the perfect place for her. There’s no forcing herself through a painful task, she’d genuinely enjoy it, and in the spot she has she’d have control over things. Offices like that have high energy and constant working, the kind of feeling she wanted to feel. Not only that Eularia is a tough boss, if Polly liked the way Nell acted when she first met her, how do we think she’d like Eularia’s demanding and commanding persona amongst all the writers in the workplace?

a note on Eularia’s nature is that she is a very dominant woman. That’s just it. We see her and Charles’ dynamic, and we see how much power she proudly wields over him. She enjoys being in control and has a strong personality that makes room for passion. She also craves a younger person who has the energy to meet her level of not exceed it when it comes to romance and lust—I understand Polly is the “innocent” character, but she matches that. Charles has no interest in Eularia, and she’s smart, she knows that. She sees it, and while it may be a poor thing to point out, I genuinely think she’s insecure of her age (though just barely), it’s enough for her to think that Charles is the best she could get. Hence all the effort she puts in for someone she knows deep down doesn’t want her.

Polly has the heart to look past anything. Absolutely anything. She walked right past the fact Nell wasn’t a man, and accepted it because she cared more for how she felt. She feels so deeply and completely that’d she be a wonderful match for Eularia who can provide and love and respect her as a woman while also checking all of the right boxes in her interests such as passion and dominant personalities that crave romance. Eularia wants that. She wants the cute nicknames Charles gives her and the romance she is promised but doesn’t quite receive. They would mesh wonderfully, and especially in a high energy office with close proximity to one another.

honestly I might write a one-shot just for them, because there isn’t really an issue in the age gap if we think about it. For one, from what I understand, Polly is in her twenties. Her father is already wanting to marry her off, and in this time period the marriage age is rather low (even lower than mid-twenties), Polly was also willing to run off with someone who looked at least eight to fifteen years older than her, and Polly doesn’t seem to have an issue with appearances so much as she does hygiene and personality. So pretty much Self Respect.

all of this to say, Polly/Lady Eularia could so happen and I kind of want it to.

[cultivating-wildflowers]

every time I read a crochet pattern, I have to google how to work basic stitches

[just-a-mod]

Commission for @honeycomb-cacube's Feywilds Warden

he's a lovely lad who requires a blanket, hot tea and maybe a sandwich

[lady-of-games]

Some new emotes that should be ready for the next time I stream. Gonna have a proper Banjo-fied chat now!

[poorlemons]

if michael distortion gets ferrets could michael shelley get a cat or two (there was a cat in another post and i miss the unnamed cat)

Introducing Honeycomb! She is an old lady who Michael took in because she looked very sad. She's blind, a menace, and very loud. Her favorite things to do are chewing on Michael's hair, tripping him when he's holding things, and sleeping on his face.

[honeycomb-hachi]

The Pollen Hero: Lady Honeycomb [REF]

Name | Hachimitsu Chibana

Age | 29

Gender | Female (She/her)

Occupation |

Pro (underground) Hero/Head of the FoxHive Agency

Licensed psychiatrist

Quirk | Insect

She basically has the characteristics of an insect- she could shrink herself to a smaller size, climb/stand on flat surfaces, possess the wings of an insect, and possess heightened speed. She chose to represent a bee due to her favorite insect being a bumblebee

Height | 5’3

DoB | April 11

Relations|

Tsumugi Chibana: Mother

Shin’ichi Hayasaka: Father

Kanako Chibana: Aunt

Kitsu Zuru (OC by @/khaoticluca ): High School bestie/work partner for FoxHive Agency

Short ver. Backstory|

Mitsu knew little about her father, and her mother wanted to keep it that way. She raised Mitsu on her own until, at the age of 5, she disappeared out of nowhere.

Mitsu ended up in her aunt’s custody while her mother remained missing. 22 years later, she still hasn’t been found. Her aunt encouraged her to attend UA to help her set a course on her path. After her studies at UA, she became a pro hero, though not for money or popularity reasons. Her goal is to find who ever caused her mother’s disappearance.

[kittykittyanon]

ZEEPIE ZEEP AAAAAHAHHHHHHHYHH!!!!!!!!!!

guess who's back. back again. 💃🏾✨

[mandoriana]

Arthur: Merlin, I have a question for you.

Merlin *sighs*: Oh no, here we go.

Arthur: It’s simple, there are 3 birds on a tower, I shoot one. How many are left?

Merlin *thinking*:… None. Obviously.

Arthur *rolls his eyes*: How can there be none left, Merlin, I only shot one!

Merlin: Yes, exactly, you see, you shot one and scared the other two away with the shot. So, none are left!

Arthur: No, silly! But I like the way you think 😅

Later...

Merlin: Arthur, my turn, I have a question for you.

Arthur *crosses his arms*: Go ahead.

Merlin: So, there are 3 ladies in the square eating honeycombs, one is biting, another is licking, and the other is sucking.

Arthur: Hm, okay?

Merlin *smiles*: Which of the 3 ladies is married?

Arthur: 😳

Merlin: 😏

Arthur *shyly*: The one who is sucking?

Merlin *laughs*: No, it’s the woman wearing a ring, obviously, but I like the way you think 😅

[punk-in-docs]

A song of broken skin and fated lovers: part V

— Emperor Geta x Reader (Salacia)

— 7.1k words.

— Read all parts here: Part I — Part II — Part III — Part IV — Part V —

Summary: You were raised outside of this Rome. Born into peace. To know of fathomless deep seas, and skies so big, they wrapped around your whole sight. The way that at night all you can smell are lemon trees kissed by salt. The jasmine plants wound around the white walls of the villa. Salacia. And now you are sent to Rome for your father in the Senate. There you will catch the attention of Geta; in all the wrong and darkest of ways— any reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated 💙💙💙

TW!! There’s some description of wounds and if you squint some dub con. Proceed daintily loves-

It seemed your dreams were the only place you could reliably escape too. The only plain you’d find any peace.

You picture the hill before your home. Every night away from home you dreamt you’d be walking up it. Feeling the dappled shade of olive trees curling above on your skin. Passing along your back in freckles. Dotted light, spots of shade interspersed.

Your soft skirt swishing around bare calves. The creak of your sandals meeting the dusty road. The one that kinks and bends and shows you that endless glimpse of searing ocean waiting just beyond. Aegean water. Sage fields. Boundless heavens.

You remember these fields. You played in them as a child. The ones that thrash with soft grasses. Ruffled by salty sea air. You can hear your sisters laughter brushing along to you like sweet blossom petals garnished on the wind. Sweet and calming. Crushed honeycomb and milk.

A sound as familiar and as comforting to you as their calls and voices that make the shape of your name.

Every night in your dreams you walk up this hill.

Every night you come home.

You can see them - your sisters - on the winding ribbon of the road ahead. Running out the front door of the house. Tullia with her dress flying behind her. Ever decorous eldest. Calling to Diana, with her hair falling in waves and telling her younger sister that ladies don’t run. Diana isn’t listening she’s too joyous. Too forthright to pay attention.

And Ceres. Sweet little Ceres sprints for your arms. Gap toothed grin. Clutching her cloth doll. Skirts held past her knees, she runs for you.

You can see mother in her dark plum linen stola. Gold jewellery on her neck and dangling from her ears. She lingers in the shade of the the hallway. Her dark wavy hair shot through with a fierce bolt of silver - lightning struck - at her temples. Radiant. As she watched from the door with a smile at their graceless display.

Her smile wide and brilliant, you always thought so, exactly as you remember it, as crows feet sit by her eyes. Emboldened and etched deep with her mirth. Hers is a face that has seen years of sun and sea spray. Made serene as placid waters by it. She is tanned and weathered elegantly by decades of watching sunshine bouncing like rows of diamonds off the sea. Salt and sea foam as hemmed in her blood as it is in yours.

You run to them - crying and wailing - feet slapping the dirt and dust, and you’re aching, legs burning, lungs aflame and you won’t stop. Calling their names til your throat is as dry as the dust below your feet.

Then the sun is too bright. It’s too far and you can’t see them. They can’t hear you. Swallowed from your grasp.

There’s just blinding light engulfing them just out of reach of your scraping fingertips. It’s like brushing grains of sand. It tumbles away before it grows into actuality. Your fingers brush empty air as your whole being lurches and mourns.

You jolt awake, body clammy and sheened in sweat. Eyes snapping open as you jerk upwards in the cover of fine smooth sheets. You feel your hair slip over your naked shoulders. Jewels and gold still around your neck. Sunshine blares harshly at your crusted eyes.

Aches and pains come swimming back to you in sharp degrees. Bruises on your neck and your hips. Fading to ugly yellow black already. Bite marks ring your collarbones and the meat of your shoulders.

Out the window you can hear a bustling city. The clamour of crowds. Hot sun baked dirt and filth. Bells peeling from temples. Servants scurrying in the courtyards below and beyond. Horses baying in the streets.

You smear sleep from your eyes, twisting over in the huge slab of a bed to see the sheets behind you are still filled.

Geta slumbers on golden pillows under the same sheets as you. On his back with bis face turned to the sun. Arm slung over his belly. The thin sheets stick to the climes and outlines of his body. His stomach. Thighs. Hips. The heavy bulge between his legs.

His expression seems almost gentle in his rest. Pillowy lips and dark lashes kissing onto his cheeks. Kohl still smeared on his eyes from yesterday. Naked same as you, save for golden decorations, jewelled rings…

A wedding ring. Matching bands. That’s the weight that comes crashing down on you so fiercely.

Acid bile claws it way up your throat when you shift your legs. Finding the edge of the bed with a breathy sigh. The stickiness between your legs and dried around your cunt doesn’t bear thinking about. You screw your eyes shut so as not to think about it.

Stirring silk. Rustles from behind you.

“Where do you think you’re going wife?” Comes a sleepy drawl across the pillows and sheets. Slithering across to you. Husky from his slumber.

You swallow and twist your head over your shoulder. Hair matted and twined close from sleep. Bite marks wedged deep in your back and neck throb as you move.

His eyes are lidded heavy but their burning gaze rests on you. Branding like a hot knife. White hot from the fire. You’re beginning to think that gaze of his always will.

“I’m not used to having my bed filled in the mornings. The kind of company I’m used to promptly leaves after the pleasuring is done.” He explains. Inflection of lust in his tone. He smirks with it. Wide and filthy.

Now he has a little plaything to trap into his bed whenever he feels like it. An ornament he can use and decorate his already gilded arm, and bring out to inspire envy in all peoples of Rome.

You pause where you sit on the bed. Caught.

“I wanted to fetch some water.” You grovel. Voice scraping raw. Throat feeling full of sharp rocks when you speak.

His eyes harden. Laychromose, but deepening with his anger. The way he slips into intimidation if he doesn’t immediately get what he wants. The way he snaps his fingers and has this world uncurl and offer itself up to his desires. That too must apply to you. Your role now was obedience in all things.

Bend and break and mould yourself for your husband, little nymph.

“You may… when your emperor is finished with you.” He plays and toys with your emotions at his whims. Eyes intently gazing at you. His words come with a bladed meaning.

“Come here-“ He orders. Voice softer but the command cuts straight to your spine. Arrowhead sharp. Studs deep.

You curl back into the bed. Back stiff. Trying not to wince at the cuts which burn and tear at your skin. You feel the pull and tug of barely closed wounds. His teeth had drawn blood. You feel the congealing wound at your back shift. The scab lifting. A bead of blood rolls over down your shoulder blade.

He notices. Shifts on his side behind you. Curls a hand to the hill of your hip. Catches that drip of blood with his lips. Savours it. Sea foam flavour of you bedded on his tongue.

The warm stinging path of his tongue on your back takes your mind back to what happened in these sheets hours previous.

How he’d pushed your thighs, widened your legs, opened the bowl of your pelvis and drunk from you. Showed you the various ways a man can please his lover with tongue, lips and hungry teeth.

He’d done it til you shivered and begged. Tried to writhe away. He meanly tugged you back where you belonged, bullied you, recaptured in the cradle of his hands, and did it again. Smirked when you asked for clemency.

“I warned you I was without mercy, Salacia.” He’d leered. His smirking lips and sharp teeth shining with you as he smeared his warm nose against your thigh. Slaked in the taste of you from chin to cheek. Makeup running under his Umbrian eyes. Panting like a beast to your skin and because of the scent he finds synonymous with you. Lemons and salt.

He hovers behind you now. Hands sliding for your waist. Chin on your shoulder. Breath tainted copper. Pressing his lips to bruises and tender spots. You were right. He had to achieve to sting of pain in order to feel something.

He dips his mouth to your neck again. Lapping and nursing a new bruise near an already painful one. Layering pain on pain.

His hand slips lower for your thigh. Warm stones in each of his fingers foreign and hard as he slips his hand between the soft of your legs again.

He’d moaned when you’d grabbed his hair or left nail marks in his large arms and shoulders. He liked that he could draw an emotion out of you. Even if it was overstimulation or desire. He’ll match and meet you in either. As he so wishes.

He’s pleased to find you tacky with the remnants of him from the previous evening. “A fine fruitful offering for your beautiful cunt my wife.” He purrs. Fingers delving deeper to your sex. Rings nearly an unwelcome sensation. “In time mayhaps the gods will bless us.”

Hallowed Saint. Hallowed fate. Bestowed by the gods, he says.

You’d say it was more akin to downfall. Curses and ill fate. Tantalus and his fruit. Medusa and her coiled snakes. Actaeons fateful stag.

He noses onto your jawbone. Fascinated by the scent of you still. Smothered all over these sheets. It grew stronger the longer he was near you. In his sleep it smothered his mind, his every second. Lemons, salt, and you-

He loses himself, mouthing to your neck and into the wild nest of your hair. He inhaled you. Drank the essence of you like a starving peasant. Hungry greedy hands.

“What is about that scent of yours that drives me wild? What is it?” He seeks. Almost angry in his demands.

“Lemon oil. For my hair.” You explain weakly as he plucks and grabs at you.

Descending into lustful madness. He catches the ripe berry of your clit with his rings and it makes you gasp. Bucking back to his chest. He likes that. When a little of your feral reaction to his touch makes you buck and lose your usually placid control. The man is taunting the seas and welcoming in a storm.

“Use it. Always.” He ordered huskily, Huffing as your hair sticks to his lips. Melding with the salt of ocean that he now understands beats through your skin and veins.

He would order ten thousand lemon trees to be bought here just for your use.So he can kiss your shoulders and your skin and always find it brimming with the bright note of that yellow fruit.

A small surrendering of your body as you arch back to him. Having pleased him brings something forth in you: something that eases. His pleasure allows you to relax the stiffness of your spine. Lower your guard.

He tugs your hair out the path of his lips. Delights in the evidence he found of his teeth all over your neck. His claim was skin deep. And he soon hoped it would be even deeper.

You are tugged back to the bed so his hands can wander all over you again. Your back curled to his chest as he lays you on your side. His hand sliding for your thigh to widen you open for him. Behind your hips you feel the hard length of him. He guides himself to you and your breath gets punched out of you as he pushes inside.

He pushes your leg open further to move to you deeper. He delights in finding evidence of your restless wedding night squelching deep inside your cunt. Throws his head back and groans with it.

He moulds his body to yours. Tacky skin. Warm cotton sheets kicked down the bed. Ringed metal and sharp jewels on every finger gripping the fat of your leg tight until he’s sure he’d left marks. Holding you open so he can plunge inside.

Your hand finds his where he crushed one breast in a grip so tight it makes tears spring to your eyes. Melding with the pleasure you cannot deny coming forth as he moves his hips to you so fiercely, your skin smacks where you meet.

Despite the sting of pain from being so overused, to way his fingers reach down to knowingly pinch and caress your clit where you’re spread open around him, makes wordless cries come out your throat. You clutch into the sheets and grit your teeth. His breath muggy hot against your neck. His hair a mess. Golden and fiery. Like stomped down wheat stalks at sunset. A lazy Bacchusian god.

“Let your husband hear you.” He encourages. Your moans and sweet as rare wine. Inbetween sucking and biting your neck. Asking for your sounds of ecstasy like he deserves them. A holy offering that praises him and washes away all sin.

“I don’t think you are goddess of the sea my love. With a cunt this sweet and tight? I think you must be a fertility goddess instead.” He proposes into your ear through harsh chuffs for breath.

“So tight. So fucking Intoxicating” he huffs. Cupping your tits and still moving to you as harshly and deep as he’s able.

He makes sure your breath cannot come as you steal his. A warm sweaty palm on your chin twists your head back to his. He anoints your lips with a messy kiss that echoes with the ghost of last nights wine and the tang of salt from between your legs. His tongue licks over your teeth. He drags every part of you up for devouring.

A commotion over by the door takes your mortified eyes over.

You see Aeliana and some of her maids coming in. When they see you both naked in the bed with Geta thrusting into you like a madman, you watch her eyes blow wide with shame. Head bowing. Arms laden with todays gown for you to wear. She halts the girls by her side.

Geta doesn’t even spare them a look. They are below his divine notice. He manages to lever his mouth off yours for a mere few seconds, to bark his orders and send them scurrying.

“Get out.” He shrieks. Voice ringing through you with the harshness of the sudden shout.

You twist your head into the sweat slicked pillow. Ashamed that they’d even just glimpsed you being used so.

His spit drying on your chin. His hand possessively cupping your cunt again as he fucked you so deeply, something tender within your pelvis had you nearly wailing.

His mouth goes to your neck again. His pace growing faster and faster. Sloppier. Noises of your sex only increasing. His hold on you is so intense it’s an ache. His fingers trailing through your curls and your folds to find that spot that will surrender you entirely to him.

He rears up behind you. Skin glued with heat to yours. He grabs you close as if you’ll fade under his fingertips like smoke. Hips hammering as he reached his pleasure. Yours came snapping down on him not long after.

That telltale tip and then the surge of ecstasy that broke through you. Cunt snapping down right around his cock as you came in shudders. Pulsing through you as his spend burst deep into you. Exactly where he wanted it. Wave after wave of pleasure. You let it take you. Little else you could do. Your strength to fight had turned stone cold.

You laid against him in cooling sheets. Listening to his chasing breath behind you. Feeling the wet and heat between your legs twofold. His sweat drips onto your back. Smeared as he laps at your neck. Fresh bruises and teeth indents are more raw than before.

You can barely notice. You’re more taken with the way your pussy squishes as he pulls free. The hot rush of his spend.

Hot breath comes over your ear again. You shudder and you’re not entirely sure it’s of pleasure. His lips kiss to your jaw and cheek. All this sweat and sex soaked skin. and still he finds lemons in your taste when he kisses you.

“Shall I have the maid fetch you water?” He seeks.

“I shall do it.” You shrink down with sex flushed cheeks. Pushing away from the bed with a wince. Hair draping down your back as you take a smooth sheet from the bed with you. Padding to the side. Hips swaying under the cotton. Your pelvis and thighs feel tender and aching - low and bone deep like sun burn - as you move to the amphora and goblets you’d used last night.

He sits on his elbows to watch you. Uncovered, cock laying soft against his thigh. His thighs and groin sticky-wet with evidence of your joining. Unabashed as to his naked state.

His eyes are hungry and you certainly give him a feast to watch. Clad in sunshine from the great maw of the window. Skin littered with violent red and purple marks in odes to his ownership of you. The smeared blood from bites at your back that he’d licked away.

You stand at the side. Laying your hands flat to the table where the jug stood. You found you didn’t reach for it right away. You looked at the very unfamiliar sight of the wedding band in your finger. The gold surrounded by the two dog heads fighting over the sapphire. A helpless jewel caught in between rabid teeth. How fitting.

Your shaking hands pour clear water into a cup and you drink it all quickly. The taste of metal and sleep fading from your tongue.

Bare feet padding the floor come behind you. The rustle of a fine robe. The red and gold one. He’s barely bothered to tie it closed around his chest.

“I must go and ready for the day. Loathe as I am to depart your blissful company.” He says. His hand slipping round the back of your neck. Bringing you in. Tasting the new wetness on your tongue as he kisses you. You muffle a moan to his lips as he possesses you in a kiss again. Squeak a little as he pulls away.

You don’t know what else there is to say.

Enjoy your gilded cage, little nymph. It’s all you’ll know from now on.

“Wear jewels and something pretty. I’ll come find you later. Wife.” He promises with a salacious smirk. Eyes you up and down like he wants to tear that sheet off and bend you over the lectus here and now. Smack the fat of your ass and claim you again.

A dark smile aimed your way. A thumb on your chin to bring you in for one more lippy kiss. And he’s off - stalking toward the doors. A lascivious look shot your way as he turns away.

You say nothing. You feel nothing. Nothing except for empty hollow rage that shakes through you. Pounds at the bony trap your ribs. Enough for you to shiver even in the warm morning air.

You feel scraped through. Brittle like fraying rope. He’s taken you from your home. Exiled your father. Forced shame upon your family. Killed your brother. Pushed his twisted lust upon you, and now expects you to react as if it’s dressed up in love.

You floated into his life like a midsummer’s night breeze. And he found you breathtaking, enchanting. Now he had you he wanted to cup you close. Seal you to his skin with his nose buried in the crown of your head whilst crowing mine mine mine.

He was in two minds of what to do with you. Cherish you, love you, pour crimson rose petals before your steps. On the other hand, he only knew violence when it came to love and to lust. He wanted to break you apart piece-by-piece like dry clay. Tear at you like those tigers in the coliseum and see what’s left.

He’s never known what to do with his things when it comes to love. Maybe he didn’t even know it at all. Only knew how to demand and take. Never to please or to give. He’s never had too.

And now he expects mightily. For you to sit pretty and wear jewels, rings, gold, and fine stolas. Support his every shrieked command. You must learn to sew your mouth shut and keep your opinions tamed back behind that same silent closure of thread.

An Empresses role was silence. How your soul quakes with that new pain.

The huge doors rattle again. The exit of the Emperor meant the maids were safe to come tend you.

Aeliana walks towards you. You raise your eyes to hers. Wet and wide. Tears on the quivering brink of your lashes.

She is unable to hide the noticeable switch of shock in her expression, when she sees the wounds you’d been saddled with. Teeth marks and bruises. Like you’re a slab of meat and not a cherished spouse.

She cannot fathom how you have more cuts for her to soothe balm on after your wedding night.

“Let’s get you to the baths, Empress.” She soothes. Opens her arm. Encouraged you to follow. She tries a bolstering smile but you both know it’s fragile. Her husky voice is the only kind thing you fear you’ll ever hear in this rotten place.

You nod. Swallow. Stand tall and let her manoeuvre you.

You can allow some tears to slip free when you’re in the water. Then you must banish your feelings. The maids must strap finery and silks onto your body again and truss you up in this farce. You steel every last splitting nerve whilst you can. Tamp them down. Gather the ragged ends up and soothe them. Clutch tight.

Naked, you wade down the steps and sink under the surface of the huge bath.

You’re tempted to not come up for air again. The water lulling you in its cradling warmth like an old familiar companion. As if a siren that you let drag you down. Plunge headlong into waves and succumb.

Unlike Odysseus, you don’t have the strength to fight its pull.

The bite on your shoulder turns the water clouded and rusty.

One salient thought gives you solace as the world around you grows numbs to your ears.

Atleast he drank deeply from the lies you’d fed.

~

Many sun and moons had set since your wedding night. Time marches its onward parade in the beautifully rotten imperial palace.

Geta and Caracalla were summoned to a Imperial Consul with the senators. To discuss the matters of their particular wish to expand the Roman empire to Persia and India. And possibly beyond that. They held Rome and all her starving subjects in a gold fisted vice. Refused to relent like a bratty child clutching a beloved toy. One that they would rather break to splinters in their grasp than see it enjoyed by someone else.

That was not the way of the gods, after all. It was their damn birthright.

They both slouch in their sloping marble carved chairs, in front of the rows of Senators, as the magistrate drones through the Verba fecit. Then they would read the protocols to address problems within the city.

Geta is not attempting to look amused or even mildly interested.

He slurps at a golden goblet of dark wine. A scowl like rolling thunder on his face. Dark eyes smouldering at any old senator who dares contest his gaze. Garbed in gold with rings on every finger. His black and gold silken robes folded in his lap, spilling to the ground.

Caracalla appears more interested in feeding grapes to Dondus. His manic grin shining. Gold tooth glittering in the half dim as he laughs. His creatures chirps and shrieks accompany the low drone of the voices rolling around the great marble room. Bounding off the pillars and echoing back.

Geta ground his jaw tight as he flickered a look to the side and caught sight of the very thing that had begun to vex him from the second he stepped into these chambers. Set far back behind him. Amongst the senators seats.

Your cushioned lectus remained vacant.

He grips his wine goblet too tight. fingers strangling the stem. His attention was brought back to the room as Senator Thraex cleared his throat. Summoning back his attention.

“… I would also like to wish you joy on your recent union. Caesar…. You have bestowed a fine and fair Empress onto Rome and her peoples…”

Geta narrows his eyes at the man. Coaxing out the rest sharply. Or else.

“Yet I cannot help but notice It has been four moons now since the Empress graced us with her presence here at counsel…. I do wonder if all is well. As Rome does deserve the full compliments of its masters here to guide us.”

Geta ground his teeth around an answer. The room throbs in the heady silence as he glares. Punctuated only by the monkeys chitters and the shuffling of Senators gazing at each other in arch amusement as to the meaning of the levied comment.

“The Empress is occupied elsewhere at present. I should hope you are not suggesting me and my brother are lacking in our duties in any way. Senator.” He replies curtly. Eyes thunder heavy and dragging over the dry old man. Umbrian danger.

“Of course not. Sire.” Thraex replied. Seeming unimpressed with the answer. “If you’ll permit me I should like to discuss the issue within the city of what is to be done of taxes within the Porta Capena quarter…”

Geta sunk into his cup again as the Senators droned on. His mood plunged below foul. Jaw tight. He turned to look at the lectus again. Venom in his blood at your absence.

When counsel finished. He stormed from his seat without another word. Robes sweeping the ground as he raced from the room. Sandals meeting the floor like slaps. Rage evident in his stride. He summons the nearest Praetoria. Who promptly comes to his side.

“Where is the Empress?” He snarls. A snake in coil about to strike. Bad enough he had to suffer the thinly veiled barbs of Senators asking why you were absent. Even worse was that you made him look a fool without even being here. They were casting foul allusions as to your marriage.

The guard hesitates before giving an answer. “She has left the Palace, Caesar.” He answers.

Geta’s anger comes sharp and packed in poison. A hiss. He asks so curtly it echoes to the ceiling. “And precisely where has she gone?”

~

At first, the noise and bustle of Rome was repugnant to you. Rancid and dirt and heat. Too much noise and not enough air.

Made putrid by stale sweat en masse bodies, horse manure, and smoke from fires mingling with roasting meat or oily charred fish from street vendors.

There was always shouting, someone selling wine, someone selling exotic wares, and bartering filling the air. Music bleeding from some side alley. Jugglers and slight of hands weaving through the crowds of servants and nobles and peasants, ready to part people from their coin.

You watch and just listen to it all from where you’re seated. A palla folded around your head and neck to block the otherwise fierce sun, also to obscure your features, give you shade wherein to hide your golden jewellery and rich dress.

Though you doubt anyone in this riotous city knows or even cares who you are. To a glance? You are just another rich merchants wife. Or noble woman. Unseen. Unremarkable. You do admire Rome for that small mercy atleast. To make you invisible in a crowd of thousands.

You’re seated at the edge of the fountain. The marble lip cold under your dress. Your hand dangling down into the clean waters. Trailing your fingertips through the cool of it. Water shimmers off the blue stones and pearls of your rings. If you squint, they are treasures cast on the shore. You can imagine you see specs of sand. Golden shells. Milky pearls waiting to be picked - tucked cosily in cream oyster shells.

You try to pretend. You fail.

Your personal praetorian guard lingers not far away. Varro. A perpetual huge shadow to you since your wedding.

Geta told you the morning after that you were to have him watch over you at all times. The man has been hulking after your every footstep since. It’s cloying, but nowhere as much as that palace is.

Varro boasts a huge figure and not one to be easily missed in a crowd. A warriors build. A scowl that could curdle milk. He’s solid. Brawny thick chest, stocky as a barrel, thighs thick as tree trunks, large arms and immense shoulders even without his plates of armour.

He had a proud chiselled face, dark hazel eyes and a prominent nose that had been broken before. Evidence of a pinking scar bumping at the bridge of it. Also a small nick dissecting his lower lip. His life had known pain. You can tell. Typical soldiers life. A body cut from the cloth of war. From polishing armour, baying for unease, and stepping to commands.

It’s hewn in the way he carries himself in crowds. Darting eyes and not feeling at ease, or any kind of sane, unless he can see all four clear corners around himself - and you. And convinced danger lurks behind every brick corner and down every side street. Huge hand permanently slung over the pommel of his sword. A warning.

He stands a little way across from you now. Looming proud as an old oak in the shade of a building and a market stall slung with rich cloth for sale. Shirking the sun and scowling at everyone. Basalt black hair falls like long thorns over, down his brow. Down the nape of his neck and collar, beaded in sweat.

Children scarper around him. Street urchins that clamour like flies on rot at his appearance. He gives no inch and tells them to move along with a curt nod. Steel stiff spine standing to attention. A merchant tries to sell him a cup of wine - red or white - they are silenced by his frown. He won’t touch a drop whilst on duty. Truth be told, You don’t think he knows how to be off duty. He’s not capable.

He’s an austere reminder of your station. Almost literally, in his dark black plate armour and wisteria purple cape swinging from his wide shoulders. A storm cloud eternally perched on the horizon of your day. His words come few and far between. You don’t think you’ve heard him string two full sentences together once. Except possibly in daggered warning;

You draw too much attention. Empress. It is bound to invite trouble.

You wanted to scoff at that irony.

You? In your hooded palla, draw attention?

When it is he, the man who guards you - like a grizzled dog - who is a thick immovable column of uniform widely recognised as imperial praetoria, wherever you turn in these streets? Unfathomable.

I am going to temple to pray. You may either escort me. Or explain to my husband why I have gone into the capital, alone.

His answer was a gruff glare. Acceptance and frustration entwined.

You have caused him to furrow his dark brows at you several times with a “Yes, Empress.” That came dragged through a displeased drone. A hound showing you his teeth before the jaws snap. Having to escort you into the city each day was laying contrary to his regulations to not have you in harms way.

You insisted. He obeyed. With little choice in the matter.

Every day you came here. One corner of the beating, shouting heart of Rome. You went to the Temple of Vesta and you prayed. And you went to a public fountain and let real life ebb in upon you once again. To find some peace away from the rabid emperors, who blaze at the palace with all the ferocity of fiery twin suns. They encompass all. Left little room for anything else. All life revolved around them. You float off in distant orbit.

You wave your fingers through the cool water. Tethered to one small piece of home again. Cool tides that brought you comfort. Reminded you of the sun soaked shores of home. Sunlight fracturing in diamonds off clear blue waters.

Feeling the sun beat down now on your neck through layers of cloth. You cast your eyes over the monuments to Neptune sat in this ornamental fountain. Sea gods and goddesses and creatures of sea foam. The other side where you are, women are washing clothes, or chatting over baskets fetched from market. You can smell perfumed oils, dried flower petals, and the sweet plump of ripe fruits tucked safe in the shade of their baskets.

How wild it is that until four weeks ago, that too had been your life. You didn’t sleep on silken sheets, get trussed in gold, and have servants poised so you never had to even lift a finger.

You knew comforts - of course. You had fine clothes and didn’t have to toil the fields. But you weren’t beyond spinning cloth or running errands. Helping clean and tidy your home. Fetching food or helping prepare meals. Coming home from market in the small town with oiled fish, scorpion fish, or boar, fresh chestnuts or olives. Dried meats sometimes too.

You thought of the olive trees lining the road to town. Huge and ancient. Offering branches that white doves often sat in - cooing away their calls. You thought of buying chestnuts for Ceres because she adored them so. Goats cheese for your mother that she liked with honey. Bunches and bunches of aniseed to make into Canistrelli biscuits for father.

The happy creak of your basket on your arm. Feeling the sun tangle in your hair as you shaded your eyes, felt the sea kissed breeze caress along your arms and back as if an embrace of a lover.

All those things you’d lost in one fell swoop. A life that had been snatched from you without your even getting a chance to bid it goodbye. Just like your brother. Your father.

And here you were now. Hiding away in the crowds. So lonely you felt its sting like the deepest shrapnel. A wound never closing. Always being prodded some more by the dire aspects of your circumstances. Anything to not be trapped in your gilded cage. Being reminded daily that your one use in that foul place, lay solely between your legs.

Two small girls come stumbling to an ungraceful stop, laughing, breathless and slowing from a run. They come right to your side to fill some amphorae with water. Dunking the clay jug into the clear water and letting it fill.

They each have dark hair and dark eyes. One must be close to Ceres’ age of six, toddling, milk teeth smile, youthful weight clinging to her cheeks, the other slightly older. Longer hair and a fuller smile. They have flowers pinched from a stall stuffed in their rusty coloured linen apron pockets. Some bay laurels and cornflowers.

You smile warmly at them. They smile back, unabashed. Joy seeping out of them. That brand of innocent fearlessness that grasps the young.

Turning your head you hear the clank of armour, feet shifting fast on dirt. Varro steps towards you with his scowl and his hand already on his sword.

You reprimand him silently. Gaze packed in ice. Jaw set. Mouth flicking to a grim line. You calmly hold up your hand and motion for him to step back. He’d scare the poor things.

You feel a gentle tug on your dress where it splays at your shoulders. Turning back, you see the younger one has her small hand on your dress.

You gently return your hand to your side. Seeing what she wanted your attention for. They both looked at Varro with much wide eyed curiosity. Only very rich ladies could afford a soldier. Only those of very high status. You fear he’s just betrayed your standing.

“Pardon me…” She utters. Her unsure voice carefully picking over the words. As if she was still learning larger words and their uses.

“Yes?” You smile. Touched by her boldness. Treating her with gentility.

“Are you the Empress?” She seeks. Forming words slowly. A curious tilt of her head.

You see no reason to lie.

You can feel Varros eyes burning a glare into your back. Harsher. More furious than the sun. Don’t.

“I am.” You respond.

They smile as if excited. Sharing a look. Both each producing a small laurel sprig from their stuffed pockets. They each step forwards and present the small branches out to you. A gift. You lay your hand flat and accept them both. Curling your fingers around branch stems.

“Gods blessings be upon you, Empress.” They speak in clunky unison.

You take the branches with reverence. Feeling the smooth leaves. The verdant and subtle scent coming from them.

“Pray tell me. What are your names?” You enquire.

The eldest speaks first. “Amata, Empress.”

The youngest follows suit. “Junia, Empress.” She tells you proudly.

You reach for your purse. Stowed safely within your dress folds away from the hands of beggars. You pluck out two coins and place them in their small hands. Junias hand reminds you if a small pudgy starfish. Curling round a silver shell.

“Blessings be upon you both. Amata. Junia. For your kindness…” You beam to them both.

They shimmer with mirth. Taking their jugs and scampering away through the crowds like nymphs.

Varro appears at your shoulder like an omen. “Empress.” He says your name lowly. Chiding you with his tone alone for revealing yourself to them.

“Surely two little girls holding flowers in their pockets, pose no danger to me.” You reply archly. Watching across the crowds where they’d disappeared.

“I only seek to resupply you of my one duty.”

“I don’t need reminding.” You tell him. Not unkindly. But he can hear the way you might be tempted to let the words be sharpened to little blades off your back teeth.

He’ll say this for you; you don’t have sharp teeth or poisonous tongue like every other noble in that palace. You are made different to their spoilt ways. Something sleeker and softer. All foam whipped off waves. You can sting and lash if required - you simply choose not too.

You hear bells toll for midday from the temple beyond. Clanging off the golden stone of every building around you. You fancy you can see the ripple of the sound sending waves to burst across the fountains surface.

Varro is giving you that stern look that urges you to be heading back. Before you’re started to be noticed. Before you become a perfidious gap in your Emperors day, when he isn’t vying for blood, gold or war. That or applying himself ruthlessly to the detriment of this great city, crushing his own people in the same way his favourite wine is made. Squeezing every drop til dry.

You hate to return. But you fear what wrath will come if you don’t. The thought of slipping away into these crowds and dipping into another form of life mocks you. Cowardice curbs your actions.

With some of the meagre coin in your pocket, you could try and make for the coast, possibly. You could disguise yourself as a merchants wife, or a servant. Anything to slip the golden net you’ve been landed in.

You wonder how far you’d make it, running away like a common ruffian, before the stomping hooves of a Roman battalion would be on your heels. Snatching you back here to be humiliated at Geta’s own insistence. The punishment he’d dole on you doesn’t bear thinking about. You were property after all.

You watch men and women weave in and out of the crowds, wishing you had half their luck as to put your back to this palace and peel away. Your mind wanders over that idea. A faint ember that dies to a curling puff of smoke. Snuffed out.

It doesn’t bear thinking about-

You take your offered laurel branches and stand. Varro takes up his guard. Eyes flicking all around. Searching for those corners he requires. For that split second of danger he can cleave his sword onto treasonous limbs for your protection.

You make your way back through crowds. Varro cutting a swathe for you. You keep your head down and remain quiet. Mind vacant as you move through the paved streets.

A flash of a body pushing past you takes your attention down a side alley. One arched with fabric awnings thrown over merchants stalls.

The flash of white turned out to be a senators robe. The vivid plum purple bordering white. You bat away the bitter thought of once recognising it as your fathers noble robes.

You catch sight of three people, stood on a street corner. One of them you don’t recognise but you know him to be a Senator. The two people he’s stood conversing with does make you stop in your tracks.

General Acacious and Lady Lucilla.

They are conversing deeply. Attention not given to you where you stand on the other side of the street. Shade cloaks them all. A moment out the sun. A place they hope guards them in obscurity. Talking with each other in hushed tones. Marcus and Lucilla wear hoods so as to hide their fine features from any obvious recognition.

The crowd trickles on around you. Water carving on around a large rock in the way.

Lady Lucilla raises her eyes. They flash to you in an instant. Dazzling green. A sun dappled meadow holding you in sight.

Her face falls as she halts her words. Lips parting. The General and the Senator both turn to follow her gaze. Finding you, caught static, at the other end of it. You recognise a prickle of panic when you see it.

You turn your head. Eyes snapping away as you hold your skirts and continue on.

Your guard says nothing. Though you know he saw what you just did. It’s not his place. He forgets all he sees or hears - all that doesn’t pose risk to you.

Maybe you weren’t the only person in Rome to wish the Palace walls didn’t have treasonous eyes and ears. You can’t help but wonder if perhaps Varro was right;

There is danger round these street corners in Rome.

~

Tagging in the hopes this finds its way to the right people- thank you--

@ceriseheaven @lurkingprincess @ramona-thorns @joequinnswhore @iliveforotps @eddiesskittle @roosterisdaddy36 @rose-tinted @lluviamg06 @ravensfromvalhalla @fujiihime @youaremyfamiliar @captain-tch @ghosttownwherenoonegoes @svenyves @sammararaven @feralgoblinbabe @groupie-love-71 @andromeda-andromeda @gvtosbith @munsonswhoresposts2 @shenevertricks1831 @hazzaismyreligion @anaisweird @cinnamoncunt @red-lipstick-bisexual @wheels-of-despair @tvserie-s-world @callmeloverr @ho-for-joequinn-fics @bettyfrommars @rip-quizilla @songforeddiemunson @usedtobecooler @peachesandfiends @littlelioncub43 @heyndrix @babybluebex @blueywrites @joejoequinnquinn @cool-nick-miller @sheneedsrocknroll92 @rehfan @pedgito @dracomaledicte @gamingaquarius @mypoisonedvine @sharp-and-swift @chaptersleftunwritten

[helplesslypurple77]

Day 11-Missionary-Kurapika/Reader

Notes: ok so this one is also gonna be a bit shorter because I decided to add some honeycomb smocking to my Kurapika cosplay and i WAY overestimated how long that would take lol. 

Anyway, enjoy!

.....

Kurapika follows his new client down the hallway of a large house, feet loud on the hardwood floor. Two sets of footsteps echo in the hallway, bouncing off the high ceilings and the paintings lining the walls. The house is gigantic, it had taken his new Boss ten minutes of relative silence to lead Kurapika through the maze of courtyards and hallways and dining rooms. Mostly empty rooms, occupied only with maids and butlers of various ranks. They eye Kurapika with curiosity as they pass by. There are no bodyguards on the premises. 

Interesting, considering that was Kurapika’s new job. The Boss must be very sure of his own abilities. Mafia leaders frequently are. Still, this man seems to be different. More quietly threatening than the blustering threats and red faces of the men he was used to. 

“You're aware of your duties?” The Boss says, tossing the words carelessly over his shoulder as he turns the corner into yet another hallway. The are white with pink and black stripes running up and down a startling in comparison to the beige and white ones Kurapika had just walked through. 

“I will be your bodyguard, correct?” Kurapika responds, blinking his eyes to adjust to the violently pink and black walls. What a color change. 

“Almost.” The man in front of him says, arms folded across his chest. 

“I'm sorry?” Kurapika questions. The job posting definitely said that was what the opening was for. The lady at the job office had even commented on it, calling it a rare posting. “I was sure tha—”

“I intentionally misled you, and I apologize.” The Boss laughs, as a maid dressed in a baby pink maid uniform walks by, smiling brightly at the two of them. Kurapika blinks. All the other servants had been dressed in simple black pants and vests, regardless of gender. Two more maids walk by, one dressed in black and the other in white. They match the walls. 

“Mislead me?” Kurapika questions, wondering if he's being led to his death. 

“For safety reasons.” The Boss says, dodging yet another maid, this one running down the hall at breakneck speed, her bubbly pink maid dress bouncing brightly. She speeds past him and Kurapika gets a quick lungful of expensive perfume and baked goods. These maids are clearly very different from the ones in the rest of the house, what is going on here. 

At the end of the hallway is a single door, painted pink, with designs of little black hearts scattered haphazardly all across it. The rest of the doors in the hallway were white. They come to a stop before it, and the boss tosses a small smile over his shoulder. 

“Straighten your shoulders. You don't want to make a bad first impression.” He laughs, tapping quietly at the door. “Your job depends on it.”

Kurapika adjusts his posture, mind running at light speed to figure out what the hell is going on here. He dusts off the lapels of his black suit, hiding the chains that adorn his right hand. It's better to hide them. 

The door opens a crack and a stern looking woman peeks out, surveying their small group. 

“Hey Rosanne, the new bodyguard is here.” The boss says. Rosanne opens the door wider, eyeing him up and down through a small pair of thick rimmed glasses. She's probably middle aged, with dark black hair pulled into a tight bun. Her dress is different from the other maids. She must be a head maid of sorts. 

“Do you really think this is wise?” Rosanne says, not even bothering to speak to him. Kurapika frowns slightly, standing still a few feet behind his Boss. 

Kurapikas ears perk up. Who’s she? The boss just chuckles.

“Worth it to try, Rosanne.” He says, clapping Kurapika roughly on the shoulders. “I wish you luck.”

“Thank you sir,” Kurapika says, watching as the boss departs down the hallway, dodging around busy maid after busy maid. There are no male employees in this area of the building. Kurapika doesn't think he’s seen one since the butlers in the main entrance. Maybe that's a bad sign.

“This way.” Rosanne says, opening the door wider, tapping one black heeled foot. Kurapika steps through the door, trying not to wince as she slams it behind him. 

“May I ask where we are going?” Kurapika asks as they start down another long hallway, the walls still black, white and baby pink stripped. 

“No.” Rosanne says, marching down the hallway. Kurapika sighs as they turn the corner into yet another hallway. The few maids that pass Kurapika eye him curiously, whispering to each other as they pass by. Kurapika feels a bit like a exotic pet, being viewed curiously from all sides by curious maids. At least these ones aren't as obviously hostile as the woman marching in front of him.

Finally, Rosanne stops before another pink and black door. She leans forward, knocking twice.

“Young miss, I'm here with the new bodyguard.” She says, leaning her head against the door. 

Kurapika stands a few feet behind her. Young miss. She must be speaking of the Boss’s wife. A small silence echoes in the hallway, and then someone speaks.

“Send them in, Rosanne.” A voice says from behind the door. Rosanne pulls away, laying a hand on the door. She eyes him up and down, her blue eyes piercing into the depths of his soul. And then she opens the door.

The first thing Kurapika sees is a large bed, shrouded almost completely by thin lace curtains that fall from the ceiling. Someone is sitting on the bed, one leg over the other on the edge white and pink duvet. The walls are baby pink and white, the vanity in one corner of the room is pink, and laden with pots and sprays of various shapes and sizes. Kurapika can see himself in the large floor length mirror opposite him. He stands out in the sea of pink and white, a lone figure dressed in black. 

“Oh, a girl!” The figure says, and Kurapikas are drawn back to the figure on the bed as you jump down, sock covered feet hitting the white carpeted floor without a sound. The white floaty dress you wear dances around your thighs, just touching the skin a few inches above the top of your knee. You tilt your head, hair tumbling from your white headband around your shoulders. 

“How new! Take your shoes off, ok?”

Kurapika shakes himself out of his pink induced daze and nods, slipping off his black dress shoes and stepping forward onto the white carpet. It's soft beneath his feet as he moves towards you, extending his hand when he arrives before you. 

“I'm the new bodyguard your father—”

“Oh, you're a boy?” You question, taking his offered hand a firm shake. Your hands are warm. “And I know why you're here.”

“Oh,” Kurapika says, a bit off his game. You smile, a pretty face glowing under the soft white light of your overhead chandelier. You can't be the boss’s wife. You can't be much older than him. 

“You can sit there.” You say, letting go of his hand and gesturing at a single pink chair, sitting awkwardly in the middle of your carpet. It's the same shade of pink as the vanity in the corner.

Kurapika shakes himself out of his confused pretty girl pink induced coma, and follows your instructions, sitting upright on the white lace cushion sitting on the chair. You smile, hopping back up on the edge of your bed with a smile.

“Well then,” You say, crossing one leg over the other. “Let's get to know each other.”

✶✶✶

Kurapika settles into his job quickly. It's pretty easy, all he has to do is accompany you wherever you go, occasionally stepping in to deal with weirdos who follow you home or assassins contracted by your fathers enemies. They're never really that powerful, and he's always able to dispatch them quickly enough. The maids are sweet to him, always ready to clean blood out of his suits or occasionally help him dispose of a body or even a living person. Even Rosanne doesn't regard him with outright disgust now, only a face of apathy. 

But very soon, a problem is starting to become apparent. You. It's not like you're difficult to work with. Far from it actually. You're quite normal and sweet for the daughter of a major criminal, and always ready to give him days off or presents or thanks for his hard work. Actually, you're too nice. Too sweet. Too pretty. Kurapika might be developing a bit of a crush on you.

He noticed it one night when he had finished mopping up a batch of assassins that had targeted you. You had been so pleased you yanked him around, pulling him into a tight hug. You smelled of flowery perfume and sweet sugar candies, and Kurapika could feel the press of your boobs against his chest, and you whispered in his ear a thank you and his heart was beating too fast when you pulled away. He had assumed it was a one time thing. You were a pretty girl, it was only natural that he would be a little embarrassed if you hugged him like that. 

And then he started noticing details about you. 

Your smile, your laugh, the low cut tops of some of your dresses. 

How kind and generous you were to your employees. How all your maids loved you, loved working you and often gushed in the employee only areas about how sweet and cute you were. How welcoming you were to him as a newcomer, how you often invited him to just hang out with you and watch some show, or worried for his safety after a fight.

So maybe he had a problem. It was not right to have a crush on someone you were employed to protect. Worse yet were the beats of lust he felt when he saw too much of the skin shown by those little nightgowns you favored. Kurapika shoves down the images that rise as he thinks about those stupid nightgowns, looking around the empty hallways surreptitiously for any maids that might have stayed behind. 

But thankfully he was the only person in the long hallway. Kurapika sinks against the floor with a sigh, body folding down the striped walls with exhaustion. Thank god all the maids are away for a training session. Even Rosanne is gone, visiting family for her younger sister's wedding. You offered him a day off as well, but he had refused it, a bit too worried to leave you alone. Admittedly, he was a bit of a simp, but the worry he felt for you also doubled as part of his job, or so he could justify to himself. 

Kurapika had done bodyguard work before. But never solo. He was the only bodyguard employed at the whole estate. When he had asked, you had told him that the main estate maids were just as good. And that your father was very powerful. Not like you needed to tell him. He knew. Everyone did. 

He had asked you softly why he was employed there, and only a single bodyguard at that. You had informed him with a giggle that your father was a worrywart. That he worried about yucky men stealing his daughter away in the middle of the night. Kurapika couldn't blame him. He would steal you away if he could. 

Kurapika stands up abruptly, smacking the stray thought out of his head with a sigh. What the actual hell kind of thoughts is he giving himself permission to repeat. Hurriedly, he sets off on his patrol of the empty hallway. There's nothing better to do anyway. You had shooed him from your room, your head tilted down and your ears red. You must have something important to do.

Kurapika reaches the end of the hallway, opening the door silently and looking up and down the white corridor that marks the rest of the estate from your quarters, and then starts back down the hallway towards the forbidden lacy depths of your room.

As he nears, he notices something odd. The door to your room is cracked open, a thin sliver of white light pouring over the hardwood flooring. Kurapika stills, straining his ears into the silence of the corridor. You always close your door. You like your privacy.

All he hears at first is silence. Not a sound leaks from your room and into the corridor with the light. Kurapika moves forward on silent feet.

Dread builds in his heart. There is a window in your room. What if someone had creeped into your bedroom through the small window and made off with you in your pink lacy nightgown and white bedroom slippers. Kurapika shudders. He cant feel any nen, but a skilled nen user could easily conceal their presence, not alerting him that anything was wrong at all. He avoids any noise, moving silently on his toes, concealing his presence as he steps towards the cracked door, avoiding the light leaking out of the room. 

And then he hears it. A soft little sound that fills his heart with fear. A whimper.

Kurapika moves fast, opening the door with a slam, chains already flying around him. It takes him a minute to realize what's happening. You're safe, ok and lying on your bed, the lavender light of your mood lights slanting your body with lowlight. Your head rests on your pillow, your eyes closed. Your mouth parts in another whimper, and Kurapika frowns. You dont look like you're in pain. He scans your body carefully checking for injuries. 

Your still in the nightgown he left you in, and Kurapika gulps as his eyes scan past the mounds of your boobs, down your abdomen to where the hem is rucked up above your hips, so that your hands can reach—

Kurapika coughs, finally realizing what the hell is going on as his cheeks flush with mortification, blood running between his cheeks and ears, and down south. 

Your eyes open, and you sit up abruptly as you spot him. Your hand leaves its spot between your legs and you avoid his eyes, flushed a pretty pink. Your hair is mussed, tousled by the tossing and turning you had been doing on your pillows. You cross one leg over the other, shifting slightly. You aren't wearing any panties. Kurapika feels himself swell to life, rubbing painfully against the slacks of his work suite. He hopes you won't notice.

“I apologize name,” Kurapika gets out, clearing his throat hastily as he continues. “I heard—I mean I thought you were—I um…”

He trails off, and the room sinks into uncomfortable silence permeated by a slight tension. He turns away, staring resolutely at your cluttered vanity, praying his arousal will go down.

You cough.

“Kurapika?” You question tentatively, voice sounding a bit flustered. Kurapika jerks his head towards you again, fearing the worst.

“Yes?” He asks, perhaps a bit too eagerly. Your eyes are looking at him. Kurapika watches in horror as they sink down, taking in the probably obvious arousal pressing against his work pants, begging to be freed. He winces. 

“I'm sorry.” He says. The silence seems to last forever, but it probably only lasts for a couple seconds before you speak.

“Do you know much about it?” You say tentatively. You're biting your lips, hands winding around in your lap as you look up at him. Kurapika shoves down the arousal that rises again as his eyes are drawn to your bitten lips. 

“About what?” He asks, moving a bit closer. Not to close, but not ten feet away.

“Um,” You whisper, your cheeks flushing as you wave him closer. Kurapika is treated to a view of your cleavage as you lean forward, whispering the word as if it's forbidden. “Sex.”

“Oh,” Kurapika says, voice stilted. “A bit.”

He doesn't know much, but he probably knows more than you. You're a few months younger than him, but you're much more sheltered than he ever was. But then again, Kurapika was always more focussed on his revenge to bother with girls or sex or anything of the like. 

You wind a finger in your hair, cheeks flush prettily. Kurapika knows his own cheeks are flushed as well, not to mention the obvious sign of arousal that just refuses to go down.

“Can you teach me?” You ask, voice trembling slightly. Kurapika chokes.

“Teach you?” He asks, once the coughing fit finally subsides. You nod, eyes wide and curious, hands knotted in your lap.

“Yeah,” You whisper, and Kurapika watches in shock as your hand reaches out, pressing gently against the bulge in his pants. A groan gets out before he can muffle it, as the heat and pressure of your hand shoots a blinding line of pleasure up his spine and into his brain. Kurapika grips your delicate wrist, pulling your dealy hand off of his growing bulge. You look up at him, all nervous smiles and curious eyes.

“Did that not feel good,” You mutter, hand trembling a bit in his fingers. Kurapika shakes his head.

“No, it did.” He groans, resisting the temptation to put your hand right back where it belonged. ‘But we can't do this.”

You look up at him, a small line appearing between your eyebrows.

“Why?” You ask, a small hint of insecurity in your tone of voice. “Do you not want me?”

“No,” Kurapika says, perhaps a bit too quickly. How could he not want you? Wasn't it obvious, in his town, in his eyes, in his arousal. Oh god he wanted you so bad, and here you were practically offering yourself to him. But, he couldn't.

“Your dad—” He starts, trying to protest. You giggle.

“Daddy doesn't have to know.” You whisper, the hand that isn't clasped in his own coming up to smooth over the lapels of his suite. You look confident, but the trembling in your fingers and the nervous darting of your eyes betrays you, your breath is heavy when you speak again. “The maids are all gone. We're all alone. Please?”

Kurapika takes a deep breath. Breaths in the flowers of your perfume and the musky underbreath of your arousal. And he gives in.

“Fine,” He mutters, hand coming up to gently caress your flushed face. You smile, pressing your cheek into his hand. He almost melts at the adorable action. “I'm going to kiss you. Alright?”

You nod, leaning up into him. Kurapika leans down slowly, giving you time to move away if you want to. He half expects you to move, to tell him to leave. He half expects to wake up alone on his bed. Instead you close your eyes. 

Your lips are soft, moisturized every night with exfoliants and pasts that Kurapika doesn't understand. But they're soft, and your body curves into his as you lean up, letting a little breath escape your mouth. 

You taste like candy. How is that possible? Kurapika doesn't know, and he isn't going to pull away enough to ask. Your lips move against his, moving with the practice of someone who knows how to kiss. Kurapika moves with you, slowly and carefully winding a hand around the back of your neck. It tangles in your tousled hair, and Kurapika touches you as if your glass, as if you might break. You whimper against him, your own hands winding around his waist. Kurapika bites back a whimper. How embarrassing. He's coming undone at the seams already, just from your touch. 

You fall back, your back hitting the comforter with a soft thump. Kurapika falls with you, teeth clanking against yours at the unexpected move. You pull back with a giggle.

“You're a good teacher,” You smile, hands tugging gently at his suit jacket. Kurapika takes it off, obeying your wandering fingers.

“Really?” He questions, discarding his jacket somewhere on the floor of your bedroom. You nod, smiling gently against the white of your bedspread. You look like an angel.

“Uh huh,” You murmur, hands tugging at the hem of your nightgown, pulling it higher and higher. “So sweet, so handsome.”

Kurapika flushes, dick twitching at the praise. His eyes follow your hands, pulling and tugging the teasing hem of your nightgown. He knows you aren't wearing panties. He gulps, propped up over you on his hands and knees, suit jacket discarded on the floor. His dick is painful against his pants. You seem to notice, your manicured hand coming down to trace the bulge cupped in his pants. Kurapika groans, controlling his arousal at the touch of your hand. You smile

“It looks all squished in there,” You say, your eyes curved in hazy mirth. “Doesn't it hurt?”

Your fingers gently stroke him over the fabric, and Kurapika desperately resists the urge to cum.

“Yes,” He admits, biting his lips against the moans. Your hands trace the outline, and Kurapika almost sobs in relief as you undo the zipper, giving him some relief.

“Wait,” Kurapika groans. You freeze, looking concerned and uncertain. Kurapika hurries to continue. He never wants you to feel uncertain. “Do you have any Condoms?”

You nod, scooting out from underneath him and towards the end of the bed. Kurapika gets treated to a flash of your bare ass as you hop off the bed, sauntering over to your vanity and digging through the drawer. Kurapika takes the opportunity to shed the rest of his clothes, leaving him naked besides for his boxers. You smile, holding up an unopened box of condoms victoriously. 

“Rosanne gave them to me,” You explain, shrugging your shoulders. “I don't know why.”

Kurapika thinks Rosanne might know more than she's letting on. He sighs. Is he that much of an open book or is she just insane. He thinks it is probably the latter.

“You're very strong,” You say. Kurapika looks up, standing a few feet away from you. You're looking at him, eyes taking in his body. He's thin, lith, not as built as some people but not all bones. You look curious, a box of condoms still clutched in your hand. Kurapika can barely think enough to be self conscious.

You tear open the box, reaching inside to pull out a single foil wrapped package.

“Is this good?” You ask, discarding the rest of the box on your bedside table carelessly. It joins a mostly empty yerba mate can and some other nicknacks, looking wildly out of place. 

“Yes, this is fine.” kurapika says, taking the foil wrapped package out of your palm. You smile, body swaying distracting as you turn towards the bed. 

“You put it on,” You say, and Kurapika watches as you pull your nightgown over your head. The lace drags over your skin, pulling up to reveal your pussy, your stomach, your breasts. Kurapika bites back a groan, dick twitches in his underwear.

When he finishes putting on the condom you're already on the bed. Your legs are propped up, your head resting on your pillows, surrounded with a halo of hair. You look like a princess. You are a princess.

“Are you ready?” Kurapika asks. His hands tremble slights as he pulls your legs wide, lining himself up with your drooling pussy. He can feel sweat dripping down his back, blond hair dripping over his eyeline. You're a hazy mess beneath him, your body on full display for his viewing pleasure. 

“Yes,” You nod, body a tense line on the bed. 

As Kurapika slides into your body he knows he won't last long. And by the way your back arches, the way the walls of your pussy flutter against him, you won't either.

Your walls are so warm, contracting around him as you whimper, back arching off of the bed. Kurapika groans, resisting the urge to thrust deep into you, letting you adjust slowly to the unusual intrusion. 

When he finally bottoms out deep inside you Kurapika has to desperately resist the urge to whimper. Your body is so warm, your face full of pleasure as you gaze up at him, pretty pink lips parted in a moan.

“Can I move?” Kurapika grits out, trying to remain controlled and deliberate. You nod, and immediately your back arches as Kurapika pulls out, and then thrusts deep inside you. He won't last.

The pace he sets is slow, steady, more focussed on hitting the right spots than speed. And it seems to work, your hands scrabbling at anything, his shoulders, his arms, the fabric of your bed. 

Your hand settles on his shoulders, nails digging into his back. Kurapika pretends the pain doesn't turn him on a bit. 

“Gonna cum!” You whimper, back arching against him as he thrusts deep. Kurapika groans, hand winding down to find your clit. He's gonna lose it.

“Me too.” He groans, hand winding between your bodies. He's so close. He needs to tumble off with him.

The reaction when he finds your clit is immediate. Your body tenses, your walls clenching down against him, and Kurapika falls.

“Cumming!” You moan, and Kurapika cums with you, hiding his grunts and moans in the heavenly sounds that exit your mouth. He leans forward as the pleasure courses through him, swallowing your moans greedily into his own mouth, savoring them for later. 

He doesn't know what's going to become of this, if anything at all. 

But for the moment, Kurapika finds comfort in you, as the two of you tumble off the cliff or arousal and into the sea of content.

....

Endnotes: I wrote this in one night through a blinding headache so i hope you enjoy it!!!