#layers upon layers of forgiveness

[braisedhoney]

i was gonna color this whole thing in but it would've made it take wayyy longer, and i'm kinda inching toward burnout as it is. but... man, this is actually incredible.

i had a vision for the little flying bee bear and it gave me INSPO (+ the chance to add the smallest crumb of sona lore, shhh.)

anyway HELLO??? HI?? BEAR WHAT THE HELL HOW MUCH EFFORT DID THIS TAKE—

(screams under the read more instead of tags this time!)

OKAY LET'S TALK DETAILS.

i love how your first thing with your sona seeing the poster (which, yikes omg i gotta redraw that one it's so old) matches the halftones??? that's such a fun addition.

i can't decide what i find funnier, the cursed image of your sona in the normal uniform before she cuts it to pieces or the reaction once she does lmao. that whole sequence is adorable and it actually reminded me of celci's uniform even before i read that explanation! super cute design choice :'D

it took me a minute to realize that literally every single crewmate shown in the honeycomb thing came from actual crewmate reports people have submitted??? and it's adorable??? each one has their own little signifier and that's everything to me. absolutely fantastic.

anyway long story short this entire comic thing slapped me across the face (in the most /pos way possible) and i wasn't expecting it at ALL. every time someone draws something for the HIVE it brings massive serotonin but this is ridiculous. your comics are always so sweet, i'm honored you'd put in so much effort for it ;;

oh oh and also, i love the little bee spin you put on the honey brew scene. the idea that the whole ship has a beehive aesthetic is so dear to my heart.

also the callout for me and my habits when it comes to drawing something and immediately becoming absorbed in it and unreachable is hysterical and especially accurate since that's EXACTLY what happened with the response comic. mustfinishnowartartartmustfinishbeforeilosemotivationaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa—

my favorite part of the response comic to draw was the biblically accurate version of your little bear sona. it's just so small and stuffed animal looking... gah.

i'm exhausted and probably won't be online much for the rest of the day, but i had to get this up asap. o7, this has made my whole week.

let's go on a space adventure and explore the stars!! what could possibly go wrong?

[blindmagdalena]

Guilty Pleasures ( chapter two )

18+ 3.8k homelander x plus size f!reader. workplace harassment, stalking, voyeurism, masturbation, lite humiliation kink, lite somnophilia, breaking & entering, petty theft, sublander flavored. nebulously takes place post s1. part 2/4. AO3 link. | Chapter Directory

Homelander is the most powerful man in the world, and all he wants is to be yours.

After spending the majority of your evening and the following morning anticipating being fired, walking into work the next day feels like traversing a thinly frozen lake, each step webbing out in precarious cracks.

Clearly you’re not the only one who thinks so: you clock a handful of surprised looks from coworkers who’d attended the meeting and took note of the tension between you and Vought’s golden boy.

Maybe they’d taken bets on whether or not you’d be coming in this morning.

There’s no sign of Homelander on your way in. Not that you were expecting him–yesterday was the first time you actually saw him in person–but you still find yourself on the lookout. It’s hard to say whether you’re anticipating or dreading him. Part of you is still expecting to open your door and find a letter on your desk politely informing you that they’ve determined you aren’t a good “culture fit” for the company, and that your probation has been terminated.

After all, who in their right mind would take your side over Homelander’s?

You push open your office door, and sure enough, there is a letter waiting for you, but not in the way you expected. You stand in the doorway, staring in quiet incomprehension. The envelope, crisp and bright white, is propped up in a bed of rich red roses sitting in a pretty vase upon your desk. You glance behind you before you step inside, closing the door behind you, and approach the desk cautiously. You pluck the paper out of the bouquet, taking a moment to smell the flowers–they smell as good as they look–before you carefully rip open the envelope, tearing the small american flag sticker that sealed it.

Inside, there’s only one word on the folded piece of paper, scrawled in surprisingly elegant handwriting.

Truce?

You can’t help the incredulous little bark of laughter you give at that. It’s not even an apology. It’s a demand that he expects a gratuitous bundle of flowers will help you swallow, like taking medicine with a spoonful of sugar.

“You’re ridiculous,” you say quietly to the letter, setting it down on your desk. You give the roses one last sniff, testing one of the soft petals between your fingers. You wonder if what you said actually got through to him.

Homelander has no real reason to smooth things over with you: you’re no one. He’s posed no risk to himself by coming after you. He could no doubt have you fired by complaining that your marketing tactics don’t align with his brand. It’s hard to imagine Vought denies him much.

Yet he is apparently negotiating peace. It’s not nearly enough, but it is a start.

Or maybe it’s just more than you expected.

You sit, idly tapping the letter against your desk. You’d be lying to yourself if you said you didn’t still think him handsome. Homelander wasn’t the first man to ogle your tits while you gave a presentation, but he was certainly the first to fluster you like that when he did. His sly smile had made you want to slap him, but there was a questionable little part of you that thought about kissing it better afterwards.

Taking in a steadying breath, you slip the letter into your desk drawer and adjust the flowers to the side, admiring them a moment before you pull out your laptop.

If Homelander can behave himself enough to let you do your job without public humiliation, you can afford a truce. You don’t need to forgive or condone him to be civil, or even to continue having your own private fantasies. A little guilty pleasure now and again never hurt anyone.

You can’t know that Homelander is observing you throughout this internal conversation, watching through several layers of steel and concrete, his parted lips curving into a slow smile as you accept his offering. You can’t know that you haven’t just acknowledged a truce, but an invitation.

No, you can’t possibly know what’s to come.

Two days later, you diligently change the water that the roses in your office sit in. They’re doing well, the crimson buds having unfurled into a splay of velvety petals. You pinch one between your thumb and forefinger and stroke it absently. Homelander has continued to be a scarcity, but that doesn’t mean you haven’t seen him. Quite the opposite: you spend most of your working hours either looking at or thinking about his face to the point where it’s starting to follow you home each day.

That’s what you tell yourself when you think of him outside of work hours, anyways.

It’s been long enough now that you wonder if the flowers were the end of it. He was simply covering his ass with a half hearted gesture that slightly resembled an apology so that you could both comfortably drop the subject. That was entirely fine by you so long as he actually did improve his behavior.

A familiarly brisk knock at your door catapults your heart up against the cage of your ribs like a spooked hare. It’s the exact same beat, you’re sure of it. You stay quiet, half expecting to be barged in upon, but when nothing happens, you move from your desk and open the door yourself, intentionally blocking it with your body.

Sure enough, Homelander stands tall on the other side. He flashes his signature smile while your eyes narrow suspiciously. “Can I help you?”

“I think I’m the one who can help you,” he says brightly, that spread of teeth downright wolfish. He lifts a handful of papers that have been stapled at the corner, gesturing for you to take it.

Still wary, you take them from him and shift, wedging your foot to keep the door firmly in place while you flip through the pages. Your brows furrow as you recognize chunks of your own presentation. Understanding dawns when you realize that he’s annotated them.

“You read my presentation,” you say, unable to mask your surprise.

“Obviously. It’s my image on the line, right? Got some notes for you, but I have to say: y’mostly nailed it,” he says, reaching out to rest a gloved hand on the doorway.

“Mostly?” You echo, quirking an eyebrow at him as you look up from the pages.

“Yeah, mostly. Again, I have some minor notes,” he says, wiggling his other hand in a vague gesture. “But I figure I owe you praise on a job mostly well done.”

You’ve got to be kidding me.

Crossing your arms, you abandon your stern foothold on the door in order to shift your weight, your incredulity showing in every inch of your body language.  “What you owe me is an apology.”

Homelander’s grin softens into a smile that’s no less challenging. “Looks to me like you’ve already been enjoying my apology,” he says, leaning slightly to gaze past you, to the bundle of roses sitting prettily on your desk.

You briefly glance over your shoulder, but your expression remains impassive. Unimpressed. “That? That isn’t an apology. An apology would include the words I’m sorry.”

He scoffs a dismissive laugh, swaying back to look away, but you persist.

“I’m serious,” you say, luring his ocean blue gaze back to yours. “I want you to say to me ‘I’m sorry for the way I behaved during your presentation. It won’t happen again.’ “

The two of you hold each other’s gaze with all the magnitude of two gunmen in a duel, hands steady over your proverbial pistols. 

To your surprise, Homelander does not fire back. He raises a dainty white flag.

“I’m sorry for the way I behaved during your presentation,” he says, words slow and measured. You watch his tongue flash over his bottom lip, wetting it attractively. You fight to not let your eyes linger on it. “It won’t happen again.”

You swallow, suddenly finding thought and speech an impossible task. You weren’t prepared for such raw, ready obedience from him, nor the intensity in his gaze that follows it. He reminds you of a charmed snake–docile so long as he is transfixed.

“Good,” you say, the word half a sigh. Homelander’s lips part and he breathes in like he’s caught wind of something particularly delicious smelling. “I accept your apology, and I appreciate that you took the time to do this,” you say, gesturing with the documents in your hand. “I’ll go over them and get back to you.”

He reaches out, bracing his hand on your office door. You half expect him to push it open, but he merely holds it there. “We could go over them together,” he suggests slyly.

“No,” you say, clearly disarming him. He looks as though he’s forgotten the meaning of the word. “I’m in the middle of another project at the moment.”

The leather of his gloves creaks faintly in your ear as he flexes his grip on the edge of the door. While what you’ve said is true, it’s also serving as a test. Words and flowers are pretty things, but only actions always speak the truth.

“At the moment,” he repeats, gears visibly turning in his eyes. “So… Later?” He extrapolates, displaying an uncharacteristic tentativeness alongside his obvious displeasure at the taste of rejection. You even see a glimmer of hope in the mess of his expression.. 

He did pass the test. You suppose you can reward him for that.

“Another time,” you say, giving your door an exploratory push. He relents, his hands sliding down the length of it before falling away as he takes a half-step back. “How about tomorrow on my lunch break? 1:00 o'clock sharp.”

He splits into a smile that looks more genuine than any of his you’ve seen before. “Aaalrighty-roo. Sounds gooood to meeeee,” he says, drawing out his vowels more the closer he gets to actually having to leave. At your silent, amused stare, he claps his gloved hands together with a muffled thump! and takes a few more steps backwards. “Yooooou’ll see me… tomorrow.”

Your smile pinches along with your brows. What a strange way to phrase it. “See you then,” you say, watching as his face is eclipsed by your closing door. You wait a beat and then let out a thin thread of breath from your pursed lips, resting your weight on the door.

Looking down at the papers in your hand, you push off from the door and head to your desk, flipping through them.

Such a strange man, you think, carrying the notes to your desk. You set them down next to the vase of roses and try not to think too much about the unconscious smile your lips keep settling into for the rest of the day.

Homelander’s got you hook, line and sinker. He’s certain of it. He lingers on the other side of your door just long enough to watch you through it while you settle, a charmed smile set on your lips. He can already imagine how those lips would feel against his own, how they’d taste. He swallows thickly and looks around before he departs, already plotting his next move.

The two of you have a date tomorrow, and in order to be at the top of his game, he’s going to have to do a little additional research. Knowing your work was a good first step. The next one will be learning about you.

Following you home is the easy part. It ultimately feels chivalrous to do so once he realizes you walk home even at this time of year, when the sun sets long before the work day ends. He drifts above you, cocking his head curiously. No wonder you walk. The streets are packed as tightly as sardine cans, and your apartment garage isn’t much better. The claustrophobia of it all serves as a stark contrast to the openness of Vought tower.

The interior of your apartment provides an even sharper juxtaposition to his penthouse. It’s tidy, but the comparatively low ceilings and minimal floor space still make it look cramped. Somehow, you simultaneously have too much and yet not much at all, the confinement of a downtown apartment making what minimal affects you do own seem crowded together.

That only becomes more apparent once he’s inside, slipped in through your balcony after sleep has taken you. Why would you bother to lock your balcony when you live on the 8th floor? It works out perfectly for him.

In all fairness, your living room feels cozier once he’s standing in the center of it. Your walls are lined with an assortment of art pieces and photographs, and the shelves are well stocked with books and knick-knacks. You have a decent film collection displayed on your media console, and he can’t help but snoop through it, bending at the waist, examining through the rows. He cocks his head.

Odd. You’d think an employee of Vought would have at least a few VCU films. He runs his index finger along the spines, slightly adjusting them flush as he goes. Pursing his lips, he straightens up and looks at the closed cabinets on either side. The left one yields an untidy assortment of electronic odds and ends, cords and the like. Nothing of much interest other than an indication that while you like to keep up appearances, you aren’t quite as together as you’d like people to think. 

It’s on the right side, however, he finds what he’s really looking for.

“Bingo,” he whispers, smiling to himself as he scopes out your little hidden collection of Vought hero flicks. Specifically, his films. He’s less interested in the handful of others you own (Queen Maeve: Her Majesty, Black Noir: Insurrection, Lamplighter: The Bright World, etc) and more so in the fact that you have nearly his entire catalog tucked away. 

Nearly. You’re missing his eighteen part miniseries, Homelander: Brightest Night.

At least that gives him something to gift you.

Closing the cabinet, he meanders about the rest of your apartment. You have some plants in varying states of decay, with only a few cacti looking to be in decent shape. Either your work keeps you too busy to properly mind them, or you just like the idea of them more than the reality. It tells him that you’re looking–and failing–to fill a void in your life. You want to feel less alone in your home, you want to nurture something. You just haven’t found the right something yet.

Striding into your kitchen, arms folded behind his back, he peers through the cheap wood veneer of your fiberboard cupboards, unveiling an unusually broad assortment of mugs. There doesn’t seem to be any particular theme: holidays, locales, characters, and a menagerie of patterns. 

He hums softly, pivoting out of the kitchen and down the hall, his steps preternaturally light. He listens for the beat of your heart as he draws near, tunes it in alongside the shallow cadence of your breath. Deep asleep. Good.

The walls are lined with pictures of you and others. Friends or family, he can’t say, but you look to have an abundance of both. He rarely sees himself in photos that aren’t promotional material. He pauses to straighten a picture frame, and finds himself so viciously jealous of the man sharing the frame with you–his lips pressed to your cheek, your laughing smile so genuine he can nearly hear it–that he almost knocks it to the ground.

Running his tongue along his teeth, he continues on.

Your bedroom door is open. He slips in silently, pausing just through the doorway. Your bed's a queen, too big for just you. You’re sprawled comfortably amidst pillows, limbs splayed in just such a way that he can easily imagine fitting himself in the empty spaces between them. He can smell the lingering burn of the candle you’d lit when you got home. He picks it up off your dresser, reading the label: Cup ‘o Joe. 

Eugh. He never cared for coffee, and the artificial sweetness surrounding the note is cloying. Your perfume, on the other hand, he doesn’t mind. He notices the bottle alongside a few other of your things and puts the candle down in favor of that, popping the cap off. The smell hits him before he sprays it: vanilla first, then amber and something more woodsy. It’s less impressive by itself than it had been on you.

Still, it’s yours. You chose it for yourself.

Slipping off one of his gloves, he lightly sprays into the inside of it before he sets the bottle back down, recapping it. It won’t be the same, but he’s driven by the compulsion to spirit away any little pieces of you that he can. Just enough to satiate himself until he can have you properly.

That’s when he sees your blouse from today in a careless heap at the top of your laundry basket next to your dresser. Licking his lips, he tests the feel of the garment between his bare fingers. He’s always been sensitive to fabrics, and while the blend of this one is fairly cheap, it’s been worn and washed enough that it’s soft against his skin. He grabs a handful of it and lifts it to his mouth, brushing it along his lips, under his nose, and he deeply inhales your lingering scent mixing with the fresh pump of perfume.

He bites back a moan, screwing his eyes shut. His cock gives a dull little throb. Fuck, the spell you’ve cast on him makes him ache just for the smell of you, makes him salivate. He swallows it back, letting out a rough little breath as he reluctantly puts the shirt back down. Under it, he spies a little flash of something black and lacy. His stomach clenches, and he’s reaching for it before he can stop himself, fishing the black panties out of the heap and twisting the fabric between his fingers.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He can’t afford to overindulge. He won’t be able to control himself if he does, but he also can’t bring himself to put the little slip of fabric back down. He imagines he can almost taste where your sweet cunt had been pressed to it. Christ, he’s practically drooling. Out of sheer impulse, he yanks down the zipper of his pants with a quiet hiss of metal against metal and hastily pushes your underwear into his cup, biting down hard on his lip. He grinds once against his hand, savoring the feel of the fabric against his cock.

He’ll enjoy them far more than you’ll miss them.

Zipping himself back up, he carefully pulls open your top dresser drawer. He curiously pushes the contents around, mindful not to overly disturb, and his knuckles bump something solid. He shifts one of your bras–another near painful pang of arousal at the reminder of your breasts–aside and finds, to his delight, what any good marketing department would describe as  “a large purple massage wand.”

A vibrator. He chews his bottom lip briefly, turning it over in his grip. An exciting find on all fronts. It’s smooth and decently hefty, good quality. You deserve even better. You might be capable of indulging yourself with this, but he could make you scream. You’ll never need a silly little toy again. Not when you have him.

Homelander moves to put it back in the drawer, but–

“Fuck!” He hisses when the button catches on his finger, and suddenly the damn thing is buzzing.

Shut up, shut up, shut up, he chants mentally, jabbing at the buttons in an attempt to silence it, but pressing the same ones only makes the accursed device louder. In a frantic move, he grips the neck and squeezes. There’s a soft crunch beneath the silicone, and as abruptly as it had begun, the buzzing ends. His heart is thudding heavily in his chest. He listens to the silence, to you.

He looks over his shoulder. No movement. Your breaths remain shallow.

Christ.

So much for leaving no trace. He slips the busted toy back amidst your underthings and snatches his glove off of your dresser, tucking it under his arm. He hones his attention on you as he approaches your bed, assuring himself that you really are still asleep. He stands there for a while, admiring the part of your lips and the haphazard splay of your pajamas and where they cling to your body.

No bra.

His bare hand flexes. Being so close is too much of a temptation. He wets his lips with a quick slide of his tongue and bends down. He ghosts his fingers just over your cheek, not quite daring to touch. He can smell the faint remnants of your toothpaste on your breath, your shampoo, and beneath it all, you. It's intoxicating, it's…

Your brows furrow slightly in your sleep and you make a soft noise, interrupting his thoughts. He wonders if you’re dreaming–dreaming of him, perhaps. He’d like to think so. He’d like to think that you’re just as affected by him wanting you as he is, and that’s the real reason you invited him to lunch. He saw it in your eyes when he echoed your words, the thrill that went through you. He could have gone to his knees for you in that moment and had you in giving himself to you.

Desperate for just a taste, he kisses ever so gently between your brows, his own breaths matching the cadence of yours. Divine. You're divine. So effortlessly perfect and so aware of your own power. How could he not want every part of you?

He means to leave it there, to walk away with nothing but the slight salt of your brow on his lips, but the pull is too great. He's greedy, drunk on the smell and the taste of you, on the feel of your panties pressed up against his cock, and he can't stop himself from sampling your lips against his.

It’s the barest hint of touch, and yet the contact lances electricity through him like he’s been struck by a bolt of lightning. Your lips are soft, soft, soft. He knew they would be. Everything about you is so fucking soft. It takes everything in him to pull away, standing back to his full height.

He's aching, yearning so intensely he could rip the covers away and take you just like this, shake you awake, declare himself and have you. Would you scream, or would you have that same look of affronted understanding of him? You see him in a way few are ever brave–or stupid–enough to dare.

Not yet.

He won’t spoil the game. He agreed to play by your terms. As far as you’re concerned, he’ll do precisely that. You’ll be none the wiser in regards to his little reconnaissance mission–anything could have happened to your vibrator–and the two of you can play your little game as if you stand on equal footing.

Sucking in a silent breath, Homelander leaves alone, but not empty handed.

He’ll make very good use of his little trophy tonight.

( chapter three )

[officialdaydreamer00]

Flower crowns

in which you wove him a flower crown, made with love and a very special flower

character: idia shroud

content: no thought only fluff, implied long term relationship with idia, huge nod to greek mythology, just a sprinkle of my favourite godly couple, reader isn't yuu, gender neutral reader, reader is implied to be shorter than idia (very sorry to my tall readers, i am not)

happy birthday to my favourite wet cat, idia shroud ^-^

tags🏷️ @identity-theft-101 @dove-da-birb @ameleii @cave-of-jade @krenenbaker @vioisgoinginsane @edith-is-a-cat @twistwonderlanddevotee @mermaidfanficlibrary + idia kissers out there

winter was here, the ground was covered with layers of fresh snow and harsh winds blew mercilessly.

meanwhile, you were holed up with idia in the confines of his room. the two of you huddled close, wrapped in his warm fuzzy blanket.

you watched idia play some games on the screen as your hands wove together flowers upon flowers, as if they were on autopilot.

at one point, you spaced out while still weaving, which made idia turn to you with a confused look.

he had to poke you out of your daze, then sent you a questioning stare.

you only hummed, and tied the stems, finally finishing the flower crown. you then proceeded to place the crown gently on his head.

idia blinked, staring owlishly at you as his hair gradually glowed a pinkish shade.

he knew what those flowers were, they were native to the island of woes after all. he had read about its meanings, too.

as individuals, narcissus flowers represent creativity, inspiration, awareness and inner reflection, forgiveness, and vitality, all of which described him quite accurately. but giving a bunch of them means to ensure happiness and loyalty to your significant other, which was also directing at him.

idia felt as if his heart was doing backflips. he didn't expect to receive such a gift from you, and on the day before his birthday, no less.

looking down, he noticed you made another flower crown that was on your lap. he picked it up and gingerly placed it on your head, a tiny smile formed when he saw the surprise evident on your face.

"whee hee hee... now we're match." you only chuckled with him, feeling a familiar heat rushed to your cheeks.

the two of you decided to binge-watch some anime series, but underneath the blanket was your hands entwined, fingers interlocking as your hearts beat together as one.

remember to reblog if you enjoy my works!! ^-^

[localapparently]

/ orv novel spoilers until up to ch 468

Wherever one will be, the other will rush over to protect them

Ok.! Time to go insane about shin yoosung (I love Lee gilyoung too but I need to talk about shin yoosung otherwise I will explode.)

every so often at least thrice a week I think about how attached yoosung is to dokja it just turns my heart inside out. Like she really just started off thinking she was better off dead, and no one wanted her, and then han sooyoung shows up and threatens to kill her and she thinks "oh. I kind of deserve it." and what does dokja do? He protects and saves and nurtures her. Which is already very heartwarming right?

And then she learns about this future self of her from the 41st round, gets 41st sys' memories of pain and feeling neglected by 41yjh, literally everyone wants to kill her, and also her future self is this monstrous beast who's wreaking havoc, the man (yjh) whom her future self decides to stake thousands of years on wants to kill her as well, and future self has already killed herself like once. And so this is like a whole ass onion of layers that are reinforcing her mentality that she's unneeded and she should die and everyone wants her dead and the world is better off with her dead, right? And WHAT DOES DOKJA DO. WHAT DOES DOKJA DO. HE

1. Protects her immediately, putting himself between her and yjh's sword

2. "yoo Joonghyuk if you hurt her I won't forgive you"

3. Protects her future self (who has done terrible things and was also forsaken by the person she struggled so desperately to help)

4. Due to trust in dokja, this causes kimcom to all protect future sys as well without hesitation

5. Gets pissed on behalf of scenario enforcement upon 41sys and promptly uses a good chunk of his riches to beat up the dokkaebi

6. (sys isn't aware of this but I'll add it anyway) saves 41sys soul from the dead and reincarnates her into a baby which he raises with care

LIKE HE SAVES HER, SAVES HER AGAIN, SAVES HER FUTURE SELF, BRINGS HER FUTURE SELF BACK TO LIFE, LIKE I'm overwhelmed. Can you tell? He said "you are needed, I won't let you die" in like 20 different languages, and I just. I cannot even begin to fathom how much that meant to shin yoosung, she's so young yet she told dokja he could kill her, omg her and gilyoung r rlly besties for lifers because why are they both fucked up, please.

What am I even talking about it's almost 7am

[st4rfckerz]

The Serpent and The Lamb | Priest!Anakin Skywalker x Reader

word count: 4.1k

warnings: dddne, religious themes, infidelity, masturbation (f), oral sex (m), unprotected sex, praise, aftercare, not proofread

summary: Your family’s beloved priest suggests at home tutoring to help you with your bible studies.

The weeks since that encounter with Father Anakin had been a whirlwind of emotions, leaving you feeling conflicted and guilty. But you had promised him, and you couldn't break that trust. He continues to be your trusted priest, guiding you through your faith, but there's a new layer of understanding between you. Every touch, every whispered word, carries a heavier weight, a promise of more to come. You try to fight it, but the attraction is too strong, too consuming.

As you sit at dinner with your family, you couldn't help but think back to the last time you saw him. The memory still sent shivers down your spine, even though you knew it was wrong. You glanced around the table, watching your family enjoy their meal, before bringing your attention back to the food in front of you, forcing a smile onto your lips.

Your father cleared his throat, taking a sip from his glass of water. “So, I spoke to Father Anakin today,” he said, a twinkle in his eye. “He was asking about you, sweetheart. Seems he missed your presence at church this past Sunday.”

“Oh?” you squeak trying to keep your voice casual, hoping your nerves didn't show. Last Sunday, instead of attending church as usual, you stayed home, tucked away in bed with a small cold. Your mom chimed in, recounting their brief conversation. “He asked how you were doing and expressed his concern for your well-being,” she said with a warm smile. “He truly cares for you, dear.”

“I appreciate his concern.” you replied, your voice steady despite the butterflies fluttering in your stomach. Thoughts swarmed in your mind like bees to honey, questioning Anakin's motives for asking about you. Was it genuine concern? Or was there another reason behind his inquiries? A part of you couldn't help but wonder if he was as affected by your encounter as you were.

Upon hearing that you'll be attending church with them tomorrow, a pang of guilt hit you, knowing that your secret affair with Anakin was far from what God intended. You prayed silently, asking for forgiveness and guidance, seeking clarity on your path forward. Deep down, you longed for Anakin's touch again, craving the lust that had consumed you, while fearing the consequences it may bring.

The following day, you found yourself standing outside the church, heart racing in anticipation of seeing Anakin again. As you walked through the doors with your family, your eyes scanned the familiar surroundings, searching for a glimpse of his imposing figure. Anakin and his wife, Padme, approached you and your family, a serene smile playing at the corners of his lips, his eyes locking onto yours for a brief moment.

“Hello, Ma’am,” he greeted, extending a hand towards your mother. “How are you this lovely morning?” He turned to your dad next, shaking his hand firmly, the two men exchanging pleasantries while you stood nearby, trying to remain inconspicuous. Throughout their conversation, Anakin's gaze kept drifting back to you, a kind expression etched on his face that belied the intensity of their previous encounters. It was as if they were playing two different roles, one public and one private - a dangerous game of cat and mouse.

Anakin's gaze turned towards you, his eyes softening with concern. "And how is our little church mouse doing?" he asked, addressing you directly, a tender smile playing on his lips. "We missed you last week."

Your cheeks flushed pink, heart racing in response to his words, and you nervously fidgeted with the small, silver cross necklace perched on your chest. "I’m well, thank you for asking," you managed to respond, a hint of defensiveness creeping into your voice.

Anakin turned to your dad again, adding, “Now that you’re here I should mention that we’ve started providing extra guidance to some of the younger parishioners. If you ever need help with the Bible, please feel free to have them reach out to me. Our home is always open for such discussions.” Your dad nodded appreciatively and nudged your arm with his elbow.

“It might be a good idea, dear.” Your dad nodded in agreement, adding that it would allow you more time with Anakin, which would benefit you spiritually. Anakin and Padmé walked away, their conversation seemingly innocuous, you couldn't help but feel a twinge of jealousy seeing them together. However, you quickly pushed it aside, and sat with your family to listen to today's sermon. Anakin began to speak, his words resonating through the hallowed halls, reminding you of the divine presence that should guide your life.

You knelt down to pray, your mind was flooded with images of Anakin, the serpent in the garden of your faith; his touch, his voice, and the intense feelings he evoked within you. The sacred space of the church seemed to close in around you, suffocating you with its silent judgment as you struggled to focus on the words of prayer. Your heart raced, your breaths became shallow, and the line between your reality and fantasy blurred, threatening to drown you in a sea of forbidden desires and hidden sins. The holy water of the baptism seemed to lose its sanctity, tainted by the impurities of your thoughts, and you swear the cross of the rosary you held onto felt just as hot as your insides, like a branding iron searing its mark onto your palm. In the quietude of the church, enveloped by the scent of incense and the whispers of penance, you found yourself drowning in the whirlpool of your own transgressions, desperately seeking salvation in the arms of the man who had led you astray.

Confession time arrived, the somber atmosphere of the church amplifying the heaviness of the act. You stood in line, heart pounding in your chest, as you waited for your turn to enter the confessional. The dimly lit booth loomed ahead. Your palms felt clammy and your hands quivered slightly, as you tried to prepare yourself for the upcoming confrontation. Each person ahead of you seemed to move in slow motion, the minutes ticking by like hours, stretching the moment into an eternity.

You finally reach the confessional booth and sit on the little bench, the partition separating you from Father Anakin feeling as thin as gossamer. The dim light flickered, casting eerie shadows across the wooden walls, as if mocking your impending reckoning.

“Father, it’s me.” you whisper. You could hear his soft chuckle on the other side, his soothing words resonating through the screen that served as a link between you and him.

“Oh hello little lamb, I was waiting for you,” Anakin's voice resonated through the dimly lit confessional, his tone a swirl of kindness and authority, a perfect blend that had lured you in from the very beginning. “How are you?”

“I’m okay,” you mumbled, your voice barely audible, struggling to keep the tremors at bay. “I don’t have any confessions today.”

Anakin's voice broke through your thoughts, pulling you back to the present. "Are you sure?" he asked gently, his tone inquiring but also cautious.

“Well, I wanted to talk about the last time I was here.” you explained. Anakin leans in more towards the screen, and his voice drops down an octave.

“We can’t talk about this here, I’m running out of time,” he said, his words carrying a warning. “Listen, tell your parents that I’m having a session tomorrow at my house and we can talk there okay?” Anakin brings his hand up to the mesh screen and you brought your own hand up to meet his. The contact, fleeting as it was, sent a jolt through you and electrified your senses.

“2:30 tomorrow little lamb. Be there.” a hint of a smile played at the corners of Anakin's lips, a silent acknowledgement of your gesture, a promise of something more that lay beyond the confines of the church.

As you approached your parents, you could feel the weight of your lie pressing down on you, the guilt threatening to consume you. You forced a smile onto your lips, your voice steady as you spoke. "Father Anakin has invited me to his home tomorrow to review the Bible and discuss some aspects of our faith," you explained, your eyes darting between your mom and dad. "He believes it would be beneficial for me spiritually." Your heart raced as you awaited their response, praying that they would accept your explanation without suspicion.

Your mom nodded, her face reflecting concern but also curiosity. "That sounds like a good opportunity, dear. Just make sure you keep us informed." Your dad, ever the protector, added, "We trust Father Anakin, but we also want you to be safe. Make sure you let us know when you arrive and when you leave, okay?" You nodded, grateful for their trust, even as you knew you were leading them down a dangerous path. The rest of the evening passed in a blur, the clock ticking down the minutes until you could flee to Anakin's embrace, the illicit thrill of your secret affair coursing through your veins.

౨ৎ

Later that night, you relentlessly tossed and turned in your bed, your mind consumed by thoughts of your family’s beloved priest. His touch, his voice, his intense gaze - each memory was a sharp blade, slicing through the layers of your deception, exposing your deepest desires.

The intensity of your feelings took you by surprise, the arousal coursing through your veins like fire. The sensation of your flesh against your fingertips caused prickly goosebumps to appear all over your arms and thighs as your fingers sank into your pajama shorts. A soft moan slipped past your lips as your fingers danced around your clit, the sensation sending shockwaves of pleasure coursing through your body. your fingers delved deep inside your aching cunt, your breaths became ragged and your body trembles with force.

You struggled to stifle your sweet moans, the sound of your surrender echoing in the silence of your room. Your orgasm was sudden, powerful, washing over you like a tidal wave, leaving you breathless and spent. The intensity of your climax had left you drenched in sweat, your body trembling with the aftershocks of your transgression.You laid still and stared up at your ceiling. your body still throbbing with pleasure, you knew that the price of your sin was a heavy burden, one that only Anakin could ease - at least for a moment, in the safety of his arms.

As you drifted off to sleep, your thoughts were consumed by the anticipation of tomorrow, the thrill of your secret rendezvous with Anakin.

౨ৎ

Through the hushed streets, you walked towards Anakin's home, the anticipation of your secret meeting thrumming in your veins. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows that danced along the cobblestone paths. The temptation of the forbidden fruit was too sweet to resist, the pull of Anakin's darkness too strong. The confessional's warning seemed like a distant memory, the allure of your illicit acts were like a siren's song that called to you from within the walls of his home.

After knocking a few times on the big door decorated with a plaque reading ‘Skywalkers’ the door creaks open and Anakin stands there in the threshold, his eyes locking onto yours. “There you are, I wasn’t sure you’d show,” he greeted, his voice a blend of charm and command. “Come in, come in.” He beckoned you inside.

You stepped into Anakin's home, you couldn't help but notice the opulence that surrounded you. The walls were adorned with intricate tapestries, the floors polished to a high shine. Your eyes roamed the room, taking in the grandeur of his sanctuary. A large stone fireplace dominated one wall, the flames crackling softly, casting a warm glow over the room. A plush sofa sat before the fire, inviting you to relax and surrender to the comfort it offered.

Anakin's voice was low and soothing as he guided you towards the plush sofa. “Please, sit down,” he urged, his eyes never leaving yours. “We have much to discuss, and I want you to feel comfortable.” As you settled onto the cushions, he took a seat beside you, his body radiating warmth. “I've taken the liberty of ensuring we are alone today. Padmé is not here to disturb us.”

You felt a shiver run down your spine at his words, the implication clear. You sat down on the sofa, the soft cushions enveloping you in comfort.

“Are you ready to learn?” Anakin's question hung in the air, his eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made you feel like you were the only person in the world. You hesitated for a moment, feeling a slight confusion creep in. The Bible? What happened to the real reason why you were here? You forced a smile onto your face, trying to hide your confusion. “Oh, yes,” you said, your voice steady. “I'd love to discuss the Bible with you.” Anakin's face lit up with a warm smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Excellent,” he said, his voice filled with enthusiasm. “Let's dive right in, then.”

Anakin opened his Bible, the leather-bound book creaking softly as he flipped through its pages. “Let us discuss the nature of our relationship with God,” he said, his voice low and soothing. “In the book of Matthew, Chapter 22, verse 37, Jesus says, ‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.’”

He looked up at you, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your heart race. “This is the greatest commandment, little dove. It is the foundation upon which all other relationships are built. But what does it truly mean to love God with all our heart, soul, and mind?”

“I don’t know,” you respond sheepishly, not really knowing how to answer such a tainted question.

He closed the Bible, his gaze never leaving yours. “It means to surrender ourselves fully to Him, to trust in His will, and to obey His commands. It means to love Him more than anything else in this world, including ourselves.”

Anakin's eyes never left yours as he asked, “How do you communicate with God, little mouse? How do you express your love and devotion to Him?”

You felt a flutter in your chest, unsure of how to respond. You had always believed that prayer was the way to communicate with God, but Anakin's question made you realize that there was more to it than just speaking words. You looked down at your hands, feeling a sense of inadequacy. “I'm not sure,” you admitted. “I've always thought that prayer was the way to communicate with God, but I've never really felt like He's listening.”

Anakin's expression softened, his voice taking on a gentle tone.

“Why don’t you show me how you pray?”

You felt a shiver run down your spine as you obeyed, getting down on your knees before him. Your hands clasped together, your eyes closed in reverence. You began to speak, your voice a soft whisper as you poured out your heart to God. But as you prayed, you became aware of Anakin's gaze upon you. You could feel his eyes burning into your skin, his presence intense and overwhelming. Your words faltered, and you opened your eyes to find him watching you with an unreadable expression. He reached out, his hand gently brushing against your cheek. “Beautiful,” he whispered, his voice low and husky. “So beautiful.”

Anakin's thumb ran along your bottom lip, you felt a jolt of arousal shoot through your body. His touch was possessive, claiming you as his own. And when he slipped his thumb into your mouth, you felt a surge of desire wash over you. The taste of him was intoxicating, and you couldn't help but suck gently on his thumb, eager to taste more. Anakin's eyes gleamed with desire as he watched you, his thumb moving in and out of your mouth with a slow, deliberate pace. You could feel his power and control, and it only added to the thrill of the moment.

“Such a good girl.” he coos sweetly, he removes his thumb from your mouth and begins to rake his hand through your soft hair. As you gazed up at Anakin, your eyes landed on the bulge in his pants. Your heart raced with excitement as you reached out, your hand wrapping around his erection through the fabric. You could feel the heat emanating from him, and your palm began to move in slow, deliberate strokes.

“Can I help you Father?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. He nodded slowly, his voice low and gravelly as he spoke. “Yes, please.”

You reached out, your fingers trembling slightly as you unclasped the metal buckle and pulled it through the loops. The belt fell to the ground with a soft thud.

The moment he released his hard cock from the confines of his boxers, it sprang free, standing tall in front of you. Your eyes locked onto it, your mouth watering.

“Do you know what you’re doing angel?” he asks cautiously. His pupils were completely blown, making his eyes seem dark and intimidating.

“I know enough.” you give him a shy smile.

Anakin's fingers tightened in your hair, urging you forward. You leaned in, your lips brushing against the head of his cock, before you took him into your mouth. Anakin's breath hitched, his hand gripping your head as you began to suck on him, your tongue swirling around his shaft with a slow, unhurried pace.

“You're doing so well, sweetheart.” He purrs, his hand stroked your hair, a soft caress that sent shivers down your spine. “You're a natural at this. I knew I could trust you.” Anakin's hips began to buck, his thrusts both desperate and controlled. He groaned, his fingers tightening in your hair. He quickly reached his peak, his hot seed spilling into your mouth.

“Swallow every drop, show me how devoted you are.” You swallowed eagerly, pleased to have brought him such satisfaction. As he pulled out of your mouth, his breath coming in ragged gasps, you looked up at him, adoration shining in your eyes.

Anakin pulled you in for a deep, carnal kiss, his tongue exploring your mouth as he devoured you. The taste of him still lingered on your lips. Then he lifts you up, takes off your panties, and places you on his lap with your body curled up against his. He ran his fingers along your wet folds, his touch gentle yet electrifying. “Fuck, you drive me crazy.”

As you sat on Anakin's lap, you realized that this was the first time you had kissed him, your lips having only tasted him in another way. But in that moment, the line between the sacred and the profane blurred, the kiss a fusion of affection and the lingering taste of your sin.

The kiss broke and you looked deep into Anakin's eyes, your voice shaking slightly. ���I need you Anakin.” you admitted boldly.

Anakin's beamed excitedly. “I want to see you do it this time, okay?” You hesitated, feeling a little shy, but Anakin's commanding gaze urged you on. “Don't be afraid, little lamb.” he reassured you, his voice a seductive growl. His words were a comfort, a balm for the guilt that nibbled at the edges of your conscience. You bit your lip, your confidence growing. You leaned forward, positioning yourself over his erection. Taking a deep breath, you slowly lowered yourself onto him, the sensation of his size and girth filling you. You gasped at the feeling of him inside you, the sensation both thrilling and overwhelming. He began to move in rhythm, his thrusts slow and deliberate, each one driving deeper into you.

You looked into his eyes, your hands gripping his shoulders for balance. “There you go, you got it.” Anakin says breathlessly.

You and Anakin found a steady rhythm, your movements synchronized. You rode him with a newfound confidence, your body moving in a way that seemed both foreign and exhilarating.

Anakin's hands gripped your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh, a silent claim of ownership. “That’s my girl, taking cock like she was made for it.” he encouraged, his voice a low, commanding growl. “My big, strong girl.”

Your moans grew louder, your body responding to his words. You could feel the tension building within you, the pleasure becoming almost unbearable.

“Anakin,” you gasped, your voice tinged with desperation. “I n-need,”

He smiled, his eyes shimmering with a predatory intent. “What do you need, angel?” he asked, his voice a wicked whisper.

“Make me cum, please.” you panted, your body trembling with need.

“I got you sweet girl, let me hear you.” he ordered, his voice a low, commanding growl. You felt your body surrendering to your orgasm, the waves of ecstasy washing over you. You cried out his name as you came, your body shaking in his arms.

As you clung to him, your body still trembling, Anakin followed closely behind, his own release spilling into you. He groaned your name, his body shuddering as he found his own climax.

You collapsed onto his chest, your breaths coming in ragged gasps, Anakin wrapped his arms around you, holding you close.

“I didn’t break you did I?” Anakin asks playfully as he runs his hands up and down your back.

“No, I’m fine.” you chuckle. Anakin's hands gently urged you to sit up on the couch cushion next to him, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Stay here one second.” he instructed, his voice a soft rumble. You remained in the living room while Anakin made his way to the bathroom, his body taut and powerful as he moved. You watched as he returned, a washcloth in hand, the steam from the warm water still clinging to the fabric. He approached you, his eyes filled with a fierce protectiveness.

“Lie back, angel,” he commanded, his voice a low rumble. “Let me take care of you.” Anakin knelt down in front of you, his hands gently wiping away the evidence of your sins. His movements were both tender and deliberate as he cleaned you up, his fingers tracing over your skin, lingering in places where he knew he could elicit a reaction. As he worked, his lips trailed kisses down your calf and along your inner thighs.

Once Anakin was satisfied that you were clean, he helped you put your panties back on, his hands lingering on your hips before withdrawing. “There, all clean now.” he murmured, his voice gentle as he smoothed down your skirt. He leans forward, his arms wrapping around you, his lips claiming yours in a tender kiss.

As you and Anakin shared a tender kiss, you heard the unmistakable sound of a key turning in the lock. You both froze, your hearts racing as the door slowly creaked open. Anakin quickly released you, his face a mask of calm as he turned to face whoever had entered the room. Padmé walked in, her smile bright and welcoming. She was completely oblivious to what had just taken place in the living room.

“Padme, honey,” he greeted her, his voice smooth and untroubled. “Did you have a nice day?”

Padme’s gaze shifted to you, her smile growing even wider. “Lovely to see you again,” she said, her voice filled with genuine happiness. “I trust the lesson was enlightening?”

You smiled weakly, your heart pounding in your chest as you tried to regain your composure. “Yes, Padme, it was.” you answered, relief washing over you as the normalcy of the situation returned.

After a brief conversation, you excused yourself, claiming that you needed to head home. Anakin walked you to the door, his hand brushing against yours as he opened it for you. “See you soon, little lamb.” he whispered in your ear, his voice thick with promise. You gave him a small smile, your mind still reeling from the events that had just transpired.

As you left the house, you couldn't help but feel a mix of emotions. The thrill of your transgression still coursed through your veins, mingling with the lingering guilt. But through it all, you couldn't deny the connection you had formed with Anakin. You walked home and the world around you seemed to blur, your thoughts filled with the forbidden pleasures you had just experienced. You knew that you had crossed a line, one that would have far-reaching consequences.

But for now, all that mattered was the promise of more sinful delights to come, the weight of your sins growing heavier with each passing moment. You had given yourself to Anakin, both body and soul, and there was no turning back now.

[seresinhangmanjake]

Fremen Girl: Part 3

Feyd-Rautha x fremen!reader

Notes/Warnings: mentions of blood, injury, death.

Words: 1460

Feyd-Rautha Masterlist / Main Masterlist / Tag list

Feyd POV

He can’t recall a time when nerves have taken over his body the way they do now. Normally, fighting, or the thought of fighting, or witnessing a fight pumps fire through his veins. The anticipation of bloodshed and screams of pain are like the crescendo of a good high, but today, he can’t grab hold of that euphoric feeling. It’s not there, there is nothing to grab hold of, because today, it’s you fighting. 

Feyd sits beside his uncle in the stands as he watches you enter the arena, and immediately, he recognizes his first mistake. The hand not holding your blade is raised to shield your eyes from the brightness of the sun. He should have found a way to train you outside. He should have gotten you used to an environment that is much brighter than your home planet. Though he has no idea how he could have arranged that, if the blinding sunlight is the difference between your life and death, he sees no road to self-forgiveness. 

“You think to take that one for a wife?” the Baron asks as your opponents join you in the arena. The six prisoners enter from three corners, honing in on their prey, but you’ve yet to step into your fighting stance. Your body anxiously twists in all directions to take in the men descending upon you and only you, your hand still acting as a vizor from the light. “She hardly seems capable. She’ll have a blade run through her before five minutes have passed and you will have gathered the masses to witness a bore of a show just like your useless brother.”

Feyd ignores his uncle, knowing the old man speaks only to agitate him. He doesn’t take his eyes off of you as you finally prepare yourself, spreading your legs, bending your knees, and dropping your hand so it may join its twin around the blade’s hilt. 

One of the men is bolder than the others and he runs ahead. He takes the first swing at you, but you dodge him, ducking under his knife and throwing your arm out as you pass his legs. The sharp edge slices through the back of his thigh, and he instantly drops to his knees. You turn to face his back and thrust your blade downward into the crook where his neck meets his shoulder. When you yank steel from flesh, blood sprays, splattering your thin clothes, and drains down his bare chest. Feyd can see the body heave before it falls. 

There’s the girl who killed my men, Feyd thinks as a rush of claps roars through the crowd at the first death. He knew you hadn’t shown him everything you’re capable of during training. Maybe you just needed the threat of imminent danger to display your full potential. If that’s the case, then fine. Feyd doesn’t need you to prove yourself to him, he needs you to show the people of Giedi Prime the woman they will soon be bowing to. 

The next is the smallest of the six. Skinnier, shorter, but filled to the brim with fury. His anger is his mistake and it’s clear you know it. You don’t fortify yourself. Instead, you watch as he leaves behind the other fighters and charges with a scream that echoes through the arena. A side shift of your body and a quick swipe of your blade and he pauses, his arms go limp, and he stumbles past you. A wash of dark red flows from his neck.  

You rid yourself of three more. Not without difficulty, but you manage. Their bodies are littered around you, the evidence of their demise soaking your form. Your shirt sticks to your figure from the amount of blood weighing down the fabric. Your arms are dyed scarlet from layer after layer of the red fluid. With each of your steps, scarlet prints are left behind. Exhaustion is evident, but you’re not done yet.

The final man is broader, thicker, taller than you and some of the now-dead prisoners combined. He could crush your windpipe with a squeeze from one meaty hand. He could break your bones with a sharp flick of his wrist. All you have to do is stay out of his way. You’re faster and your limbs are leaner; you should be able to outrun him, but you need to move, now, before he traps you against a wall. 

You jump back from his swing, barely evading the sheer power and force that could have cut you right down the middle. Before you can recover from the attack, he leaps at you. You fall onto your back, blade skittering out of reach. Feyd swallows hard. He refuses to blink. 

“Well, this doesn’t look good for your girl, does it?” the Baron says, sucking at his pipe.

Feyd wishes he could disagree, but you haven’t found your footing. You’re crawling backward, trying to gain some distance from the predatory stalk of a confident aggressor. A blade swipes toward your face. You turn your head, receiving a slash across the cheek, and from how quickly you bleed, it appears deep. At least your head is still attached to your shoulders. 

You kick at his knee, knocking the joint out of place and momentarily rendering him unable to take another step. With the spare second, you scurry to your knife, getting your hand on it just as you’re yanked back by your ponytail. Feyd winces at your shriek, fingernails digging crescents into his palms, jaw aching from his clenching teeth.

Your head wacks against the ground and you’re eyes pinch shut. Potential concussion. You’re disoriented. You need to move. Move, Fremen Girl, Feyd internally snaps, but you’re not moving. The man towers above you, his feet on either side of your thighs. Feyd leans forward in his seat. Your eyelids slowly flutter. 

“Move,” Feyd mutters. 

The man’s whole body goes into the downward jab of his blade. He expects the pointed tip to land right between your eyes, but when you twist out of the way at the last second, it clashes with the ground. The over-expenditure of force knocks him off-balance and he falls on top of you, his chest slamming into yours, crushing you entirely.

Jumping to his feet, Feyd rushes to the edge of the balcony. The crowd is silent. He can’t breathe. Are you breathing? You better be fucking breathing, Fremen girl.

Suddenly, your knees bend and with the last of your strength, you roll the man onto his back, your thighs straddling his hips. His jaw is slack. His arms flop to his sides. Your knife is plunged into his chest. Then with both hands wrapped around the hilt, you pull out and stab into his heart once more, this time twisting the blade. 

As the crowd erupts in cheers, Feyd finally exhales. His shoulders release their tension. 

You stand on wobbly legs and wipe the back of your hand across your scarlet cheek. You’ll need stitches, but you’re alive. Feyd turns, heading for the stairs so he can meet you at your extraction from the arena.

“Not yet, nephew,” the Baron stops him. 

Feyd glances over his shoulder to find his uncle’s gaze still fixed on where you stand. Feyd’s brow pinches and he eases back to the balcony railing as three more prisoners stumble into the arena. The crowd dies into silence. His head whips to his uncle. 

“What is this!” he spits. “What did you do! She’s done!”

“She is done when I say she’s done,” the Baron says, sucking at his pipe once more. “Now sit down and watch the show, or should she live, I will give her to Rabban.”

“You will not!” Feyd shouts. “All of Giedi Prime knows the challenge you set and she met it! She is mine now and I say she's done! Bother Rabban if you want more entertainment!”

The Baron won’t argue further, not now. People were shocked enough that Feyd’s first potential bride would have to face six prisoners compared to the three for his brother’s brides. Whispers of gossip were uncontrollable and even managed to make their way through the halls, passing from servant to servant. They questioned the integrity of the Trial if centuries-old rules could be changed for one woman, and altering them again after you’ve won would be a great disappointment to all who witnessed. The Baron’s thirst for excitement has made him forget that, but Feyd is happy to remind him. 

The crowd suddenly gasps and Feyd turns his head. You’re trying to step away from the prisoners, but those steps are wobbly. The knife has slipped from your grasp. Feyd rushes off to the entrance of the arena.

[starshipsofstarlord]

“thought you were mad at me.”

“it’s a hate boner, i swear.”

summary. you and daryl, despite fighting and surviving side by side for years, have always had a tendency to get on each others nerves. the one thing he hates more than your recklessness however, is seeing you hurt

warnings. boners duh, swearing, mentions of death and turning, daryl skinning an animal, feelings, daryl being a boob man, no smut, slight angst, love confessions, implied smut

MINORS DNI (18+), I DO NOT CONTROL YOUR CONSUMPTION ON THIS BLOG 👻

divider credits. @cafekitsune

There were many possible things that you could do to enrage Daryl Dixon; you’d been comrades for many years and it would have been suspicious if the two of you hadn’t found a way to flawlessly get on each others nerves.

Currently you were seated in your station of living, ass planted on a kitchen chair as you endured silent treatment from the archer whom was skilfully removing the outer layer of flesh and fur from a lifeless badger.

Your arms crossed upon the aged oak of the table as you silently criticised the lack of noise - the air was tense and riddled with thick annoyance, it was difficult to breathe through. To Daryl’s dismay, your fingernails danced in an attempted rhythm upon the surface of which that were layer atop of, creating a chorus of taps that were audible within the quiet room.

The sound filled his ear drums, and his attention drew away from the black and white striped creature that was in the process of having its fur stripped from its lifeless flesh upon the counter, and he irritatedly gritted his bottom row of teeth. He was becoming tired of your reckless habits, and the fact that you cared not for making one sorry mistake that would risk your life.

Despite the countless chances that he had had, he’d never told you of the feelings that he quietly harboured towards you, he kept them locked away from your knowledge, afraid that if he were to open up, he would only lose you, or that you would reject him for his deep infatuation. And that scenario was already on the verge of taking place, you’d been foolish, and luckily escaped with only scrapes and a few bruises.

But he was angry at your carelessness, it was as though you didn’t care whether you continued to live or died. His knife slipped across the badger’s skin, creating a thin red line through the mammal’s corpse as he stared down at it, hoping the morbid sight would distract him, though the sight didn’t sway him from being mildly aware of your presence.

Each fibre of his body was tense, he knew that you were hurt, somewhere on your body that he wasn’t certain of, but you hid the destination, which only brewed furthermore worry in his heart and chest. What if you were bitten? That would be something that he would never forgive himself for, that he hadn’t been there to protect you from the most gruesome process that a human could experience.

You would either turn into a cannibalistic monster that had an imperishable thirst for anything that breathed, or you would need a deadly pressure to your brain to prevent the walker transformation from completing itself in the vessel of your body.

It was an incurable disease, and you were all infected one way or another, but the bite would only enforce the burden of becoming one of them to a faster process. Daryl’s brain was haywire with emotions, his hand forced a tighter grasp around the knife, until he released it from his grip, placing it beside the spoils of his hunt.

He whipped around, glaring at you as you seemed undisturbed by the catastrophic ramblings that his brain was swirling in by its lonesome. Your brow arched in contempt, as you hid a smirk as you had seemed to make a crack in his brooding. But instead of his silence, there was a riddle of careful treading in his determined steps that slowly but intently made their route towards you.

Instead of being flabbergastered by his sudden change in exterior motives, you remained exactly where you were, fearless of the concoction of emotions that were emitting upon his face. Your hands continued their dance, precipitating farther exasperation to coil around the stealthy archer.

“Show me.” Daryl’s tone was brisk and harsh as they fell efficiently from his lips, and you ogled at them discreetly, employing the thought of them upon your own in your imagination. With a toying smile sprawled upon your lips, you cocked your head in query, stepping up onto your feet, allowing the entirety of your weight to fall upon them.

“Show you what? How to speak to a woman, because your tactics really aren’t working Dixon?” Not everything was a joke, this was a serious situation to him, yet you could not fathom that! Your words only made him enraged with your lacking will to look after yourself. It befuddled each cell in his body to think with common sense that you had managed to live this long, but he threw that building monologue away and as far as possible from flowing off his tongue.

He cared and that was all he wanted to show you, but it was impossible when you were so… impossible yourself! “The wound y/n. I swear ta god you better not be hidin’ a bite.” The hissing undertone of Daryl’s voice shocked you, whilst during past events he had made comments of his distaste for your methods of ‘getting things done’, he had never called you out so directly.

A pang in your chest told you how much you resented him using that tone to address you, but you shook it off, understanding that he presumed that you were destined sooner rather than later to meet a set fate. “Never took you for a religious man Daryl.” You gulped in your efforts to smother your blossoming timidness, hunching your shoulders as you pushed down on your confidence to make eye contact with the man. “And I’m not bitten,” you huffed, refraining from rolling your eyes, “I can prove it to you if you want.”

“Yeah, I do wan’ tha’.” He sternly replied, and all of a sudden you felt vulnerable. You rubbed your lips together anxiously, before reaching down and bringing your hands to the end of your shirt, beginning to peel it over your head, throwing the material that now hid little from sight on the table. In the moment you felt no regret for opting to wear a bra, but you still felt the need to surround your arms around your chest, which only drew more attention to your breasts.

You craned your neck, gouging his reaction as you turned to angle your ribs to his eye-line, the prominent flush of pink and purple bruising painting your side in a tie dye artwork effect. His lips parted, as his baby blues turned their focus from their rude excavation of your subtle cleavage to your side, his pupils wildly darting around the area with both relief and disdain.

“Ah, shit.” He rubbed his face with his large palm, as he realised that another part of his body continued to be distracted by his the other parts of your body that were teasing him with their supple beauty. “We should see if there’s any ice in the infirmary.” He stated, awkwardly feeling encased in the roomy kitchen. “I’m sorry, didn’ mean to make ya feel like ya had to show me.”

He felt stupid. So fucking stupid. Whilst he was never brought up in that way, he always tried to be respectful towards women, and he respected you more than most general people. If he were to voice his certain love of you now, or any when after this situation, he would look like an utter idiot.

“It’s okay.” Your voice sounded smaller now, and hated that he was the one that had burst your bubble of troublesome words. “I understand, enough of us are no longer here. You needed to make sure, and I appreciate that Dar.” You bowed your head, and luckily you were looking at your own feet, Daryl thought, as he felt compressed in his pants.

“I’ll go get ya some ice, and some pain killers.” Daryl was prepared to rush off, but as he was about to brush past you to do the errands to treat you that he had just listed, your arm swung, as your hand caught ahold of his wrist, dragging him into your personal space. On any other heart warming situation he wouldn’t have minded, you’d hugged before during hard times, but not when he had a… problem.

Instantly your y/e/c eyes shot in the direction of his face that was blooming into the shade of a beetroot. You had realised, you couldn’t not have. “Thought you were mad at me.” You teased, and Daryl felt the remainder of his body grow stiff as he released you. He would never live this down, you would never let him forget this.

“It’s a hate boner, I swear.” He attempted to save himself from your prodding smugness, however he knew all too well that was a losing battle. Your face returned to its coy assertion, aiming your mischievous smirk towards him - his erect cock was your fault, that was obvious. And you had been on a road too long without even hinting that you felt something more than seeing him as found family.

To once have thought you deserved happiness would have sounded like a sickening joke, and you would have maniacally laughed at the delirious prospect, but your hue of vibrant damage from the impact that had clashed with your side, and Daryl’s morbid assumption had reminded you that life was truly too short to waste any scrap of time.

“If you forget about the ice,” you deflected from the ache that pinched your bloodstream, “then maybe you can forget about that badger on the side too and prove that you’re not breaking a swear. What goods a ‘hate boner’ if you don’t get to prove how much you allegedly hate me?”

“Could never hate ya.” Daryl leant down and placed a peck upon your forehead, as his hand ghosted against your cheek, brushing your bottom lip with his rough padded thumb. “Now settle down, ya need some pain killers woman, I ain’t playing games no more. I ain’t lettin’ ya pretend you’re fine, can see you’re not.” He glanced down at the large bruise once again and physically winced; he knew you were in pain, anybody would be with such an infliction of harsh force.

“Then how about we stop this game for once and for all?” You weren’t sure if your words were for him or you, but nevertheless you drew your faces closer, allowing the tips of your noses to brush. “I’ve loved you since- I can’t even remember when I realised it, it just happened. And from then on, it’s something I can’t shake, and I don’t want to.” You confessed open heartedly, putting the secrecy that you had hidden for so long on the table.

Daryl felt his heart jump out of his chest, sure you’d make some infectiously teasing remarks at his expense, but he never thought that a woman like you would have the desire to be with a redneck tracker who had been born into a life that already had its share of issues. “I-“ Daryl took a deep breath that filled his wide chest, as he realised that this was the moment that he felt as though he had waited eons for. “I love ya, have done since the first time I saw ya. Couldn’ get ya outta my mind, jus’ wasn’t sure that someone like you could ever love someone like me…”

“Trust me Daryl, you can be more sure about it than your hate boner.” A laugh tumbled from your lips, and whilst Daryl adored the sound more than the tapping that your fingers had done on the table, he decided to shut you up. With his hand on finding purchase finally on your cheek, he pulled you in, meeting your lips as your mouths melted together, his opposing hand hovering over your extreme bruising as though he could protect it from the air itself.

The kiss was filled with each memory he held of you, each flashed like a tribute in his mind behind his closed eyes, as he finally felt shockwaves of passion flow between you. It was the best thing that he had experienced since the outbreak had began, and each moment of turmoil and agitation was worth it. He was finally home, with you, the person who accepted him wholeheartedly.

[minhosimthings]

imagine … feeding jake grapes while on a picnic together … or maybe just watching a movie, snuggled up at home… you bring up smth about how you used to peel grapes with your teeth growing up and challenge him to see who can do it the best. but someway somehow, things get heated, and he starts teasing abt you having an oral fixation after you peeled the grape better than him, ofc ;), and he decides to prove you wrong by showing you just how skilled his mouth can really be- 🧎‍♀️

This has been marinating in my asks for so long istg (i think since 2023), so i wrote this extremely quickly, and im so sorry i couldnt make it a full fic annonie! But, as always, enjoy this quick dumb blurb on mine (i know its really short BUT BEAR WITH ME)

Warnings: SMUT MINORS DNI 18+, oral (f receiving), mention of food (grapes), swearing, use of nickname 'doll' NOT PROOFREAD (forgive me)

“Now that—” Jake slumped back against the tree, “—is definitely something you learnt at Hogwarts, you beautiful witch.”

You threw your head back as your entire body convulsed with laughter, bringing a goofy smile to Jake’s face as he realized how stupid his silly joke was. The sun was still peeking out from the horizon, bathing the skies in a shampoo of oranges and pinks. The soft spring breeze pushed Jake's hair back, prompting his body to relax into the soft grass which he sat upon. The checkered blanket which you had brought was sitting peacefully on a side, as you had decided that the grass was far more comfy. In front of you lay a basket filled with cotton-candy grapes.

“How are you even getting them to stay in your hands?” Jake whined, picking up a grape which happily slipped out his finger. You stifled a giggle.

“Just watch and learn babe.” You said with the air of a sensei, “watch and learn.”

You picked up a nicely rounded grape from the basket, pretending to observe its dimensions like a professor before you brought it to your mouth. Jake watched in pure awe as your teeth easily managed to pull off the slimy green outer layer, leaving the fresh fruit behind. You peeled one end, then the other, and the last strip went onto your tongue as you proudly showed off the skin-less grape to your boyfriend. 

“Yep.” Jake sighed, “Witch material.”

“But the hot kind right?” You laughed, popping the grape into your mouth, “You’re just jealous I could peel more grapes than you could.”

“Well, you practice it throughout your childhood!” Jake defended himself. You rolled your eyes playfully.

“It’s alright baby.” You put on a cheeky smile, before checking your watch. The sun was now fully below the horizon and nighttime was falling, “Some of us just weren't born for grape peeling.” You laughed at Jake's scowl.

“Home then?” You said, picking up the basket.

“Yep.” Jake replied with a pop of his lips, before helping you pack up.

……………………………………………………………………

"Ohh Jake, more–please I need you," you whisper hazily, hand reaching back to grab his head desperate to have his tongue buried as deep as possible. Apparently, the bragging rights of the grape-peeling competition didn't sit well with him, especially when you looked so sexy, peeling them. He had you pushed against the bedroom door as soon as you had changed into your pajamas, and now—he was devouring you like a starved man.

He took his time, savoring the taste of you, the feel of your body responding to his touch. His hands slid under your hips, pulling you closer, his tongue delving deeper into your depths. Your fingers tightened on his hair and his lips stopped coordinating with your pulsing cunt. Jake pulled away to look up at you and smirk.

He was glistening with a light sheen of sweat, his hair sticking to his damp forehead, the buttons of his shirt—once done up to near his neck, now trailing open to the middle of his chest, exposing the warm glow of his skin underneath.

“Do I win the competition now, doll?” The lowered tone of voice Jake was using sent you swimming in a pool of insanity. And it wasn't like it was any different for him. Your willing pussy throbbing for his tongue and touch were driving him to the limits of his self-control.

Before you could respond to his words however, his face disappeared between your legs. You couldn't take the tension anymore and you threw your head back with a moan. Just the feeling of his breath and the knowledge of how close he was to your pussy was driving you crazy. 

You couldn’t help but rithe under his touch, bucking your hips at his face–on instinct, overwhelmed by the way Jake was relentlessly drinking you up, his fingers gripping tighter to the meat of your thighs to hold you in place as you could feel the tingle beginning to build at the base of your spine, your back arching in desperate anticipation.

A sort of whimpering scream escaped you as you began to gasp for air, far too fucked out, just by Jake’s persistent tongue. Everything was getting hazy, and soon, your eyes were rolling to the back of your skull. Instinctively, you clenched your fists tightly on the sheets and tried to move your hips out of his reach, but his hands on your waist effectively stopped your movements.

“Oh shit- fuck, fuck, Jake, I’m so close oh f-fuck, I’m–” Just like that, you were falling over the brink of collapse, your orgasm crashing through you like a tidal wave, pleasure flowing through every inch of your veins as you met your high. His lips completely wrapped as he suckles and continues to flick where you’re most sensitive, working you through your orgasm.

More arousal poured from you, and Jake was quick to lap it up. You grabbed his hair tighter, driving your hips into his face at a ravenous pace—practically fucking his face—and then it hit you again. Eyes rolled to the back of your head as your back arched in an awkward angle, your orgasm hits you hard. It’s without warning, heart-pounding, with a certain addiction—as sweet as cotton candy grapes.

Dividers by the talented @drizztdohurtin

[onlyseokmins]

ash and cinders • l.s.m.

Pairing: lee seokmin x fem!reader Genres: smut (minors dni!), angst, royalty!au, fantasy!au, gods/goddesses!au Warnings: magic, mentions of blood, war, cruelty, tyranny - all that good stuff, mentions of religion (au-specific), violence (i.e. suggestion of murder), (death) threats, and possible gaslighting 💃🏻 which just means a minor power play between them at first okay 😬 i promise it's not that bad lmao i'm just paranoid, lots of making out, oral (fem. receiving), lil bit of temp play tbh, little bit of choking, uh I wrote this so long ago and just finished it so lmk if i forgot anything?? it's just basically me attempting to write prettily uwu WC: 4.24k A/N: soooo, this has been rotting in my drafts FOREVER!!! but yeah seokmin is my most darling, favorite boy i've ever stanned anyways ofc i couldn't help but use his elle magazine photos (yes that's how long this has been ROTTING) ahhhhh - ahem anyways this goes hand-in-hand with Mischief Maker so definitely recommend checking that one out too! heheh <3

He only stayed during the night.    

When the blanket of darkness covered even the moon with a hazy layer of clouds, leaving tiny twinkling stars for a traveler’s guide. The fire once dancing in the hearth dwindled down to scarlet embers barely emitting enough heat to fill the large quarters.

Not that it mattered.

Even as you lay naked amidst the silken sheets strewn upon the grand bed, the thought of your lover’s return alone was enough to engulf your body in a flame of burning anticipation that settles and simmers between your legs.

He had been gone far too long. A lengthy patrol around the surrounding territories had taken him away from your embrace. Although every morning the sun’s rays tickled your face as a sweet greeting and bathed you in a radiant light through the day, nights without him were by far the worst.    

Cold.    

Lonely.    

Dark.

On usual accounts, it was a grievous crime to keep the queen waiting. But you would forgive him for anything, wouldn’t you? It’s exemplified in the way he bursts through the doors without so much as a courteous knock that even your most trusted servants must abide by, water droplets dripping from his auburn bangs.

Despite the eagerness to see you as soon as possible, he refused to step foot into your chambers when reeking of blood after fierce combat and soiled with dirt from travel. You always protested. The gilded throne you reigned from, the heavy crown upon your head, and even the bed you shared — all were built upon those very foundations. But your lover insisted on only showcasing the glorious side of things to you.

The gold.    

The diamonds.

The luxuries.

All which adorned you by day. Glowing, glistening, and shining. Gems and jewels, fabrics woven from the highest quality quickly reduced to layers that only became a hindrance once it came time for his descent upon you. For you were absolutely beautiful clothed — this he very well knew — but when your whole body was bared naked for him and him alone? You were truly the definition of divine.

Those who dared to speak ill of you tried to foster ridiculous claims. Critical of the wealth in your possession. Mocked what they presumed was a lack of ambition. Wailed that you were a witch. A young monarch on an undeniable downfall to tyranny, one that would lead them all to hellfire and ruin.

Anything to validate that you were not worthy of the royal seal emblazoned across the lands in honor of a valiant leader with a royal bloodline still running through your veins.

Hypocrisy at its finest when you were the reason that they were bestowed or able to retain property linked to their names, money in their pockets, and a legacy to live by under your prosperous reign. Arrogant to cast down the very thing that elevated them to their current standing. But their greed would eventually come back to bite them. One day.

Even the religious sect whispered lowly, hidden in the shadows of the grand temples. Doubts that the king actually held a shred of affection for his partner — if the seldom visits seen visiting your chambers only when night falls were of any substantial evidence to go by. That he only lay with you out of duty, shackled and bound to an imposter who was never a faithful servant to the gods like they were.

Because not one of them truly believed that a god could ever favor, let alone love, a human.

You knew you were a savior to as many as you were also an enemy. A hindrance and a threat. A bold refusal to control or be controlled. There was nothing more to do other than lead your people as fairly as you judged. 

All the preposterous assumptions infuriated him — your devoted knight, unorthodox husband, and scandalous lover. But he manages to temper his fiery rage out of respect for you. Behind your ruthless, steely intent is a righteous and kind heart that always calls out for him, now fully vocalized and embellished by the sweet voice he's missed hearing dearly.

“Seokmin,” you murmur, grasping his warm hand once he's within reach.

An entity of many epithets with an existence worth a millennium beyond comprehension and full of worship. Yet his favorite phonetic combination he'd ever heard was the one that fell breathlessly from your lips. The closest the human tongue could get to a god’s true name. And his second favorite would be yours, the syllables rumbling in his chest like a song and you smiled in contentment.

He was back, he was home, and he was yours.

Even in the darkness, Seokmin glowed. The ethereal radiance surrounding the broad expanse of sinewy muscles easily proved his lofty status as the great god of the sun. But it was also his eyes, flickering with the unmistakable presence as one of many deities. The kind of power that has managed to refrain from turning you into ash and cinders.

Whether it's attributed to your resilience, a ruler born to stand out and lead, or an entirely different reason — or a mixture of all — Seokmin isn't really sure. He's not the first to appear in a human vessel nor the last, with at least twelve of his known brothers wandering the mortal world for various reasons.

He wonders if he's the first to bow his head willingly, though, holding back his more devious and destructive tendencies. To pay back tenfold the worship he's received since the beginning of time all to you — a mere human — yet nonetheless, his queen.

The event of swearing his undying fealty feels like it was yesterday. For a being that persists forever, it may as well have been that short ago. Every memory he etches and sears into his mind for eternity consists of you, and only you.

How could he forget? How was he supposed to bury away the confident smirk that graced your lovely lips? Would he ever not recall the first time he bent the knee in such desperation? Not for a trick or as a dark seduction that tumbles into a dreadful demise, a conquest for carnage, and an abuse of his powers. But instead for the good of humanity — however short of an era it may be.

And maybe… for more. One that his heart fears to admit, for it does not beat within his chest, but in a plane beyond the reach of mortals.

"Would you kill for me?"

"For you, anything," the god affirms. "I have laid waste to kingdoms, countries, empires, and even continents themselves. There is nothing I'm incapable of."

"And if I asked you to behead the entire entourage that has traveled with you?"

"… If it is what you will, then it is simply my command to follow. For you, I am a lone knight at your disposal."

Silken skirts flare out as does your anger when you turn away from the large windows in the tower's tiny excuse of a throne room — hardly fit for the heir — showcasing a brief flash of the lethal dagger strapped to your thigh. "Do you wish for my downfall before I've even risen to the throne? You expect me to be a tyrant, despised by the people I am meant to save? To lead?"

"Do you think I, a god, care what thoughts others conjure up in their silly little minds? I am to act on your behalf, get my hands dirty in lieu of you. No matter how morbid your desires may be."

Stepping closer, you lift his chin with the tip of a dull sword intended to be ornamental. But it may be even deadlier than the one hung at his side, metaphorically sharpened and honed by a rebel princess's innate rage. 

His little show of bowing means little with the way he stares straight at you without a shred of respect in those galaxy-filled irises. However, it is the mighty sun god who is taken aback by the hellfire burning in your gaze, hungry and powerful enough to rival his own as you scoff.

"I will show you what kind of queen this land needs, the methods we will follow, and the morals I wish to uphold. You will learn in order to understand them and enforce my will. Not only to help guide the vision I desire but to keep me accountable lest I stray. A critical misstep such as that is when I'll ask you to cut me down. Will you swear to do that for me?"

"… You dare question a god of what he can do? Your tiny, impudent human mind couldn't fathom a sliver of my capability."

"I dare to question what you can't or won't do."

"I told you, there is not a thing beyond my realm of —"

"Leave."

"… Your Highness?"

Painted lips curl in a snarl at the first address of your proper title since his arrival. "Begone, I said! Return when you feel like acting like the god you are, not simply a tool to be harnessed and used at will. Until then, I have no need for you."

Seokmin's jaw drops as you seat yourself back on the throne with a sneer and flick of your wrist for the guard to usher him out.

A challenge. 

He's been abandoned many times. Discarded and tossed to the side once his usefulness has been expended. He's left before betrayal can even be thought of — for no one points a blade at a god's back — but never has he been rejected.

It was only the beginning of how you would become many of his 'firsts' and all of his 'lasts'.

Seokmin is lost deep in the memory even with the feeling of your lips curling in a gentle smile against his — a stark contrast to your initial meeting. A nail grazes his chin, digging lightly into the skin to fully bring the god back to the present. 

You'd be offended by the habitual spacing out if he hadn't admitted to only getting lost in thoughts of you. Something he'd picked up during the routine patrols away. Though you strive to bring the god out of dwelling in the past when you're sitting right in front of him — the present — and deepen the kiss.

Yet he pulls away to tilt his head. "Do you remember what you offered to me?"

"Have I not offered you my all, my king?"

Charcoal lying dormant in the hearth flares back to life, emitting playful sparks when he chuckles. "After I returned to pledge my loyalty to you."

"Ah, even though I had you wait outside the gates for five days."

"Unfathomable for a god to hang around at the whim of a meager human, isn't it?"

"Meager?"

"To me? Yes." 

His warm exhale of amusement feels just like the breeze that fondly brushes your cheeks every morning despite the eternal humidity. It may very well be him because no matter how far away physically from you he is, Seokmin's essence radiates in every sunray that stretches across the grand skies and below.

He is everywhere and everything all the time. But he is here with you tonight once again, kissing the palm you'd placed on his cheek. With mischief flickering like a teasing flame in his eyes, the god brings your hand to his throat, encouraging you to splay your fingers across his Adam's apple.

You free yourself from his light grasp to run them ticklishly up and down the bumps of his vocal cords. The movements of swallowing ripples beneath the light scratch of your nails until he halts you by replacing a veined hand over yours and murmurs, "Squeeze."

"Ah — but I…"

He repeats it again louder when you fail to do as asked, not even daring to move a muscle. Simply staring in almost awe-filled hesitation until he guides you to tentatively do exactly as he states, "You would have done anything to strangle me back then, what has changed?"

"… You know what."

"Tell me," he says it like it's a command, eyes brightening and swirling with an authoritative amber hue though it's all in jest. "Tell me what it is, my queen."

Never one to be deterred, only Seokmin could render you motionless for so long. You do as you're instructed, the gentle pressure applied by your hand around his throat causes auburn eyelashes to flutter. The slight restriction to an airflow that isn't all that necessary for a god's survival has his eyes rolling back before they re-focus on you, half-hidden by hooded eyelids.

"Love," you murmur. For it is the answer to everything, is it not?

"Love," is echoed with a resounding voice that doesn't fully come from the tongue of the man beneath you, but bellows out from an otherworldly essence that surrounds the entire world and beyond. And at the same time, he speaks it so fondly because ultimately, he's addressing it as a title for you.

The god of the sun, as immortal as he might be, has died before. Mortal vessels manage to persevere for a fixed number of years and a feeble human body can only endure so much wear and tear. Yet Seokmin's soul still shines steadily onwards despite the memory of death over and over again lingering… and he unsurprisingly realizes that he wouldn't mind dying like this — by your hand. 

Was that love? 

But the amount of power, energy, and time, along with the unpredictable wiles of the creator would never guarantee him returning to you. Preservation of this human shell was of the utmost importance, the first time he's ever handled a vessel with care before.

Perhaps that was love.

Rather than be swept up in unpleasantries, he entertains the amusing thought of how much fragility you exercise with him. Having already released your grip far too quickly and instead, fiddle with the untied laces on his loose shirt.

"Love," he repeats, this time as a call in a raspy drawl of his own voice. 

"Hm. Or maybe it was… pity."

An eyebrow raises and the corners of Seokmin's mouth twitch upward. "Only my queen would dare to pity a god."

"It was for what you were. And who you weren't. I despise those uppity, repetitive displays of unwavering loyalty that either party can easily discard."

"Like the former king's imperial court."

"Yes." 

Your angered hiss is exactly the same as the first time you informed him of your plans to take down your father and his cult. The disgust and rage have barely ebbed even after all the progress made for a better future and as many years that have passed. 

Seokmin scans your expressions. He's always admired your spitfire that could rival his own flames. But in times when it burns long enough to possibly exhaust or hurt you, he worries. You're strong — he knows that — so many times he simply becomes the safe space where you can seethe aloud without interruption. 

"Would you rather grow dull and be poisoned because someone is not even worth keeping an eye on or the thrill of unpredictability? A constant sword dance that keeps each other on their toes, never deviating gazes from one another."

He smirks. "That sounds familiar."

You think back to earlier days with him. A stubborn royal and an even more stubborn deity. When did the challenging, pointed glares at one another change to simmering looks of desire?

Instead of your swords tangling together in an angry clash over a small matter, it was your tongues after a heated sparring session. How condescension switched to respect to something more passionate… more primal… more intimate.

"Perhaps so. But look at you now — look at how you shine."

His skin indeed glows a bit brighter as he melts further into the soft touch of your palm returning to his cheek. Thumb tracing constellations between the pair of moles on his cheek while your other finger follows the nearly invisible scar below his eye.

"Little blemishes," he had once told you, "even the body of a god bears its flaws after fighting on a battlefield."

You thought they only made him all the more perfect.

"And look at how I've fallen."

As if to demonstrate his murmured words, Seokmin moves at the speed of light — his normal pace — to lie on his back, umber strands of hair spread out like flames of fire against the grandiose bed's silken sheets.

Somehow, he'd positioned you on top of him. Much accustomed to the tiny displays of omnipotence here and there, you remain unbothered. Affectionately, you brush back his bangs. Fiery wisps of hair that seemingly move on their own accord with the amount of power that ripples through their thin fibers.

He might just be the most powerful among his fellow deities and you could wield all of that as your own because he sits obediently in the palm of your hand. Lays dociley among your silken sheets. What he's trying to prove to you — the hold you have over him — immediately enthralled under your spell as you play with his locks and softly whisper, "You're Seokmin. My Seokmin."

Despite your bare chest quite literally in his face, the god waits. Fully clothed in soft linens where he can feel every tempting pulse thundering in your precious mortal body on top of his. 

And still, he waits. 

His hands don't even reach out as you unlace his shirt. Though he has wrecked and ruined your body in a thrillingly sensual, blistering, and passionate heat of love-making before, tonight he gives himself over to you. Vulnerable and all yours for the taking, watching with faint amusement as you impatiently urge him to shed the rest of his garments.

"My queen."

"My king."

"There is no rush. We have all of eternity."

"Do we?" you breathe out and look him in the eyes as your fingers dance along his inner thigh. "Or is it only you, divine ruler of the everlasting dawn and never-ending night?"

"My graceful moon," Seokmin sighs and distracts you from grasping his weeping shaft, urging you to straddle his legs. You follow his will despite the object of your desires lying neglected between your bodies, coating your stomach in the molten saltiness that drips from it.

"My stars, my sky, my galaxy, my universe." Each title of affection is seared into your skin with a burning kiss to brand your body. Your cheek, your ear, your neck, your shoulder, and your hand. "Without you in it, the world ceases to exist."

"My sun, my warrior, my knight, my shield, and my sword." You repeat a version of your own display of worship and what he means to you — mimicking the same actions across his lithe body. "My love, it would do you good to live in the present with me. Must you think of a dire future so soon?"

"Each inhale of life thus returns an exhale of death. I dread every moment that brings me closer to your end."

"Such morbid thoughts you carry, my darling. Where is the fearless god that took a poisoned arrow to the heart and pulled it out without so much as a flinch?" 

"You think me weak when I'd take the blow of any weapon as long as it does not harm you."

The irony when you'd both been struck by invisible, non-lethal darts fired from the god of love's feathered bow. But the terrifying memory of Seokmin taking the assassination attempt in your place causes a rare, but true, fear twisting in your gut. The flash of life before your eyes changed the trajectory of your tactics and your relationship with the god. And as always he reassures you with what he knows to be the truth — for the most part.

"Nothing can hurt me as long as you're alright." 

"Then make me your goddess in return so that I will be invincible enough to protect you from harm's wrath too." 

"But that… you know I can't," he whimpers, "no matter how much I long to." 

A tear trickles down his cheek, crystallizing when it falls. Like many before and well after, all bodily fluids of the god will be found transformed as various tiny diamonds and gems. Tangled within the bedsheets the following morning as they always are and stored away in the queen's treasury.

Seokmin cries, not just at his frustrations, but at how you gingerly hold his hot and hardened length. Heavy in your palm that rubs and strokes it lovingly before sinking down with practiced ease, having already stretched yourself out earlier while waiting. Undulating your hips in slow, controlled circles that make him dizzy with desire. Your words pierce his chest, paining him like no sword that sliced him open could ever compare.

"If fate will not let it happen, then bury me in the ground so I can thrive beneath your warm rays that whisper sweet nothings. Let me smile up at you after winter passes while I bloom brilliantly through spring and long into the heated days of summer. Weave my soul among the stars so I may greet you in the morning and kiss you goodnight every evening. Scatter my ashes into the windy gusts of the north and down the silver rivers flowing south so I may laugh and dance in the skies alongside your sunbeams."

He sobs at the poignant emotional tug of your words, every poetry waxed by your breathy voice punctuated by a tantalizing undulation of your hips. You reassuringly clench around him, foreheads and bodies pressed together, hands clasped tightly in each other's grasp.

The god's chest heaves and the mountains on the eastern border shift to the left. Sometimes the air cools when this occurs but tonight, it shimmers and glistens as if straining against his commands. A hot wave that threatens to distort the very seam of reality itself. 

"I will always be yours," you kiss the corner of his trembling lips, "and you mine, my darling god."

"My sweet goddess, my everything… my love."

Seokmin's hips buck up anxiously and you let him lead the pace. Wild thrusts take over as he chases that high, wanting and needing to take you over that peak with him. Your body lays prone against him, along for the jostling ride as the god seeks his own pleasure through and with you. Praises and worship fall from his lips, never failing to be in awe of how your cunt molds and works his cock like a blacksmith shapes an iron rod yet he can bully it as he wants to fit him. Only him. 

You were made for the god of the sun.

Golden ichor thrums through his veins, lighting his skin in flashes like the sparks of embers. He's beautiful. Otherworldly. Your lips capture each glowing pulse of godliness that erupts beneath his flesh with a tender peck. He's all yours.

And he was made for you.

When Seokmin plunges into your welcoming warmth that is his alone to claim before he finally succumbs, it's blinding. On the other side of the earth, the sun shines a little brighter. A harsh glint that already emits a sweltering heat from its fiery nature flares even hotter in the blue sky. A blessed priestess looks up in contemplation, waving away the worried maidens who tend to her every need.

You feel his large hands — one presses in a bruising hold between your shoulders, the other on your lower back. Keeping you flush against him, holding your body to his while you welcome inside the scorching spurts of his seed within your womb that feel like lava. Your walls flutter around him and he basks in the feeling of them pulsating as you jerk your hips 

"Come," he begs out. It's loud and resounding. More of an instinctual command if anything and your body almost obeys unwittingly, unaware of his intent before he lifts you up with inhuman strength and clarifies, "Up here," and sits you on your rightful throne — his face, "where you deserve, the queen of queens. My queen. My love. My goddess."

He laps at you like a dehydrated dog. Both cleaning you up and creating an even bigger mess. Your thighs squeeze tightly around the sides of Seokmin's head, one hand tugging harshly at his hair and the other mercilessly wrinkling the silk bed sheets. His moans are sweet songs of praise but muffled as he sucks his release out of your cunt only to push it back inside with his tongue. The addition of globs of spit accompanying the still-hot, smeared mess causes your own sounds to grow much louder, writhing on top of him from the sloppy sensations.

Back and forth he repeats this a couple of times, the firm point of his nose stimulating your sore clit in his efforts. And finally, you come undone — spasming on top of Seokmin's chin and suffocating him just like he likes. Breathing and drowning in your essence, the very elixir of life.

"I shall make you mine," he whispers later, dutifully laying your deliciously aching but clean body onto freshened sheets. Your lover is ever so attentive, rarely nearly needing the same amount of aftercare he showers upon you.

For he is a god from the heavens to bestow blessings upon his desired mortal.

"I am already yours."

"But for all of eternity, it shall be so."

Satiated and content, you reach for him. He lovingly takes your hand and presses a kiss to the tip of each of your fingers. "How?"

"The Mother. She's the closest thing we have to the Creator and might be older than the universe itself. There's nothing she doesn't know so I'm sure she'll have the answers I seek."

"Must you leave so soon?"

Seokmin smiles as he pulls the sheets over your shoulders. "The sun never fails to rise, my dear. I will be back before you know it bringing with me tidings of great news."

"I'll be waiting."

Your shared kiss is soft and gentle. Sweet and full of sentiment. Indeed, you always wait for him and the sun god leaves with a full heart of hope. Little does he know, and little do you suspect, the true one lying in wait was the shadowed figure holding a poisoned dagger beneath their cloak.

And so, with the death of a queen so loved by the god of the sun… the prophecy begins.

onlyseokmins: September 2024 ©

[twigg96]

Don’t Push It

Pairing: Daryl x GN! Reader

Era: Alexandria (Pre-Season 8)

Pronouns: You/They/Them

Warning: Crack, Eugene being a perv, Angy Daryl, Protective Daryl, insinuated spicy scene, forgiveness of Eugene

A/N:

Hello lovelies. I would like to state that I think Eugene is a very unique character and I adore him in a very special way. I have many HCs about him and might release them eventually but for now please enjoy this fic. I just wanted to state for the fact I do not hate Eugene even though I placed him in a not fantastic light here!

The warm summer air buzzed with excitement in the Alexandrian homestead. Gardens were planted in the early spring and only now were starting to begin to produce flowers and food that the community so desperately needed. The sweet smell of earth's nectarous vegetables and fruit mixed with that of fresh cut grass, a scent you had never known you would ever miss so much in the apocalypse. It was a smell so heavenly you wished you could bottle it up.

Sitting on the garden wall with one of your freshly picked winnings you perched your leg up, resting your elbow on your thigh to help stretch out your aching back.

“Hell of a harvest.” Abraham murmured wiping a thick layer of sweat from his brow.

“Might be too much to use at one time…” Sasha sighed shaking her head examining the bounty standing next to Abraham. She stared down at the bushels of veggies and fruits the community had grown counting out loud. "It would all go bad before we'd use it all..."

“Could can it. Could make good jam and preserves.” You suggested taking a bite of the veggie you held in your hand.

“Or dry ‘em out.” Daryl murmured popping out of the crops covered in soil as your boyfriend tossed another bushel of carrots onto the pile.

“Could rehydrate them in stews or jest eat them like jerky.” A hum of affirmation rolled through the group as you all eyed the feast sitting in front of you. No matter what you chose, Alexandria was going to be well fed for a long time.

Glancing over your shoulder at footsteps crunching down the gravel pathway towards the gardens toward you and your group, your first instinct was to tense and prepare yourself for the worst. This world had hardened you. Made you jumpy and pessimistic.

His eyes plastered to the rocks beneath his feet you felt your body recoil. Eugene had never been someone who made you feel comfortable to be around. He always eyed you a little too closely, analytically. And this time as you saw Eugene trudge in as if with a purpose and a mission not even bothering to acknowledge Abraham or Sasha as they greeted him, you felt more like prey in his sights in his eyes than ever before.

Your stomach sank as his intent gaze turned from the ground onto you. He eyed you as if you were a science project he was so desperately trying to get ready for a middle school science fair. Or maybe an ameba that he was studying under a microscope desperate to understand. Your breath felt heavy in your lungs when you looked at him, so you turned your gaze to your fresh breath of air. To Daryl who all but shot Eugene with his glare. The scientist pissed him off in a way way too many could. He made him feel dumb and insignificant. He asked him questions to deliberately make Daryl feel stupid and uneducated. A nerve that the Dixon was very sensitive with and thus you were very protective of.

You shifted where you sat on your perch upon the wall watching as Eugene took his place right in front of you, just a tad too close for comfort.

"Hello... I'd like to formally request a private audience with you." The doctor's thick southern accent did not accompany his attempt at "proper communication" well. Instead he just sounded like he was parodying Shakespeare to a point it was painful and inappropriate. But that was Eugene... and he was in fact inelegant in some aspects... but profoundly knowledgeable in most so you let it slide in some cases.

This one however had you cocking your head and raising your brow in a sort of amusement at him.

"Private audience? What do you think I am now Eugene?" You teased. The doctor nodded, his throat bobbing as he swallowed thickly, staring at the ground in thought for a mere second before meeting your eyes once more.

"Someone worthy of it... a monarch... a deity even." He mused. Sitting up straight in surprise you glanced behind the portly man to see Abraham pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation.

"God damn it Eugene..." The red head hummed with a giggle from Sasha by his side. Daryl however did not seem amused by any of what was going on. His glare planted firmly in the middle of Eugene's back.

"Shut up Abraham." Eugene bit out harshly.

"I said I wanted ta talk ta them in private... so get out." He ordered pointing down the path he just came up.

Abraham rolled his eyes and sighed his mustache fluttering with the act. But he didn't move. Instead he his hand wound tight around Sasha's, his eyes meeting yours, silently reading your face. He was friends with Eugene, yes. Best friends even. But that wouldn't stop him from kicking his shit in if he ever made someone uncomfortable, especially someone he considered a friend. But you just shrugged offering Abraham a little smile. It was Eugene... what's the worst that could happen?

Abraham didn't seem to like that answer.

"Nah... We're stayin'." He growled glaring at the back of Eugene's head.

"Can't fucking tell me what to god damn do." He hissed with Sasha nodding by his side.

"Damn right. We were here working..." She hissed crossing her arms over her chest. Rolling his eyes Eugene gestured for you to follow walking a few steps down the path.

"They ain't comin'." Daryl growled defensively, making Eugene jump nearly a foot in the air as he turned to stare wide eyed at the archer then back at you who hadn't moved an inch.

"Daryl's right Eugene..." You hummed sending your archer a loving look that only somewhat softened the bristles on the man.

"I'm here to work even if I'm here on break right now. I can't just walk away... and really whatever you have to say... you should be able to say to my face with everyone else around." You said more confidently than you currently felt.

Waffling on his feet for a moment Eugene murmurs soft and low to himself. So low in fact that you couldn't hear what he was saying beyond your name and privacy. You did however hear Abraham and Sasha murmur to themselves about finding some serious 'help' for the poor guy. Maybe medication or a trip to Dr. Denise later when the gnome of a man looked back up at you, determined once more.

"Fine." He stated walking to stand back in front of you. Somehow even closer this time so he was between your crisscrossed legs.

"I'll just condense what I had to say down to it's bare essentials, since we are in a public place. Much like how you would distil ingredients for some chemical bonds." He drawled. Closing your eyes you scrubbed your face but nodded.

"Sure Eugene..."

Whatever... You think.

"What's up?"

Taking a deep breath he steps closer so that he was pressed up against the wall which you sat, clearing his throat he met your eyes staring at you as if you were the cure for cancer.

"I just think yer the bee's knees." He mused.

Awe that's actually pretty sweet... You think, your shoulders relaxing and a soft smile gracing your lips.

"I'd very much like ta lay you out like a firm steak and pound you out on the counter top until your soft and tender." He said smirking up at you with all the confidence as if he had just solved world hunger... even going as far as to lay his hands on the wall on either side of your thighs.

You gasped completely appalled staring back down at him, completely shocked and mortified you blinked and shook your head. Truly you were not entirely certain you had just heard him correctly. And by the looks on friends' and more importantly boyfriend's faces it seemed they weren't sure about what they heard either.

"I want to split you open and eat you like Sunday dinner after church."

WHAT THE FUCK?!

Your mind defrosted. You'd definitely heard him right that time.

What the fuck? WHAT. THE. FUCK?! What gave him that idea?

One glance back you nearly broke into tears. With laughter and embarrassment. Abraham stood eyes wide, mouth agape staring at Eugene like he was the missing link. Beet red you couldn't tell if it was because he was royally pissed or if he was just as embarrassed as you felt.

Sasha glared. She glared hard with intent. You had a feeling if Abraham didn't have her wrist in his hand she might have slapped the ever loving shit out of Eugene.

But then Daryl... God Daryl was unreadable. He looked somewhere torn between murderous and betrayed. It had taken you months to get Daryl back out of his shell after everything on the road... after the prison. If it weren't for you and Rick... He might not be in Alexandria at all. Your heart broke. A cold fear fell upon your shoulders. Daryl could fall back into it. Retract. Leave.

In your thoughts you'd missed what Eugene had been saying. He just kept talking... and talking... and talking. He always did. But this time was different, it was vile, filthy degrading things coming from his mouth. Things that made you angry and sickened and embarrassed.

"-tell you about how I could use my knowledge of science in the bedroom. I am smarter than you in everyway which is a huge turn on."

Enough...

"Oh and don't get me started on-"

Shut up...

"You should let me-"

Glaring daggers at Eugene you stood on the edge of the wall, now a full body height taller than him. Not that he seemed to mind one bit. Creep.

"Shut the fuck up." You hissed, feeling dirty as he nodded greedily at you. Hopping off the wall you landed on your feet beside him. Grabbing him by the collar you shoved him hard into the wall knocking his head into the the rocks. The shiver of pleasure that ran through him made your skin crawl.

"Let me get this through your thick fucking skull." You hissed getting into his face. "I do not want to have sex with you. I will never want to have sex with you." You growled shoving against him. But instead of an immediate pleasured sound he seemed to just examine you once more.

That is until you felt the presence shift behind you from emptiness to tense and protective. A dirty calloused hand gripped your forearm pulling you back a step to stand behind the archer's back to see his wings.

"They ain't gonna repeat it... but I sure as fuck will." Daryl growled stepping up nose to nose with Eugene.

"Don’t fuckin’ push yer luck. Stay the fuck away from 'em. If I ever see you houndin' round them again... I'll beat yer ass." He hiss tilting his head threateningly.

Eugene shivered and shook. His eyes wide in terror searching for yours and Abraham's for what you could only assume was assistance. But as you stood there, feeling not a drop of empathy for him, Abraham and Sasha came to stand beside you. Slamming his hand into the wall beside Eugene's head Daryl huffed.

"Hell if I even get wind of you comin' near them again and it's not for somethin' life or death. I'll beat your ass." Shoving away from the wall Daryl eyed Eugene with a shake of his head, distaste dripping from his expression.

"Ya think yer such a big man. Can do whatever the hell ya like jest cause ya can throw a few big words round... ya ain't shit. Now fuck off." He hissed walking over to you wrapping his arm around your waist. A dark angry look filled Eugene's eyes. One that sent shivers down your spine and creep to hide behind Daryl once more.

"You think just because you have strength that they are attracted to you. But you are an ignoramus a-" His rant was short lived. Daryl only had to move slightly, pretending to pull back in preparation to punch Eugene before the doctor was scurrying down the path faster than anyone had ever seen him move before.

"I'm gonna have a real stern talk with him... Excuse me" Abraham sighed scrubbing his hand down his face as he followed down the path to follow his friend. Sasha however waffled her feet her eyes flicking between Daryl and you.

"I'm going to just... go harvest... over there if you need me." She said awkwardly moving to the other side of the garden where she could very much still hear and see you both.

Slowly Daryl turned to face you his eyes glimmering with something dark and dangerous.

"Daryl..." You whispered shaking your head softly a pout playing on your lips. Slowly Daryl's fingers curled and unfurled around the nothingness that was the air. His piercing blues scanned down your body sending a shiver down your spine. You opened your mouth a breath was all you could take before his hand shot out and gripped your neck backing you into the wall he looked down at you with an intensity that brought goosebumps to your skin.

"He do this before? He hurt you?" Daryl growled protectively. His grip on your skin wasn't tight. But inviting and comforting. Reaching up to his wrist you felt him release his hold. Bringing his hand up to your lips slowly you kiss his knuckles then the palm of his hand.

"My love..." You whispered. "I would have told you in a heartbeat if anyone came near me."

Daryl watched you. Studied your actions. His hand relaxing against your lips. Fingers unfurling to take up your cheek and hold it as he pressed his forehead against yours.

“Fuckin better have.” He whispered softly. His eyes meeting yours. A deep yearning sucking you in as he met your lips, wrapping his arm around your waist possessively. Pulling you tight to his body you felt his need press into your hip. His tongue tangling with yours before trailing down your lips and jaw to the soft spot on your neck.

His breath caught in his throat. Words going unsaid Daryl pulled away glancing down the path Eugene and Abraham had just walked down. The soft glint in his eyes melting back into a hateful tone.

“Hey…” You whisper. “how about we go for a ride?” You ask interlocking your fingers in his. Cocking a brow Daryl simply blinked at you.

“Yeah. Why not?” You ask smiling up at him. “We can. Grab our gear from the house. Go to Aaron’s get some supplies. Tell Rick and make a week of it. How’s that sound. Just us outside the walls for a week?”

Lifting the side of his thumb to his mouth Daryl chewed and picked at it for several minutes, glancing over to where Sasha had wandered off to.

“Would you like that?” You whisper stepping forward slowly. Reaching up you wrapped your fingers around his wrist gently caressing your thumb across his skin, gentling his hand back to your side away from his mouth. Blue eyes met yours and you couldn’t help but swallow the thick nothing that got caught in your throat.

“Yeah…” He murmured. “Yeah let’s get the hell outta here.”

The ride to no where was soothing for the both of you. The rumble of the bike both lulled you into calm and ushered in a heat neither of you could ignore. Holding tight to Daryl’s middle your hands roaming did nothing to help the situation. The first safe place you found became the loudest once secured.

Scratch marks adorned your back. Sweat dripped down both your skin as you pressed your lips together. Murmuring of I love yous all throughout the night.

When you both returned a week later. Throughly happy, pleasured, relaxed and with treasures a plenty for Alexandria; Eugene, Abraham, and Sasha stood alongside Rick at the entrance. Daryl looked back at you. Waiting for your blessing before turning off the bike. Patting his side you nodded. You’d hear them out.

“I… would like to throughly express my apologies.” Eugene said softly, waffling his feet. “I acted irrationally and inappropriately. That was completely unacceptable. I hope we can continue to be friends.” He finished, glancing to Sasha and Abraham.

Sighing you glanced to Daryl. The murderous glint and anger was gone. Though he was waiting. Watching. He was watching you. Waiting on your reaction as much as you were watching his.

“I forgive you.” You say turning to Eugene, hugging Daryl tight around his middle. “I forgive you but I’m not happy with you.” A relief washed over Eugene though he nodded a serious look to his face.

“Understood. I have crossed a line I should never have crossed. It will not happen again.” He murmured. Hugging Daryl softly as if soothing a growling guard dog you smiled. “Good.”

[muiitoloko]

I’m sick with fever right now and I was thinking if you could write something about Alan’s character taking care of his partner? I don’t know which one but I need a rougher and older one to contrast with the fragility of his partner and to show him out of character? If you don’t want I totally understand.

Title: A Night of Softness.

Summary: On a cold, feverish night, Judge Turpin allows a moment of warmth to break through his stern exterior, holding his wife close as she drifts into sleep.

Pairing: Judge Turpin × Fem! Reader

Warnings: None.

Author's Notes: Oh no, I hope you feel better soon! 😔 I totally get the need for some comforting care, especially from a rougher, older character who shows that soft side we don't see often. So, guess what? I’m going to write something with Judge Turpin taking care of his partner! There’s something about that contrast that makes it all the more heartwarming. Stay cozy, and I hope this story will be like a warm blanket for you! 🌟

Also read on Ao3

Judge Richard Turpin strode into the grand foyer of his opulent mansion, the sound of his boots echoing off the marble floors. He removed his hat with a swift motion, handing it to a waiting servant, while another immediately stepped forward to help him with his heavy coat. The household was well-trained, as expected, and no one dared speak unless spoken to first.

“Where is my wife?” Turpin asked, his baritone voice cold and commanding, though there was a hint of impatience in his tone. He had little tolerance for deviations from the expected order of things, and his wife’s absence from their usual evening routine was an unwelcome surprise.

The servants exchanged uneasy glances, hesitant to be the one to deliver potentially displeasing news. Finally, one of them, an older man with a bowed head, stepped forward. “Milord, the mistress is in bed,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “She has not been well today.”

Turpin’s expression darkened, his hazel eyes narrowing in suspicion. “In bed? At this hour?” he repeated, the edge in his voice sharper now. It was almost dinner time, and such behavior was unseemly for a woman of her station.

“Forgive me, milord,” the servant continued, clearly uncomfortable under Turpin’s stern gaze. “I attempted to summon the physician, but the mistress would not allow it.”

Turpin hummed to himself, a low, thoughtful sound that made the servants shift nervously on their feet. He was not a man known for his patience or his kindness, and the idea that his wife had refused medical attention both irritated and perplexed him. Without another word, he turned on his heel and began to ascend the grand staircase, his steps measured and deliberate.

As he approached the bedroom, the heavy wooden door creaked open at his touch. The room was dimly lit, the curtains drawn to block out the waning light of the day. The large four-poster bed dominated the room, its thick, luxurious curtains partially drawn, giving it an air of seclusion.

His gaze fell upon you, lying in the center of the bed, your form half-buried under layers of blankets. Your usually bright eyes were dull with fever, and your skin, normally so fair and delicate, was pale with an unhealthy hue. Even in your weakened state, you seemed startled by his presence, your breath catching in your throat as you looked up at him.

“Milord,” you murmured weakly, your voice a mere whisper of its usual self. “I… I didn’t expect you so soon."

Turpin’s lips pressed into a thin line as he moved closer to the bed, his tall figure looming over you. He said nothing at first, simply studying you with those piercing hazel eyes that always seemed to see more than they revealed. Finally, he reached out, his hand cool against your burning forehead.

“You’re feverish,” he stated flatly, though there was an undercurrent of something else in his tone—something that almost resembled concern, though he would never admit it. “Why did you refuse the doctor?”

You hesitated, uncertain of how to answer. It was true that you had always been somewhat fragile, prone to bouts of illness that left you weak and bedridden. But you had never wanted to appear weak in his eyes, never wanted to be a burden to him. You were still so unsure of your place in his life, still so afraid that he only kept you because it suited his needs.

“I… I didn’t want to trouble you, milord,” you finally said, averting your gaze from his intense scrutiny. “It’s just a slight fever. It will pass.”

Turpin’s hand tightened slightly on your shoulder, his fingers digging into the fabric of your nightgown. “You are my wife,” he said, his voice low and stern. “It is my responsibility to ensure your well-being. I will not have you ignoring your health out of some misguided sense of not wanting to trouble me.”

His words, though harsh, carried a weight that left you momentarily speechless. It was rare for him to show any hint of concern for you, and it left you feeling more vulnerable than you cared to admit.

“I am sorry, milord,” you whispered, your voice trembling slightly as you dared to look up at him once more. “I did not mean to worry you.”

For a moment, Turpin simply stared down at you, his expression inscrutable. Then, much to your surprise, he began to unfasten his cufflinks, rolling up his sleeves with an air of determination. Without a word, he turned and crossed the room to where a basin of water sat on a side table. He dipped a cloth into the cool water, wringing it out before returning to your side.

You watched in stunned silence as he gently pressed the damp cloth to your forehead, the coolness of it a welcome relief against your feverish skin. The action was so out of character for him, so far removed from the stern, imposing figure you had grown accustomed to, that you could hardly believe it was real.

“Rest,” he commanded softly, his voice a deep rumble that was almost soothing. “I will not leave your side until you are well again.”

You blinked up at him, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. The tenderness in his touch, the quiet resolve in his voice, it was more than you had ever dared hope for. For the first time since your marriage, you felt a glimmer of something more than fear or uncertainty—a small, fragile hope that perhaps there was more to this man than the cold, calculating exterior he so often showed the world.

As you closed your eyes, allowing the cool cloth and his steady presence to lull you into a much-needed rest, you couldn’t help but wonder if, beneath all his cruelty and sternness, there was a part of him that truly cared for you—a part that, for tonight at least, was willing to show itself.

As you drifted into a feverish sleep, Turpin remained by your side, his stern gaze fixed upon you. The room was silent, save for the soft crackle of the fire in the hearth and the occasional rustle of the curtains as a breeze slipped through the cracks of the old mansion. His mind, usually occupied with matters of the court and his own ambitions, was now solely focused on you—a rare occurrence that even he found unsettling.

He stood there as he had promised, unmoving, watching the rise and fall of your chest beneath the blankets. His hazel eyes, sharp and calculating in the courtroom, now softened as they traced the delicate features of your face. The fever had drained the color from your cheeks, but to him, you were still beautiful—something he had never told you, nor ever thought to. He had always believed that such sentiments were unnecessary, a weakness that had no place in his life. Yet here he was, unable to look away.

His hand, usually so firm and unyielding, hesitated before reaching out to touch a lock of your hair that had fallen across your forehead. The strands were cool and soft between his fingers, and he twirled them absently, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. He had never been one to show affection; it wasn’t in his nature. But there was something about the way you lay there, so vulnerable and fragile, that stirred an unfamiliar feeling within him—something that bordered on concern, though he would never admit it, not even to himself.

You murmured softly in your sleep, a faint sound that barely reached his ears, and he instinctively tightened his grip on the lock of hair, as if to reassure himself that you were still there, still breathing. The sight of you, so weakened and dependent on his care, made him uneasy. Turpin was a man accustomed to control, to power, and the thought that someone might actually rely on him, not out of fear but out of need, was a concept he had never fully grasped.

"Rest," he muttered under his breath, echoing the command he had given you earlier. His voice, even in this quiet moment, held its usual gruff authority, but there was a softness there as well—a reluctant tenderness that surprised even him.

He continued to play with your hair, his thoughts drifting to the last six months of your marriage. You had been little more than a pawn in his life, someone to fulfill the societal expectations of a man in his position. He had married you out of convenience, and perhaps a desire to possess something beautiful, something pure in his otherwise dark and corrupt world. But as he stood there, watching over you in your most vulnerable state, he couldn’t deny that you had become more to him than just a possession.

You stirred again, your fevered brow furrowing slightly, and he placed the cloth back on your forehead, his touch surprisingly gentle. It was a strange thing, this care he was giving you. He had always seen himself as a man above such sentiments, a man who took what he wanted and discarded what no longer served him. But with you, it was different. You were different.

His thoughts darkened as he considered how little you knew of his true nature, how little you understood the man you had married. There was cruelty in him, a deep-seated malice that had shaped his life and his decisions. He was a man of power, a judge who had condemned countless souls to their fates without a second thought. He was feared, hated even, by those who knew him, and yet here you were, lying so trustingly in his bed, under his care.

Turpin’s grip on your hair loosened as he let out a long, measured breath. He knew he wasn’t a good man—he had never pretended to be. But for some reason, the idea of you seeing him as anything other than your protector, your husband, unsettled him. He had never cared about anyone’s opinion of him before, yet with you, it was different. The thought of you fearing him, of you seeing the darkness within him, left a bitter taste in his mouth.

He withdrew his hand, letting the lock of hair fall back onto the pillow. His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer before he straightened, his expression hardening. There was no place for softness in his life, no place for the kind of care he was showing you now. And yet, as he turned to leave the room, he found himself hesitating at the door, glancing back at you one last time.

“Sleep well, my wife,” he whispered, the words barely audible, as if he were ashamed of them.

And with that, Judge Richard Turpin left the room, the door closing softly behind him. In the quiet solitude of his grand mansion, he allowed himself to care—just this once. Because even a man as cold and cruel as Turpin could not entirely extinguish the small flicker of warmth that your presence had ignited within him.

Turpin descended the grand staircase of his opulent mansion, his mind still occupied with the image of you lying feverish in the bed upstairs. The cool marble beneath his boots was a stark contrast to the warmth of your skin that lingered on his fingertips. As he reached the bottom of the stairs, the flickering candlelight cast long, ominous shadows against the ornate walls, giving the mansion an eerie, almost foreboding atmosphere.

Turpin’s expression hardened as he made his way through the dimly lit corridors, his sharp hazel eyes narrowing with renewed focus. The brief moment of tenderness he had shown upstairs was an anomaly, one he intended to swiftly bury beneath the weight of his usual demeanor. There was no room for weakness in his life, no place for sentimentality. He was a man of power, of control, and he would not allow himself to be swayed by fleeting emotions.

Reaching the servant’s quarters, Turpin’s presence was immediately noted by the staff, who scrambled to stand at attention, their eyes cast downward in a display of submission. He surveyed them with a cold, calculating gaze, his hooked nose casting a long shadow across his face. The silence in the room was suffocating, broken only by the crackling of the fireplace.

"Prepare a vegetable soup," Turpin commanded, his baritone voice cutting through the air like a knife. There was no kindness in his tone, only the strict expectation that his orders would be followed without question. "It is to be brought to the mistress’s room in one hour. Ensure it is hot and well-prepared. I will not tolerate any mistakes."

The servants nodded quickly, their heads bobbing in unison like frightened animals. "Yes, milord," one of them managed to stammer, her voice trembling under his withering gaze.

Turpin’s lip curled in disdain as he dismissed them with a wave of his hand, the gesture sharp and final. "Go," he barked, his voice laced with impatience. "Do not waste my time with your idle chatter. And be silent when you deliver it—she needs rest, not your simpering voices."

The servants scurried away, eager to carry out his orders and avoid further ire. Turpin watched them go, his expression one of cold satisfaction. He had no tolerance for incompetence, especially not in his own household. He expected nothing less than perfection from those under his command, and he had long since trained his staff to fear the consequences of failure.

With the matter settled, Turpin turned on his heel and made his way toward his office. The echo of his footsteps filled the empty hallways, a sound that had long since become synonymous with his presence in the mansion. His office was a place of solitude, a sanctuary where he could immerse himself in his work and shut out the world. It was here that he plotted and schemed, where he wielded his power like a weapon, ensuring that all who crossed him would come to regret it.

The heavy wooden door to his office creaked as he pushed it open, the dark mahogany panels gleaming in the firelight. He stepped inside, the scent of leather and aged parchment filling his senses as he closed the door behind him, sealing himself off from the rest of the mansion.

Turpin crossed the room, his hand brushing against the rows of leather-bound books that lined the walls. These books contained the knowledge and the power that he had amassed over the years, a testament to his cunning and ruthlessness. He pulled out a chair from behind his imposing desk and sat down, the leather creaking softly under his weight.

As he settled into his chair, his thoughts drifted back to you, lying weak and feverish in the bed upstairs. The memory of your soft, flushed skin and the sound of your labored breathing stirred something dark within him, a desire that he had kept tightly controlled, yet one that threatened to break free.

Turpin’s fingers drummed against the surface of the desk as he considered the irony of it all—here you were, so fragile and delicate, dependent on his care, yet entirely unaware of the depths of his cruelty, of the twisted thoughts that lurked behind his stern exterior. You saw him as a protector, perhaps even as a husband who might care for you, but in truth, he was far more complicated than that.

The power he wielded over you, over everyone in his life, was intoxicating, and it pleased him to see how easily you had submitted to his authority. You were his wife in name, but in reality, you were his possession, a beautiful object that he could mold and control as he saw fit. The thought sent a thrill down his spine, and he leaned back in his chair, a dark smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

But there was something else too, something that gnawed at the edges of his thoughts—a need for something more, something that went beyond mere control. The way you had looked up at him earlier, your eyes filled with fear and uncertainty, had stirred a desire in him that he had not felt in a long time—a desire not just to possess you, but to break you, to see you fully submit to him in every way.

He imagined you again, lying in that bed, but this time, it was not illness that weakened you, but him. You would look up at him with those same fearful eyes, your body trembling under his touch, as he took what he wanted, what he believed was rightfully his. The thought of it sent a wave of heat through him, and he could feel his control slipping, his mind drifting into darker, more forbidden territories.

Turpin’s breath quickened as he considered the possibilities, his hand tightening around the armrest of his chair. He knew he should suppress these thoughts, should focus on his work, but the temptation was too strong, too alluring to resist. You were upstairs, weak and vulnerable, completely at his mercy, and the idea of taking advantage of that vulnerability was intoxicating.

He rose from his chair, his movements deliberate, as if each step required a conscious effort to suppress the darker impulses that urged him forward. He exited the office, the heavy door creaking as it closed behind him, and made his way back upstairs to the bedroom. The corridors were silent, the only sound the soft padding of his boots against the thick carpets that lined the floors.

When he reached the bedroom door, he paused, his hand resting on the doorknob as he took a deep breath. He had come here with the intention of taking advantage of your weakened state, to claim what he believed was his by right. Yet now, as he stood on the threshold, something gave him pause. A part of him—a small, buried part—whispered that this was not the way, that he was about to cross a line from which there would be no return.

He opened the door slowly, the hinges creaking softly as he stepped inside. The room was just as he had left it, dimly lit and quiet, with only the soft rustle of the curtains and the faint crackle of the fire breaking the silence. You were still asleep, your breathing shallow and even, the cool cloth he had placed on your forehead still in place.

Turpin approached the bed, his footsteps soundless on the thick carpet. He stood over you for a moment, his hazel eyes tracing the delicate lines of your face, the way your lashes fluttered slightly against your flushed cheeks. You were so peaceful, so vulnerable in your sleep, and the sight of you stirred something deep within him—a protectiveness that was at odds with the darker desires that had driven him here.

Slowly, he reached out and took hold of the edge of the blanket, gently pulling it back to reveal your form beneath. You were dressed in a simple nightgown, the fabric clinging to your feverish skin, and the sight of you like this—so soft, so helpless—made his breath hitch in his throat.

He hesitated, his hand hovering above your chest, the warmth of your body radiating up to meet his cool fingers. His intention had been clear when he first entered the room, but now, as he stood there, the reality of what he was about to do washed over him like a cold wave. You stirred slightly in your sleep, a soft sigh escaping your lips, and he felt a pang of guilt pierce his heart.

Turpin’s hand trembled as he lowered it to your throat, his fingers lightly tracing the delicate line of your collarbone. The touch was gentle, almost reverent, and it was enough to wake you from your fevered slumber. Your eyes fluttered open, hazy and unfocused at first, before they slowly came into focus on his face.

“Richard?” you murmured, your voice weak and confused as you looked up at him, your brows furrowing slightly in concern.

Turpin froze, the sound of his name on your lips jolting him back to reality. For a moment, he couldn’t speak, his breath caught in his throat as he stared down at you, his hand still resting lightly against your throat. He had come here with every intention of taking advantage of you, yet now, as you looked up at him with those wide, trusting eyes, he found that he couldn’t go through with it.

“Shh,” he finally whispered, his voice rough and strained as he pulled his hand away from your throat, the touch lingering longer than he had intended. “Go back to sleep.”

You blinked up at him, your expression softening as you realized who he was. “Richard… I… I was dreaming,” you mumbled, your voice still thick with sleep as you reached up to touch his hand, the gesture weak but full of trust. “Are you… are you staying?”

Turpin hesitated, his mind racing as he tried to reconcile the conflicting emotions within him. He had never been a man who showed kindness easily, yet something about the way you looked at him now, with such vulnerability, made it impossible for him to refuse.

“I’m here,” he said gruffly, his tone rougher than he intended as he gently pushed your hand back down to your side. “Now, rest.”

You nodded weakly, the tension in your body easing as you let out a soft sigh. “Thank you, Richard,” you whispered.

Turpin stood there for a moment longer, his hand hovering above your head as if uncertain whether to touch you again or pull away. Finally, he reached out and gently brushed a stray lock of hair from your forehead, the motion careful and deliberate. He had never been one to show affection, but for some reason, this small gesture felt right.

You kept looking at him, your feverish eyes fixed on his stern face, searching for something that you couldn’t quite name. Turpin, ever the gruff and stoic man, shifted uncomfortably under your gaze. His hazel eyes, usually so sharp and unyielding, flickered with irritation as he glanced away, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Close your eyes and sleep,” he grumbled, his tone laced with impatience. “You need rest.”

You didn’t respond immediately, still watching him as if trying to decipher a puzzle. There was a strange vulnerability in your gaze, one that made him feel uneasy, as though you were peeling back layers of his carefully constructed armor with just a look.

“I don’t want to sleep,” you whispered after a moment, your voice soft but determined. The usual hesitance was gone, replaced by a quiet resolve. “Not anymore.”

Turpin’s brow furrowed at your words, and he turned back to you with a frown. “What nonsense is this?” he muttered, his tone harsher than intended. “You’re ill. Sleep is what you need.”

You hesitated, biting your lower lip as you considered your next words. There was something about this moment, something fragile and fleeting, that made you want to reach out to him in a way you had never dared before. Perhaps it was the fever that emboldened you, or perhaps it was the sight of him sitting there, rigid and uncomfortable, yet not leaving your side, that made you feel braver than usual.

“Richard…” you began, your voice trembling slightly as you looked down at your hands, wringing them nervously in your lap. “Could we… could we cuddle? Just for a little while?”

Turpin stiffened at your request, his eyes widening in surprise before narrowing into a glare. “No,” he replied flatly, his voice brooking no argument as he crossed his arms even tighter against his chest. “That’s out of the question.”

You nodded, but your gaze didn’t drop. Instead, you scooted closer to him on the bed, ignoring the way his eyes flashed with irritation as you did so. Your heart pounded in your chest, and you knew you were being bold—recklessly so—but there was a need within you, a desperate longing for comfort that you couldn’t suppress.

Before Turpin could react, you reached out and wrapped your arms around him, pulling him into a tentative hug. He froze instantly, his body going rigid beneath your touch, as though the very idea of such an embrace was utterly foreign to him. And perhaps it was, for you had never done this before, had never even thought to. But the need for closeness, for warmth, was stronger than the fear of his reaction.

For a long, tense moment, Turpin didn’t move. He sat there, stiff as a board, his hazel eyes wide with shock, staring down at the top of your head where it rested against his chest. His mind raced, trying to process what was happening, trying to reconcile this unexpected display of affection with the cold, controlled life he had always led.

“W-What are you doing?” he finally stammered, his baritone voice uncharacteristically shaky.

You didn’t answer immediately, your grip on him tightening just slightly as you buried your face against the coarse fabric of his vest. You felt his heartbeat beneath your cheek, strong and steady, and it brought you a strange sense of comfort, as though in that moment, the world beyond this room didn’t exist.

“I just needed… some comfort,” you mumbled, your voice muffled against his chest. “Just for a little while.”

Turpin blinked, utterly bewildered by your words. Comfort? It was a concept so alien to him, so far removed from the cold, calculated existence he had built for himself, that he didn’t know how to respond. He had never been one for physical affection, had never seen the point of it, and yet here you were, clinging to him like he was some kind of lifeline.

He opened his mouth to protest, to tell you to let go, but the words died on his lips as he felt the slight tremor in your body. It wasn’t just the fever that made you shake; it was something more, something deeper. And for reasons he couldn’t quite understand, that realization softened something inside him.

With a reluctant sigh, Turpin slowly, almost awkwardly, brought his arms down from his chest and placed them around you, his movements stiff and uncertain. He had never done this before, had never held someone like this, and it felt strange—both uncomfortable and oddly reassuring at the same time.

“There,” he muttered gruffly, his voice lacking its usual edge. “But just for a little while.”

You smiled against his chest, the small victory warming you more than any blanket could. His embrace was far from tender, but it was enough. It was more than you had ever expected from him, and in that moment, it was everything.

Turpin, for his part, remained silent, his eyes staring straight ahead as he tried to ignore the strange, fluttering sensation in his chest. He told himself this was just a temporary indulgence, that he was simply allowing you to calm yourself so that you could get the rest you needed. But as the minutes ticked by, and your breathing grew slow and even against him, he found that he didn’t mind it as much as he thought he would.

“Go to sleep,” he whispered, his voice softening despite himself.

You didn’t answer—your breathing had already evened out, and Turpin realized with a start that you had fallen asleep in his arms. He looked down at you, his expression softening as he took in the peaceful look on your face, the way your body had relaxed completely against him.

“Foolish girl,” he murmured, though there was no malice in his words, only a kind of reluctant affection that he didn’t quite know what to do with.

For a long time, Turpin remained there, holding you in the dim light of the room, his stern demeanor giving way to a strange, unfamiliar warmth. He knew that when morning came, he would return to his usual self—distant, cold, and unyielding. But for tonight, he allowed himself this small moment of softness, this brief indulgence in something he had long denied himself.

Because even the grumpiest of old men, it seemed, could not entirely resist the simple comfort of holding someone close.

[death---dealer]

Having snow ball fights with the apes playfully>>

*Laying all this fluff out for you guys in hopes that you forgive me for demolishing, and proceeding to demolish, your emotions with the customary series*

Noa.

Snow was rare for the area, Noa thought and watched as the delicate flakes fell from the gray sky above. Maybe… Once or twice in his entire life had it been cold enough for it to actually stick. It was nice, he was not denying that as a shiver ran down his spine, a few flakes clinging happily to the prickly fur that was standing up . The way it clung to the ground like it was the very breath it needed to survive, first only a dusting and getting piled on by the minute. As much as he wanted to pay attention to each flake to see if the tale was true - that they were all different shapes - his sharp green eyes caught the movement of you as were trotting through the open meadow, usually alight with greens and pastels of the wildflowers, now washen in white and almost blinding. 

But there you were, tightly bundled in a puff. Well, Noa knew it to be a winter jacket after he gave you a quizzical look when you slid it on in preparation of going outside, but the appearance and given the fact that it was a few sizes too big for you, make you look like you were walking around on stick legs, nothing more than one of those bugs that rolled in on itself out of defense on the top. He had always wondered what Echo’s did in the winter, when the cold was at its peak, and he finally got his answers. As funny at a distance as it looked, he found it endearing as you lifted your hand to play against the snowflakes in a bid to get some to melt against your open palm.

Like his thickened fur that set in right around mid-fall, you were also able to shuffle into layers, albeit, the idea of being able to shed it rather than it being a permanent fixture against your body was not favorable to him. How did you sleep with that thing on? He tilted his eyes, realizing that he had lost sight of you. Green gaze stuck around the area you had just been, Anaya and Soona coming into his periphery as they were coming to join the usual afternoon shenanigans before the evening meal. He lifted his head to greet them.

“Echo?” Anaya inquired, watching as your head finally popped up from the snow. You had been laying on your back, Noa realized, that’s how he lost sight of you. Curiously, he nodded at Anaya and the three of them walked towards you. “They’re called snow angels,” You smiled at your artwork as you straggled to your feet, trying to keep enough traction that you didn't sleep upon the sleek nature. “I--- Used to dream about making them as a kid, it never really snowed enough though.” The imprint of your body with what looked like wings imprinted on the ground looked like nothing other than a blob to all three of the Apes, but none of them had it in their hearts to really say anything about it as Noa soaked in your words a bit more than the others, “Snow… Angel?” Nodding, you crouched down and rolled some snow into your hands and began compacting it delicately at first but with gained momentum, it rolled into a semi-hardened ball and you found it hard not to laugh as you held the melting item in the palm of your hand, “This is a snowball.” Pretty on the nose as far as descriptive words went, Noa thought sarcastically and looked at it. He raised an eyebrow at you before you stood up quickly, arching your arm back and throwing the item with intense strength, so much so that Noa found the grunt you made when releasing to barrel through the air quite inviting.

Anaya was hit moments later.

Right on the back of the head, near the base of his neck. He growled at that, lifting a hand up and rubbing there before looking back towards you and Noa and you were fast to duck downwards, buffering yourself with your arms as you dropped to lay flat on your stomach. “Did he see me?” Noa, amused at his friend's reaction to being hit, laughed out a bit and looked down at you, “Yes, he’s coming this way.” Noa squinted, allowing himself the pleasure of Anaya dropping a large armful of snow right onto you. The screech you released followed by bouts of laughter were more than enough to convince Noa that these… Snowballs, you had called them, were a game and more fun than he initially thought.

Caesar.

Caesar did not like the snow. He did not mind the rain, but the snow was beyond his liking and it was a disgusting addition to the Colony that led to the ground being nothing more than a slurry of browns mixing into the whites, turning gray and gross with each step an Ape took against it. It was rather tolerable when he was able to stay in the confines of a fire, enjoying the heat more as his dense fur really seeped into his pores and he was able to be self-sufficient with heat for hours from sitting in front of a fire for only a few minutes. He had done just that earlier in the morning before you adamantly dragged him out of the toasted nature of the enclosure he shared with you. 

There was no way you were enjoying it either, given the fact that you had nothing against the cold other than a few layered sweaters and a larger one on top of the rest of the layers that you were able to cover your hands with and a hat. He made a mental note to himself, watching as you trailed a few feet in front of him, your boots leaving indentations in the pure snow below, that he’d look for a winter jacket for you and maybe some gloves the next time he stumbled upon an abandoned human camp if you weren’t with him. And if you were, he would remind you to look for the items yourself.

So caught up in the chill that rested in his bare feet, Caesar’s gaze had been watching the way your steps looked in the snow below, when he looked up to see if you were still near, you were… Gone. He came to a slow stop at that. You couldn’t have gotten far, otherwise your movements would have been more detectable. Narrowing his gaze, his right ear picked up on a few sounds behind a large tree, frosted over the bark and up to Caesar’s shoulder. There you were, he thought to himself and with a small grumble in his chest to keep himself motivated to move rather than going back to the Colony in hopes that you would simply follow, he gravitated towards the tree, but once he looked behind it completely, you were nowhere to be seen. Obviously, from the stances of your feet in the snow below, you had been but the rapid nature of your steps, you had moved away just as quickly. Caesar drew a deep breath in. He had no time or willpower for games this late morning.

He understood the premise, you wanted to enjoy the cold and didn't want to be trapped inside the Colony the entire day, and snow was always a good time, he recalled at times reading children books when he was younger with Will detailing days spent in the snow. Snowmen, snow angels, snowballs, igloos… His favorite, admittedly, was Curious George in the Snow. He was still able to see the pictures vividly, to read the words to the best of his ability. A very happy monkey in the snow, versus a very grumpy Chimpanzee baring through it for the sake of his mate. How twisted life was sometimes, Caesar laughed at that and stayed near the tree you had been.

He could have sworn he heard your voice saying his name to the left and without hesitation at the beckon, never something that was a threat when it came from you and you only, he turned his head in the direction he thought it was coming from. You were playing hide and seek, Caesar dabbled on that with a brief smile. First, you drag him out into the snow and then you dare play a game with him that he, inherently as an Ape, was really good at and he was going to---

A flurry of white hit his peripheral before an explosion of snow hit his vision, blinding him for just a second before his eyes focused. Mouth ajar, he looked in the direction the projectile came from and he came to face his attacker. You. Another snowball in your hands and you had just nailed him with another. The smile on your face was beyond smug, something Caesar wanted to drag you home with in hopes that maybe he’d be able to wipe it straight off with a good session in the nest, the justification being that he was staving off your hypothermia. 

He considered the same retaliation, but you would see that coming. Seeing him bend down, forming a ball and by the time the Ape King stood, you were more than likely running off afraid of being pelted. Instead, you laughed at him, the smile so familiar and drawing Caesar in closer, close… He dropped. On all fours and galloped right at you, your reaction being too slow and without reserve, Caesar had you tackled down into the snow, careful enough in his movements that he wasn’t going to hurt you, but you did groan upon impact, your entire body suddenly being wrapped in warm as he laid himself flat on top of you. “Let me go.” You straggled, unable to hide the amusement in your face as you chuckled, weezing out a few cackles. “Caesar!” “No.” You felt like you couldn’t catch your breath as you threw your head back, his hands coming to grasp at your hips to keep you pinned down. “I can’t breathe!” “Yes you can.” He made sure of his words by not pressing his full body weight. “Apologize.” “Never.” “Apologize.” “You deserved it, I’m sorry I hit your face, I-I swear I was aiming for your chest.” Your laughter soon became nervous as Caesar’s hands left your body, and he was reaching above your head to cup some snow. “No, you wouldn’t.”

He wasn’t stopping, your laughter boisterous as you began struggling against him. Not out of primal, animalistic fear, out of fear of the snow hitting your face. He dangled it right above your face, your eyes focusing on the flurries. 

“Apologize.”

Cackling like a maniac, you shook your head, reaching above your head in a mirror of Caesar's previous actions, slamming some more snow against the side of his face. He was shocked enough by that, the snow in his grasp falling as you finally managed to get yourself free and without worry or care, you began running off. Caesar blinked. And then again, not willing to admit that he was having fun, before he rose carefully, darting right after you in a bid of revenge.

Blue Eyes / Ash.

You looked at Ash with intent focus. Lifting your hands to your eyes, your pointer and middle finger adjacent to your eyes, you followed the movement outwards to the landscape that had been deliciously drenched in virgin snow. You were telling your friend to watch your back, you were about to go into the battlefield. You had a severe disadvantage. Blue Eyes was able to swing through the trees and drop down an attack.

You… You had your legs, the ground below and a dream as you looked down at the pre-made snowballs in your satchel that rested against the side of your body. Ash understood his assignment and nodded at you, watching as you hyped yourself up with rapid breathing, rising yourself onto your forearms before your feet planted your weight into the snow below and you began running. Harder and faster than you had in a while, your heart was racing in your chest. 

“I’m gonna make it!!” You yelled at Ash, seeing the embankment of the river only a few meters in front of you. The end of the line, the decided point that you had given in this very intense game that you were playing with Ash and Blue Eyes. Forming an alliance only with Ash as you both came to reckon that Blue Eyes was competitive, leaving you to wonder if that was a trait he got from Caesar or Cornelia, was a good move. You were fast at making the snowballs themselves, and Ash was good at spotting the Ape Prince and throwing them before Blue Eyes had the chance to nail you.

The laughter you let out was ripping, Blue Eyes watching intently from the second branch of a conifer as you drew closer to the river. Closer… Closer. He looked over at Ash who looked up at him. They were subsequently in cahoots. Ash faking an alliance with you, but his diligence towards Blue Eyes was evident as you were hit between the shoulder blades by a flying snow projectile. Not hard enough to cause any pain, but it was alarming as you screamed in response. 

“Who did that?!” It looked like you were running in circles at this point, another snowball flying your way from Ash himself, another following that was tossed by Blue Eyes. “A-Ash!!” Crying that out, you looked towards the area you had just darted from at your alleged alliance. “You---” Blue Eyes was suddenly in front of you, your eyes widening in surprise. “No.”

‘Think we won.’ He signed at you, your hand at your side tucking into your bag to grab a ball. It was cold and melting, but the more compressed and melted it was, the harder of a hit it was going to be. Given his heightened senses, he was able to grab your arm before you tossed the ball at him in defense, your wrist suddenly encased by Blue Eyes’ large hand. ‘Time to admit you lost.’

“I’m taking this ship down with me.” You smiled at Blue Eyes, knowing exactly how it must have appeared for him as you drew your face that much closer to him. In the midst of surprise to your sudden closeness, his chest swelling at the prospect that you were going to touch him, you took advantage of his reaction, snapping your arm away from him and tossing a gait towards Ash, whom you successfully hit with a few snowballs before rounding a tree and making your way to the river. “I’m gonna win! I’m gonna tell Caesar all about how much his son--- OOF---” You… Disappeared. Ash looked at Blue Eyes, and Blue Eyes looked at the skid on the ground where you had vanished, bringing himself towards it cautiously in case you were playing another rouse to get him hit with another snowball. Once he came up the small embankment of raised ground, his azure glance, more blue now in the cold and bleak weather, noticed you. Slipped, you must have slipped and didn't realize that there was a small hill behind you and you ultimately lost your balance and went tumbling down.

Concern hit him at once as he got a bit closer, letting his curled hand place against your back. Movement caught him off guard, your shoulders moving. Were you… Laughing…? Blue Eyes looked over at Ash as his friend joined him to make sure you were okay, but it was more than obvious that you were, face down in the snow by all means, but your giggles were entrancing as usual for him. 

Out-stretched to the right, your hand. Blue Eyes looked at it as you turned your head to look at him. You were barely skidding the iced water of the river. Smiling at him, he narrowed his eyes playfully at you as you were given the power to gloat, “I knew I’d win. No one beats the champion.” 

“Wait,” You screeched, arms being held up by Blue Eyes whose movement towards your appendages you didn't see, your legs to follow by Ash and the two of them held your weight up as they trailed a bit closer to the river, “WAIT!! DON’T THROW ME IN THERE!! I’m the winner! I won fair and square!"

With one hand still holding you, Blue Eyes signed at Ash, ‘Did she win fairly?’ You watched the signing with baited breath and looked down at Ash who had your feet. 

‘She tried to rally me against you,’ Was his response, ‘Not fair. Each Ape to themself.’ “But I’m Human!” You bargained again with a nervous chuckle, “That rule doesn’t apply to me, right?”

The pair shared a glance. Blue Eyes nodded. Ash nodded. Your body swung back and without reserve, you were tossed like a leaf towards the water, “NOOOOO!!!!!”

[orgverse]

seonghwa would be damned if he let san get away with not only messing with his desk, but yours as well. suffer with @sanjoongie everyone!!

you let a pleasurable hum as you felt seonghwa grind against you. his half hard cock rubbing against your ass, and you wished that the layer of clothes between you both would disappear so seonghwa could fuck you properly.

you turn your head to look at the eldest member of ateez and see him giving you a soft smile before he's leaning over you and pressing a kiss to the corner of your lip. his long hair brushing against your skin as you feel him trail a few butterfly kisses down your jaw and neck.

"hmm, hwa," you say when you feel him grind against you once more. a chill runs down your spine when he basically groans into your ear before his head drops onto your shoulder.

"h-hey can i join you guys, please," another voice speaks up, breaking you from the daze that you had felt seonghwa slowly pulling you into. you turn your head to the side to see san sitting in your desk chair. you honestly almost forgot about san being in the room and why seonghwa was in here grinding against you in the first place.

yesterday, during their live, san had took it upon himself to go and mess with seonghwa's desk. you remember how seonghwa looked like he was trying not to scream at the dancer. even when san accidentally made one of his $200 figurines come apart. so when san had come and done the same to your desk, but this time actually breaking something. seonghwa knew san needed to be punished.

you feel seonghwa shift above you before sitting on your legs. he lets out a laugh – a sarcastic laugh at that – at san as he runs a hand through his hair.

"why should i let you join? you broke poor y/nnie's figurine that yunho bought her. you should beg for her forgiveness instead of wanting to get your dick wet," he says before he's pulling at your shorts and underwear. pulling them down and over your ass, and you lift your hips so he could maneuver the clothes off of you.

you watch as seonghwa tosses your shorts and underwear at san, letting the clothes fall into his lap. you have to bite back a smile when you notice san's erect cock straining against his sweats. his hands fisted your underwear, knuckles turning white from the grip he had on them.

seonghwa is quick to knead the flesh of your ass, adding a quick slap to each cheek before he's pulling your hips up. you spread your legs apart and a moan leaves your lips as you feel seonghwa running his fingers through your folds. he runs his fore and middle finger through your folds a few more times before he's slipping them inside of you.

"s-seonghwa," you moan out as you feel the male begin to move his slender fingers in and out of your pussy. the room slowly being filled with a mixture of your moans and the wet sounds of your pussy.

"a-ah, come on. y/nnie, i'm sorry babe, please let me join," san begs as you hear the strain and desperation in his voice now. however, you ignore him.

"hwa, let me turn around. i wanna see you," you say and seonghwa hums before he pulls his fingers out. you quickly flip onto your back, a soft smile gracing your lips as you look at your bandmate who returns the smile. seonghwa moves to lay down on his side next you, his fingers easily reentering you. the vocalist is quick to swallow your moans with his own lips, his tongue lazily playing with your tongue before he's sucking on his playfully.

you look at him with half-lidded eyes, your fingers carding through his hair and you tug on his a little too harshly when he curls his fingers. seonghwa lets out a groan at the sting on his scalp and you pull away from his lips, head falling back on your pillows at him hitting your sweet spot. seonghwa always had that magic tough of getting you off with any part of him.

"yah! don't ignore you guys! y/n, i'm sorry please!" san says once more, voice higher pitched than it was previously. probably because he realizes he's about to watch seonghwa get you off without him. "hey!"

"shut up, brat," seonghwa hisses finally, looking at san with an intense stare that it silences san immediately. "you don't get to talk and you sure as hell don't get to touch either of us when you don't deserve it."

"hwa~" you say softly, your palm coming up to rub his erect cock through his sweats. as much as you love seonghwa's fingers, nothing could ever beat having his cock inside of you. "please, pretty, please fuck me?"

seonghwa lets out a laugh before he's pulling away for a moment. "well, i can't deny my sweet girl, now can i?" you watch as he pulls his sweats and underwear off and tossing them to the side before he's positioning himself between your legs. you wrap your legs around seonghwa's waist as he enters you. once he's fully inside, seonghwa leans down and presses a kiss to your lips.

"ah~ fuck," you moan out once seonghwa begins to move his hips. the sound of skin slapping skin is a prominent sound in your ears and you can only guess that its driving san crazy. "s-s-so good," you say as you arch your back as you attempt to also move your hips in order to met seonghwa's thrust.

you eventually feel your mind begin to get foggy, the feeling of your climax and the past few days and performances finally catching up with you. you feel a warmth spread through your lower stomach before spreading to your whole body. you fisted seonghwa's shirt tightly, his cock hitting your sweet spot and his girth stretching you out nicely. you feel your senses going into overdrive and you come without even fully realizing it.

seonghwa lets out a groan at how you clench around him and he rides through your orgasm for several more thrust before he's finally coming. he's shoving his face into your neck, the two of you holding each other close as you come down from your highs.

seonghwa lifts his head to look at you with a soft smile before he's kissing you once more. you brush the stray hairs out of his face before he peeling his body off of yours, thankfully your shirts keep from making your stick together completely.

"how about we make san clean you up before calling it even?" seonghwa asks you, head tilting to the side and you let out a small hum in reply.

"okay~" you say which causes seonghwa to snap his head towards san who still has a hard erection in his pants.

"you heard her, clean her up," seonghwa says pulling out of you before laying down next to you.

san wastes no time in getting between your legs, his face centimeters from your cum-filled pussy. its only when he sees the elder's cum start to leak out that he licks a long stripe up between your folds.

san does a few more licks before diving in like a starved man. his tongue doing wonders in pleasuring you along with how his nose nudges at your clit, adding some stimulation.

seonghwa can only let out a small laugh as he watches you fall apart on san's tongue. his hand traveling under your shirt to rub comforting circles into your skin.

"sannie making you feel good, y/nnie?" he ask and you nod your head, letting out a small yes! in reply. "hm, well at least he's good for something," he adds making san look at him with a semi-glare which makes you laugh.

a few more minutes later is when san is finally pulling away. his lower face covered in a mixture of both yours and seonghwa's cum. you can't help but laugh at how hot he looks in that moment.

"so..." he begins, "am i forgiven?"

"buy me a new figure and we'll call it even," you say. san can only pout but agrees without another word as he settles in the spot next to you.

[animasolaoriginal]

A B A N D O N E D 🥀 1/3

A new-in-town urban explorer stumbles upon a (not so) well hidden secret in an abandoned building, turning his life upside down when he takes more than pictures and leaves more than footprints.

Normal dude meets broken girl turned sex toy

WARNINGS: Urban exploration. Implied past rape. Implied past caning. Wounds and injuries. Objectification. Submissive character. Strangers to lovers. Angst. Hurt/comfort. Fluff. Eventual smut*. (More tags on AO3.) WORDS: 7.6k

A/N: This is a spin-off to my original story INFATUATED, set in the same universe. There's no need to have read INFATUATED, just know that there's a man we refer to as Sir who took in (kidnapped) a girl we refer to as Darling to make her his personal little plaything (but then proceeds to develop “feelings” for her), and this is the story of one of the unfortunate girls before her. A "study" on what a normal dude may think about an abandoned sub. Remember: this is fiction! A product of my own sick little mind, a fantasy. Our guy here may have some opinions later that may or may not stem from my own view on things (just some rants about certain kinks, and if those insult you, please forgive me, I don't mean any kink shaming. Everyone is valid around here – except Sir who might not get the best reviews in this story). By the way, the protagonist may have a name here, but it's only mentioned a few times, so you can still imagine any character here if you want to!

1 🟢 2 🟢 3

Glass crunches beneath his boots as he makes his way through the abandoned building. It's eerily quiet, just the wind howling through the broken windows and holes in the walls. The occasional rustle when debris or dry leaves move under the breeze. Nature's completely reclaimed this old house that used to be an apartment building with a bunch of tiny shops on the ground floor. Too off the beaten path, the shops became obsolete when a large mall opened only a few blocks away.

He's also in a very bad neighborhood, and nobody seemed to care about this particular building for a long time. Overgrown and broken, glass panes a good target practice for your usual teenage delinquent or bored child, doors ripped off their hinges by age and decay and maybe some random angry dude who needed a place to vent. Furniture long gone, either taken along or stolen later, things that couldn't be moved too easily (like sinks or toilet bowls) smashed into tiny pieces.

Normally he prefers places stuck in time, where tragedy struck and nobody's been back in decades, with faded photos on the walls or on dusty shelves, the smell of slowly rotting armchairs and a hint of mold in the air. Those make the best pictures. Little time capsules, evidence of older times, in the midst of a blooming bustling city. This building, however, looked more promising from the outside.

He raises his camera and takes a shot of a broken window where thick vines of ivy crawl around the frame and up the wall, the light of the setting sun giving the scene a soft glow. He changes the angle a few times, then moves on, up the stairs, looks through open doors into old apartments, mostly empty, walls vandalized with crude, unreadable graffiti, carpets full of dirt and a (not so) healthy layer of mold.

What strikes him as a little unusual is that the hallways look as if used fairly often, leaves and dust bunnies line the sides, but there's a path between the debris, leading further up the building. Not too unusual, these kinds of buildings usually attract a lot of shady people or bored teenagers, some to meet for illegal business deals, other to party hard in a place Mom and Dad cannot find them.

Maybe it's used for all kinds of things as he notices a growing abundance of empty soda cans, broken alcohol bottles and other garbage lying around (the most striking sight was a trail of discarded condoms and empty lube bottles). His destination is the roof, maybe he can at least snap some pictures of the sunset and the city around him from this place, for all he got now are shots of broken windows, nature reclaiming the urban space and your typical down-the-hallway shot. He even found the one-single-chair-in-the-middle-of-an-empty-room motif.

Of course he's not the first urbexer to walk through here, it's been abandoned for a long time, probably old news for the locals, but this is his first time here, in the city too, and he wanted to see as many abandoned things as possible. He heard from others that this house had good bones, meaning stable stairs and floors, no risk of breaking through and landing in the moldy basement with a pipe through your torso. He is looking for adventure, the thrill of being alone in a lost place, inhaling the intoxicating scent of debris and decay, he is not looking to pay a horrendous hospital bill because he's been too careless.

He takes the last section of the winding staircase, stepping onto the upper most floor, the roof access visible at the end of the corridor. There he hesitates. Unlike the floors below him, there's something different here. It's not as dirty, and the most prominent thing: all the doors are intact and closed. It almost looks like an actual floor of a still lived-in apartment building where you would find the same amount of dust and grime on the floors and walls.

Raising his camera, he takes a few shots, cursing when he realizes it's too dark to get it lined up best. The only light source is a badly boarded-up window at the end of the hallway, a tiny skylight above him and the glow creeping up over the staircase from the lower levels. Why is this window boarded up? What's happening up here that nobody wants to have witnesses for? There are other buildings around this one, still functional, mostly, probably for seedy reasons as well, but there's still the chance of people noticing what's going on here.

The closed doors irritate him. Everything else about this building was ripped out and broken and vandalized, nothing left in its former state. He came in through a bent-out-of-shape shutter gate, most of the former shops have so many holes it's fairly easy to get access to the rest of the house. And nobody seems to care about people walking about. There's an old No Trespassing sign near the boarded-up front door, but that's about it.

Though it doesn't surprise him in this kind of neighborhood. He might be new in this city, but he knows a crime haven when he sees one. Everything looks old and run down, shops are only fronts for other businesses, grim looking people stand around, gangs linger in groups in neglected parks or on the curb corners. He also saw some prostitutes walking the streets, looking as worn and shabby as the clothes they were wearing. Most normal people would avoid going deeper into the belly of the beast, but he likes the more dangerous places, and frankly, he fits right in.

Tall and bulky, he could pass as one of those bouncers standing in front of shady clubs, but he looks also young enough to be confused with a fresh gang member or mafia initiate or whatever. At least he thinks so because he's gotten no curious stares as he entered the neighborhood. Though he was glad nobody talked to him, his accent would have given him away for sure.

He feels his heart beating faster when he approaches one of the closed doors, the hairs on his arms rising in anticipation. It's a thrill to find something unusual in a place you've already pushed aside and declared boring. His hand grabs the door handle, twists it... and nothing happens. Locked. A locked door in an abandoned building. How curious. He tries the other ones, the same thing occurs. When he reaches the last door, he almost jumps back when the knob turns and the door opens with a click and then a creepy squeak.

One open room on a floor full of locked doors. His breath quickens, but he forces himself to remain calm. He doesn't even know what he's expecting, but it certainly wasn't this. The room is almost bare (but not as empty as the rooms he's seen before), aged wallpaper peels from the walls, the windows are covered by thick curtains, old and rugged looking, there's a couch in one corner, covered in blankets that have seen better days too. But the most unnerving sight is the bed in the middle of the room.

It's literally in the middle of the room, a sturdy looking metal frame he could walk around if he wanted to. But for now he only stares. There are handcuffs chained to the headboard, ropes tied to the low bed posts. And then there are the stains on the old mattress, lighter and darker ones, some are definitely blood. Old and dried, though one looks a little fresher, on the lower part of the bed. He's mesmerized, disgusted but mesmerized, almost forgets the weight around his neck before a shiver crashes through him.

It's an automated gesture to raise his camera and take pictures of what he sees. Pics or it didn't happen. It's a strange sight, but he isn't sure he wants to share this scene on his official page. He's known for showing off decaying architecture and nature reclaiming its place in the world full of stone and people. To share a potential sex dungeon might not be the way to go. But he still has his side blog. He has to share this, work through the experience, hoping somebody knows something about this.

Though he hasn't even seen everything. Slowly he takes a step into the room. There's a table behind the door, a longer one, fit for a person to lie on, and the leather belts attached to it suggest the same. Fuck. Is this really one of those freaky sex rooms?

He doesn't want to imagine what goes on in here, but he can't completely ignore that he has seen similar settings in various porn clips. Echoes of crying girls crash through his mind, creepily leering men in ski masks standing around the bed, the table, the couch, cocks in hand, others holding paddles, canes, vibrators, ready to torment whoever is unfortunate enough to be strapped to the structures.

He wants to believe there's consent involved, a scene being played out, discussed beforehand, those girls willingly trapped with a bunch of horny men, but sometimes it's hard to imagine that anyone would want to go through that on their own free will. He swallows, only now noticing the stench of the room. Sweat and sex, various bodily fluids all around, with a metallic undertone. Blood.

Shivering he can't help himself, he takes more pictures, walks around the room as if treading on thin ice, careful not to disturb the scene. He's also hyper aware of the noises around him now, the low buzz of the city beyond, voices passing by the building, birds landing on the roof above him, pigeons cooing, crows cawing, seagulls screaming. He tells himself he'd hear if somebody came back to clean up the scene he's witnessing right now. He could flee to the roof, hide it out, maybe find a way down from there.

Goosebumps attack his bare forearms when he rounds the bed and notices a pile of blankets on the floor. But it's the hair poking out of it that makes his heart stop. No. He freezes on the spot, staring down, camera heavy in his hand. He's heard stories of other urban explorers encountering unsettling things, the more harmless one coming into contact with a squatter, either awake or passed out in some corner, and the most disturbing one... stepping onto a crime scene, finding blood, bones... or dead bodies.

Yet instead of panicking, with the urge to run as quickly as he can, he finds himself staring with an obscene fascination. His eyes trail the blanket, noticing how it's wrapped around whatever is curled up inside it, and he bends down a little, crouching beside it, the smell overwhelmingly strong down here. His stomach protests, but his curiosity is too obnoxious to ignore. Shifting his camera into his other hand, he reaches out, carefully, knowing he should probably wear gloves, but he also doesn't care. He has to know.

His fingers grip the edge of the blanket, and he pulls, gently, his eyes widening as the scene unfolds in front of him – together with the body of a girl unfurling from its curled-up position. He will never share his first impression with anyone, because it's primal, an instinct, the thought of a man whose cock has a mind of its own: she's pretty.

Also naked, covered in grime and other substances, pale skin adorned with angry red welts and purple bruises, something pink caked between her thighs. She's on her side, legs scissored open, arms bound behind her back. Her thick dark hair is braided into two pigtails, and one of them seems to be cut off as the hair frays out and lies around her head like a dark halo. Tears and sweat allowed a thick layer of dust and dirt to cake to her face. Eyes closed, long dark lashes clumped, full lips swollen and raw looking, slightly parted.

Before he continues taking in every detail of her, he has the urge to bring his finger to her nose, and the relief when he feels the slightest bit of air movement against his skin lets him exhale loudly as well. She is not dead. And there's the problem. She looks like she should be, like it would be the better fate. The sight scares him as much as it fuels his morbid fascination, which may explain why he's still frozen on the spot, staring at her instead of calling the police or an ambulance or doing anything to help her. He can't take his eyes off her.

Her slender neck is covered in dark bruises as if someone has tried to strangle her, probably thought they succeeded too. Why else would she lie on the floor here? Left behind after whoever assaulted her was done? And assaulted she was. Sexually, physically. The welts on her body look horrible, thin red lines all over her small breasts, her stomach, her hips, her thighs, on her ass as well from what he can tell. She was caned, the poor thing. He hates watching those kinds of porn videos. He can see the appeal of spanking, the hand on ass contact, but hitting someone with a rigid cane doesn't seem very pleasurable, it's only about inflicting pain and having evidence of it days later.

A sadistic move, and sadists were definitely at work here. There are more bruises on her thighs, probably from strong hands holding her down and open while various cocks forced themselves into her holes. He feels his cheeks warming up when he takes a closer look at her pussy. Apart from layers upon layers of what he assumes to be cum and other fluids, there are welts and bruises on there too, on the soft skin of her inner thighs, on her puffy outer lips (that look stretched as if held back and open by clamps or whatever these bastards used), but most are on the strangely swollen clit. Ugh. Genital torture, a genre he really hates. Spanking a woman's clit is just downright sick and barbaric.

The more he looks at her, the worse he feels. Not just for what she had to go through, but knowing he can't really help her. How should he? Call the police and wait for other horny men to find her? He never trusted the cops, and in a neighborhood like this he is certain there won't be a good guy among them. Calling an ambulance may be an option, if he does it anonymously and flees the scene quickly, but that leaves him wondering if anyone ever found her. And again, in an area like this, the people who did this may still be around watching the place, stopping help before it can get anywhere, maybe even finishing the job, killing her.

And if he stays and wait, he will be in danger of those people seeing him, and as he now knows too much, even took pictures of the evidence, what's stopping them from killing him too? And even if they don't find him, he fears the damn hospital bill might be his end. Yes, strange priorities, but his brain is buzzing and he feels sick and nauseous the longer he stays in this horrible room, staring down at the poor girl.

She looks younger than him, maybe a few years, maybe a lot, the pigtails give the illusion she might still be a teenager, but her body looks too developed for that. A thin face with high cheekbones, no baby fat, soft albeit small breasts, a narrow waist, plump hips, thighs just rounded enough to create that amazing thigh gap he likes so much. The initial thought is still there, and his cock agrees, she is beautiful, despite the state she is in.

And maybe that's why he forms an idea in his head: why not take her with him? Away from this place, into safety, then assess what help he can get her. She can't stay here, that's for sure. A better man would face the danger of being discovered by her abusers, to make sure she'll get the care she needs, no matter how expensive and uncomfortable it may get. A better man wouldn't crouch beside her limp body and stare and drool.

But he's not. He's a runaway, dropped out of college to party, then got too old and paranoid to return. Too distracted by the world around him. Traveling on a budget, with just enough money to feed himself once a day, couch surfing, loitering, pissing his life away one day at a time. It's only been during the last years that he's gotten a bit more stable, making a name for himself as a photographer, selling prints and doing commissions, and by coming into this city he's hoped to make it even bigger.

Renting an old loft he hopes to transform into a photo studio one day, he's trying to settle down. He still has barely any money, lives off those stupid strangers willing to pay for his pictures even though they're not even that special. He always hopes for the occasional exceptional find, something he could sell to newspapers, but even those prefer to steal their pictures off other people's Instagram instead of paying for a more professional shot. Tough times.

As he crouches next to the unconscious girl, the hand holding his camera twitches. It's an instinct to raise it, bring it in front of his eyes, look through the finder and press his thumb down to take a picture of her. He feels sick for it, but also... not. She's part of this little sex dungeon, the main attraction, actually, and it's an inborn need to burn her image into a bunch of pixels. Pics or it didn't happen. He considers sharing her story with whatever newspaper may want it, but then his name would be attached to the evidence, he could be linked to this scene, and what's stopping any corrupt cop to call him guilty for this? Or the bad guys to come and erase any kind of evidence? Him and her included?

She can't stay here. He can't keep staring at her. Something has to happen.

Before he puts his camera into his backpack, he can't help but take a few more pictures of her, of her wounds and injuries, of the evidence caked to her skin, the blood trailing down her inner thigh. Maybe justice will come one day, but he'll need pictures of the crime scene to make it happen. He also snaps a few shots of her face, peaceful in slumber, of her soft curves, those tiny feet with the ankles covered in rope burn. Those he does in several angles, maybe he has a future in selling feet pics. And it's not his fault the market exists.

The world is a sick place, and he's just trudging along.

Eventually he stores his camera in his backpack, then moves the blanket back around the girl. His hand finds her cheek, and it's warm to the touch, she's certainly still alive, and probably in pain, so he doesn't want to disturb the few quiet moments this cruel world has given her. He wraps her up and scoops her into his arms, a barely there weight, poor thing looks and feels malnourished on top of being treated so horribly.

Lifting her up, he realizes the light has turned from the soft sunset glow into the harsher, darker tones of the street lamps coming to life. Time to go. Maybe her abusers will return soon. He carries her out of the room, she's warm and soft in his arms, head resting against his shoulder, hair and one half of her face peeking out of the blanket cocoon. She's tiny, in comparison and in general, and knowing her fate he feels even worse for her.

His heart clenches by the time he's descended all those stairs, and when he reaches his point of entry, he hesitates. It's one thing to slip into a building during the day, nobody cares about a man with a camera creeping around old houses much, at least not in this kind of area, but knowing this place is frequently used for terrible little sex adventures, he feels uneasy now. The night is fast approaching, and he knows these kinds of things probably happen when the shadows fall.

Looking around, he decides to find another exit, preferably one leading around the back, and luck is on his side when he finds a broken window looking into a backyard filled with black trash bags. With the girl still in his arms, he climbs through, but slips on something at the last second. Curling his back, trying not to harm her further, he feels his backpack scraping over the rough wall, hoping it didn't damage his camera. It's one of his few prized possessions, but thinking about it, maybe he should reconsider his priorities.

He's carrying a life in his arms, a life he intends to save, so a broken camera, a replaceable thing, really isn't that big of a deal. He can always salvage the SD card inside anyway. No harm done. Rolling his shoulders, he shifts her against his chest, then continues through the dark alley. He's parked the hunk of metal he calls his car a few blocks away, at the edge of the neighborhood, hoping he'll still have all tires when he returns.

And indeed they are all there, as full and dirty as he's left them. The old truck was the last thing he could afford after renting out the loft, so even if he's bound to this city, relying on random strangers to finance his life, he has a means to get away if he has to. For now, he's pulling the passenger door open and carefully puts down the bundle of limbs and hair and blankets, and when he does, she suddenly stirs.

He freezes, staring at her as her eyelids flutter open. A soft groan escapes her, but when her wide eyes, beautiful dark irises, glazed and a little dull, but beautiful nonetheless, meet his, she stiffens too, lips parted, and he expects a scream, a distress call, anything, but she doesn't issue a single peep, just looks at him, almost calm, probably just glad she's still alive or thinking she died and woke up in a weird realm between the worlds where it's normal to wake up in unfamiliar places, facing unfamiliar people.

He still feels the need to calm her. “Hey, it's alright. No need to be afraid, I'm not here to harm you. I want to help you, okay? Do you understand?”

She blinks, her lips trembling, but then she utters a barely audible “Yes, sir”, and he feels his heart jumping a little. To his own shame, his cock does the same. He clears his throat, nods to her, then closes the door with a thud and rounds the car, putting his backpack into the covered truck bed. Her eyes are following him when he slips behind the wheel, despite her slouched position on the seat. She's eerily quiet, not at all concerned about a strange man packing her into his car.

He watches her as he pulls the seat belt over her small frame, then buckles himself in. “You'll be alright,” he says softly, giving her the hint of a smile, and she continues staring at him. She must be in shock, no other way to explain this behavior, probably fighting the pain coursing through her, the soreness and burning, the stickiness between her thighs, the memory of the whole ordeal. He can't blame her. It must have been absolute hell.

He starts the car, glad it does so on the first try, and maneuvers it back into the nightly city traffic until they reach the old warehouse at the edge of it. It's the cheapest he could find, between two concerning neighborhoods, but those are still better than the one he found her in. At least he has running water and electricity, and a bed. Hmm. One bed. He'll give it to her for now, trying to squeeze his big body onto the small couch. It'll work.

She's still only staring at him when he unbuckles her and picks her up, though her breaths are a bit more labored. Maybe the shock is fading, letting through the pain more and more. He hums soothingly to her, tells her it'll be alright, knowing the more he'll repeat that, the more she'll believe it. It's his life motto too, fake it till you make it. She's that pliant body in his arms as he carries her to the old elevator, hoping it'll last another day.

When he reaches his apartment door, he shifts her in his hold, and she winces, a horribly pathetic little sound he hopes never to hear again. “Sorry,” he mutters as he fumbles for his key and unlocks the door. “You'll feel better soon, I promise.”

Her warm breath hits his neck as she presses her face closer against him, a strangely submissive gesture, a naive hope to trust a stranger. He takes her straight to the bathroom, where he sets her on the closed toilet lid and slowly unravels the blanket from around her. She's sitting perfectly still, the only movement coming from her almost curious eyes as she watches his every move. She winces when he brushes against the welts on her skin, chest rising and falling a little faster, but that's about all the motion he gets from her.

When the blanket falls away, she's that naked thing covered in sweat and cum and blood, and it occurs to him what a strange situation this is. For him to just take her away, without informing anyone, authority or not, and for her to just accept it like this. She's awake, maybe a little dazed, but conscious enough that a normal girl would stir more, talk more, fuss and strain against his touches, maybe even try to flee or do anything to ensure her own safety.

But she is just sitting there, arms folded behind her back, watching him. She doesn't seem real. Like a robot. A brainless toy... And it occurs to him, that might just be what she is, what she has been. A body to use, handed around between vulgar men, an object to utilize in their sick fantasies turned reality. Of course he's no stranger to the news, especially the darker ones, those about trafficking and forced sex work, even if those stories barely make it past the usual political drama. It's another one of those morbid fascinations he can't seem to break.

He might just be as sick as those actually partaking in these illegal little sex gatherings, he's watched those videos, even though he's handled them like any other porn he's come across. As fake, a scene played out, a fantasy made as real as movie magic can make it, but to find this girl in this room, discarded and abandoned like a broken doll, left behind after everyone else was done and satisfied in their twisted, primal needs, shows him that those were not scenes, not fake, but brutal reality. It makes him angry.

“Can you stand?” he asks her quietly, tilting his head as he towers over her, and she nods, looking up at him, before straining her bruised body when she tries to move. His hands find her elbows, and she flinches, but lets him pull her onto her feet. “Oh fuck, your arms, I forgot,” he presses out, and quickly leans back to grab a pair of scissors off the counter behind him, then carefully moves around her to cut through the ropes holding her wrists and forearms together. When he's done, he lets her go, and she sways, arms flailing a little, her hands twitching as if she wants to hold onto him. He guides her into the shower, then steps back. She turns around immediately, eyes wide. “Do you need help?”

She bites her swollen lip. “Please,” she croaks, and the hoarse sound of her voice breaks his heart (but also thickens his cock). He nods, swallows hard, trying to fight the strange warmth pooling in his stomach, before he toes off his boots, strips off his hoodie and jeans, then steps behind her in just his boxers. He wants to show her he's not a predator, but he also doesn't want to get his only good pair of jeans wet and dirty. One day he'll be able to afford another one.

He grabs the shower head and turns the knobs on the wall, waiting for the water to heat up. She's shivering, her frail little body so tiny in front of him, one hand rubbing up and down the other arm, a mindless gesture, trying to ease her nerves probably. Her eyes, however, stay on him and his every move, very attentive, almost eager. It should feel a little bit more bizarre to share a shower with a girl he's just met (or rather found), but it's as if he's running on instincts, feeling the need to help her, make her feel better, ease her pain.

The steam fills his nostrils, and when he puts the water jet to her shoulder, she winces, flinches away, lets out a little whine, but ultimately returns under the spray and lets him clean the grime and sweat and other substances off her skin. He's careful not to put too much pressure on her bruises and the welts, and is glad they didn't break her skin, even though they look horrible, shining in a bright red as if the blood is pulsing just beneath her pale skin.

When he lowers the shower head to point it between her thighs, he hesitates, looks at her, but all she does is take a little side step and spreads her legs a bit more to allow him to do so. So fucking obedient, it's almost scary. The grime on her inner thighs is so persistent that he has to move his hand over her skin before he realizes he should probably use a wash cloth. Stepping back, he leans around the open door and grabs a small towel, wets it and then proceeds to rub the dirt (and cum and other things he doesn't want to think more about) off her thighs. She whines quietly when he moves the soft cloth over her folds, and he holds his breath, trying to be as gentle as he can be.

When he touches her clit though, she shudders and gasps, legs trembling, and her hand is on his arm then, holding on tightly, with a strength he wouldn't have expected from her. He watches how her eyes roll back, how her lips part and a little moan escapes her, and he just freezes, wash cloth pressed to her sensitive nub, unintentionally drawing a strange little orgasm out of her. Was she trained to be this sensitive, so responsive? To come on touch alone? He didn't even rub that hard.

He takes the cloth away slowly, and she calms down a little, breathing just a bit harder, but when her eyes meet his, she furrows her brows, bites her lip, mumbles a croaked “Sorry” as she lowers her head. He frowns at that, tilting his head.

“Nothing to apologize for,” he says quietly. “I... uh, didn't mean to do that either...”

Is she one of those poor girls who was bound to their master's (or whatever the man called himself who had her) will, to only do as he told her, to come on command, and to feel bad if she does so without permission? What a horrible fate... He would never ask her to hold her orgasm, he would want to see that reaction over and over again, allowing her all the pleasure she can get. Not that he'll ever want to do anything to her, but... in theory, of course.

He keeps cleaning her then, lets the warm water soak her bruised skin, and she just stands there, chin tilted up, eyes closed, wet hair cascading down her back, hanging over her shoulders, one side shorter than the other (how cruel to take away something from her, even as benign as part of her braid, but it's definitely crueler to treat her like a soulless body, and he's glad she's not missing any fingers or limbs instead).

Considering, her state could be worse. She's standing on her own, breathing just fine, she's probably very sore and aching, but the pain will fade and she could have a normal life after this, more or less, not counting the psychological trauma that seems to still hold her hostage. Well, it's not ideal, and maybe death would have been a relief after the torment, but she's young, she can work through this, it's possible. And maybe he can help her cope...

Looking at her petite frame, he feels his stomach tensing. It's wrong to feel like this, he knows it, he shouldn't even allow the smallest little thought into that direction, but he is just a man after all, standing with a naked young woman in his shower, and it's blatantly obvious what his cock thinks about this whole situation. He hopes she doesn't notice the tent in his boxers.

But he shouldn't worry, she doesn't seem to notice much, standing still under the spray of the water, and when he turns it off eventually, deeming her clean enough, she inhales deeply and opens her eyes, blinking away stray water drops. She remains immobile, and while he turns to grab a towel, she doesn't move an inch. When he starts drying her off, rougher than he intends, but his hands feel like they are shaking from the tension growing inside him, she winces a couple of times, but then presses her lips together and endures.

He's watching her like a hawk, apologizes for accidentally hurting her, tries to be as gentle as possible, and her eyes are glued to his face, not completely focused yet, still glazed and hazy, pupils blown for some reason, her gaze almost curious. What a strange little creature. He'd expected a victim of whatever type of rape she's experienced to be more... hysterical?

When he finally wraps the towel around her small body and another one around her damp hair, she seems to relax even more. Then she opens her mouth.

“Thank you, sir,” she whispers, looking up at him before bowing her head.

He stares at her, blinking in confusion. “Uh, you're welcome,” he says. “But, uh, you can call me Sam, okay? I'm Sam. No need for... honorifics or whatever, you know?”

There's a frown on her face when she looks back up, her lips moving as if she's repeating his name in her mind.

“What's your name?” he then asks, leaning against the sink as he watches her.

The frown deepens, her eyes moving away from him, flickering here and there as if she tries to find the answer somewhere in his bathroom. “I...” she starts, eyebrows furrowed before she exhales deeply, her shoulders sagging. “It doesn't matter,” she then replies.

“Huh?” he makes, staring at her. “What do you mean it doesn't matter? I'm sure you have a name. Did you forget?” He kicks himself mentally for assuming as much and for his harsh tone, but it's ridiculous.

She shakes her head, not to say no, but to clear her mind maybe? It's a frantic gesture. “It doesn't matter. I don't matter. I am... I am yours to... to use,” she mutters under her breath, hands clenching into fists at her sides.

“What now?” He gapes at her.

And then she is suddenly on her knees in front of him, the towel falling away, her small body folded with her hands lying neatly on her lap, her chin tilted up, looking at him with big eyes. “Please use me,” she says quietly.

He takes a step back, bumping into the cupboard next to the sink, staring down at the girl. Is she serious? He shakes his head, then walks back and grabs her elbows. “Come on, get up, no need to kneel before me, okay? Get up!”

His harsher, also slightly agitated tone makes her wince, but she's on her feet immediately, letting him pull her up, then stands stock-still before him, head lowered, a soft little whine escaping her. “I'm sorry...”

“Stop apologizing!” He lets go of her and runs a hand through his hair, sighing deeply. “I mean, ugh, wow. I'm sorry, too. You must be... well, you've been through so much, I don't mean to scare you or anything, I just...”

“Please,” she mumbles, breathing a little harder. She's shivering without the towel, the one on her head coming undone as well the more she shimmies on the spot. He stares at her, she has her hands clasped in front of her sex and squeezes her thighs together, small breasts squished, nipples erect, a deep blush almost hiding the red welts on her skin. “Please use me,” she then says again.

“No!” he blurts out, and she flinches, another sob escaping her. He groans. “I mean, come on! I will not just use you, I just met you, I found you! In that freaky sex room after you've been...” He stops when he suddenly meets her gaze. Her pupils are fully dilated, her already dark eyes shining entirely black. “You're in no condition to do anything but relax now, okay? Take it easy. Come on, I'll show you the bed.”

He's about to grab her hand when she turns her shoulder, avoiding his touch. He freezes, frowns. “In... no condition? Am I... not good... anymore?” Her voice is that feeble little hum, a desperate song sending shivers down his spine.

“What? No! You are good, you are perfect, you are so beautiful!” he croaks out, unable to stop the words. She tilts her head, blinking. “I mean, yeah, uh, you are, but that's not what I mean. You are... Look, whoever treated you like this, whoever hurt you, just left you there. And I couldn't not take you, you know? I want to help you, do you understand that? I want you to feel good again after –”

“Then use me,” she whispers, breathing harder, hands falling away from the obedient pose as she rubs them up and down her thighs, still squirming on the spot. “Please, it hurts...”

“Of course it hurts, they hit you with a fucking cane! They raped you!” he shouts, a little too loud, his emotions getting the better of him.

She flinches back, gasping with her lips parting, her eyes wide. “No... no, they were... they had to punish me because I... I was bad... I deserved it... and they... they used me like they should use me...”

Her words are mumbled, but he can still hear them, even though he wishes he couldn't. What a sick way of seeing things. What a fucked-up world where a pretty girl like her has these thoughts planted into her head.

Anger makes him clench his hands into fists. “They shouldn't have done that. You are a human being, a young woman, a beautiful girl, not a doll to play with, not a toy to use!”

She stares at him, eyelids fluttering, chest rising and falling faster, small breasts bouncing. Really not the time to notice that, mate!

“But,” she whispers, wincing slightly as she starts chewing on her lips. “But that... that's my purpose... I am... I am yours to use,” she repeats these last five words like something she had to learn without knowing the meaning behind it.

He approaches her slowly, carefully, his big hands find her small shoulders, and the touch makes her look up at him. “You are your own person. You have a name, even if you can't remember it right now, you had a mother and a father, maybe even siblings. You went to school, you had a job, maybe. You had dreams, everyone has dreams, for the future, things you wanted to have, places you wanted to see. You are not just a body for strange men to use. Not like that. Not without consent! You were not made to be punished, to be hurt because some random sicko gets off on it. Your body is so much more than just... holes to fill... and a canvas to soil with bruises and welts and... cum...”

His voice has become calmer, like a mantra, new thoughts to plant into her muddled brain, so he hopes, and she listens with her lips parted, eyes directly looking at him. Sometimes she frowns, sometimes she blinks, and when he finishes she licks her lips.

“But I want this,” she says quietly. “I want to be used...”

He sighs deeply and lowers his head, then shakes it in frustration. “No, somebody told you you should think like that! Nobody in their right mind wants to be raped and mutilated like that!”

A single sob makes him look up, and he lets go of her, straightening up. Her lips are trembling and her eyes watering before tears stream down her face. He lets out a groan.

“I'm sorry,” he grunts. “I didn't mean it like that! You are valid, whatever you want, of course, but... but you gotta agree it's a little strange?” She only cries harder, her small frame shaking. “Okay, look, no kink shaming or whatever, I just... I assumed, the way you were lying in that room, the state you were in, I thought you needed help! You looked horrible! I was about to call the police!”

She freezes at that, staring up at him. “No,” she gasps. “Don't do that! Please! I... I don't want any trouble... I... I'll do anything, but... please... not the police!”

He raises an eyebrow at that. This reaction surprises him. “Why not?” he asks, crossing his arms in front of his chest. She averts her eyes, breathing harder. He isn't very fond of them either, but why wouldn't she? Why would she prefer being gang raped and beaten and strangled over calling for help?

She presses her lips together, doesn't say a thing. For a moment they are both silent, standing in the bathroom, the naked girl and the guy with his tented boxers. Even now his cock doesn't agree with him. But he doesn't care about it anymore. This is a mystery he wants to unravel.

“Tell me,” he says, tone harsher, pointedly. She seems to reply better to commands.

And it seems to work. “He said he'd kill me if I talked to them,” comes her quiet answer, spoken to the tiled floor.

“He? He who?” he asks, his arms falling to his sides.

“Sir,” she replies, her shoulders shaking.

“Sir? Who calls himself Sir? Who is that? The man who did this to you?”

She shakes her head. “No. He... he found me, he took me in, and then... he... he sent me away because I was... a bad girl and he... he... they...” A series of sobs escapes her before her hands fly up to cover her face. Her cries pierce his heart. “Why did he send me away? What did I do?” she wails softly, muffled from behind her hands. “I was a good girl... always a good girl... did everything he said...”

He can't watch it anymore. While his rage for this unknown man grips his insides, he steps forward and pulls her against him, arms wrapped around her shuddering form, but she keeps crying, lets it all out, desperate and heartbreaking. He scoops her up and carries her to the bedroom, her tears hot on his skin, her whines loud in his ears.

Putting her down carefully, he pulls the blanket over her naked body and tucks her in, gently rubbing her side as she curls in on herself, continuing to cry miserably.

“Please stop crying,” he whispers, sitting down on the edge of the bed, hand still on her hip. “I'm sorry he treated you like that. But he let you go, you said so, so why don't you use that as a chance to move on, look ahead, find a new Sir? Or live your life without any man for a while? I'm sure that's nice too...”

She stares at him from under her clumped lashes, momentarily paused in her sobbing, only to cry out again when he suggests moving on. He sighs, letting her wail and whine until hiccups shake her form. She's not calming down, but she gets quieter, and he stands up then, walking down the stairs into the kitchen to get some water and a snack. When he returns, she's lying on her side, staring blankly ahead, eyes reddened, face flushed and wet, but she's stopped crying for the moment.

He sits back down on the edge and holds the water glass to her face. “Come on, drink something. Please.” She doesn't even look at him. He exhales loudly and puts the glass on the bedside table. “Fine. Well, it's there if you want it. I also brought some crackers, maybe you're hungry. I can get more later. Or just sleep, you definitely need that. Rest, get better, and tomorrow we'll figure something out, okay?”

She doesn't give a reply, and he shakes his head and leaves again, settling on the lumpy couch under the stairs, his eyes drifting back up to the loft area every now and then. He falls asleep thinking it was probably a bad idea taking this girl with him. For his sake. What if she is so sick in the head she'll stand over him with a knife in the middle of the night? Great thought to slumber over, really.

1 🟢 2 🟢 3

End notes: *And this was the plot part of our story, stay tuned for the sex frenzy to begin in the next chapter!

There will be three chapters in total, I'll upload every Wednesday.

Thank you for joining me on another little original story I needed to get out of my system.

AO3 / / / MASTERLIST

[buryustogether]

the den of the wolf

karl heisenberg x f!reader

summary: karl voices his concerns about your safety now that he’s taken you as his lover.

word count: 1.6

warnings/tags: implied sexual relations, nudity, swearing

author’s note: anyways…

Any other woman would have run from him. Would have cowered in his shadow and trembled at the sound of his voice, would have prayed for forgiveness for whatever they could have done to earn his fearful wrath. They would have ducked their heads as they passed him, lowered their gaze in hopes he would walk right past them to wherever in hell he was ambling off to. He was terrifying, the most powerful Lord of the village who only showed his face when there was a debt to be collected or revenge to be extracted.

Any other woman would have run from him. Any other woman would have feared for her life.

But you did not. Instead of running, you stayed. Instead of ducking your head, you lifted yours to meet his gaze. Instead of praying for his gift of forgiveness, you embraced his wrath and accepted everything about him wholly.

The others down in the village said you had lost your mind to wander so close to a Lord’s heart - if they had them. They said you were not long for this earth any longer, that he would eventually lure you into that churning factory of his and devour you whole until you were nothing more than a piercing scream upon the air. No one held the Lord’s eye as long as you did, spoke to him as you did, without placing a target on their back.

You were insane, they whispered amongst themselves. To entangle yourself with the business and likes of Lord Heisenberg was plain suicide. Throwing oneself off the cliff near the edge of their perimeters would have been less painful. You could not be saved, and you were to be grieved. Your death would come swiftly, yet would be prolonged and slow and torturous. Everyone knew he enjoyed playing with his food.

Their murmurs were unable to penetrate the thick layers of snow covering the factory, the walls and the floors humming and warmed by the constant thrum of machinery down below. Their rumors were not welcome here, not within the workspace, nor the large bedroom protected within the heart of the giant machine. They did not wake you where you slept within the den of the feared wolf of the village, legs bent and arms drawn to yourself as you faced the edge of the mattress.

What did wake you was the slight shifting of clothing and the scrape of a chair against the ground. Your eyes opened to be met with the hazy picture of the window across the room, the sill piled high with pockets of snow. The next thing you took note of was the trembling ache that enveloped your body entirely - most persistently at the apex of your thighs. Your veins thrummed with exhaustion, limbs sore and neck bruised with littered love bites left there by sharp canines and insistent teeth.

The events of the previous night washed over you slowly, like an ocean’s ebb. A shot of adrenaline shot through you. You had shared a bed with a man for the first time - and not simply any man. Lord Karl Heisenberg himself. He’d touched you and felt you and made you sing such lovely songs for him until he knew your body better than herself. And then you’d fallen into this endless pit of darkness, your only purchase to the real world his hands upon you and his fingers carding through your hair and his chafed lips upon your face.

And here you lay now, in his bed, wrapped in his covers with his claim upon you still drumming through your body. You exhaled a sigh and blinked heavily. You felt content to sleep the day away here, enveloped in his scent and his feeling.

But the spot beside you was empty.

You mustered up what strength you could find within yourself and shifted over slightly. Your lover sat at his desk against the far wall, head ducked and his hand jumping as he scribbled upon pages with a pencil. His hair was secured up with a strip of leather, shirt unbuttoned and crumpled from the night prior.

Licking your lips and attempting to wet your dry mouth, you spoke softly. “Karl.”

Nothing short of enraptured by just your voice, his head lifted and he turned in his chair to look back at you. Even from here, you could see the stars dancing in his irises, the shadows and creases and specks of light that danced upon his face. He studied you for a short moment, wild strands escaping the leather and framing his whiskered jaw, before exhaling deep and climbing to his feet.

His knees cracked when he stood, a testament to just how long he had been tromping the grounds of the village down below. He was - because he said it was too much work to keep track any more - at least one hundred fifty. His mutations allowed him to outlive the world around him until there was nothing left but himself and his regrets. If there was any mercy left in the world, you would be there with him when the time came.

Karl let his weight come to rest on the mattress, then leaned over to gather you up in his arms. You marveled at his raw strength despite the small huff he gave upon settling you in his lap. The muscles in his arms flexed when he lifted you, the bit of pudge on his lower stomach tightened. When he relaxed again, holding you tight to himself spread across his thighs, he tucked your forehead against the warm nape of his neck and petted your hair.

Your could sense within the soft ticking and whirring in his chest something was the matter. You could barely keep your eyelids open, but you still implored, “What is it?”

He said nothing at first, but you knew your words struck him deep, because his grip around you became tighter and the petting of your hair became slightly rougher. His beard scratched your forehead slightly as he grumbled, “Nothing you need to worry your pretty head about.”

You blinked a moment. How foreign it was to hear a Lord of the village calling you pretty, holding you this way, with your bare chest pressed against his and your faces so close. “If it bothers you,” you murmured, “it bothers me.”

His chest jumped slightly with a gentle chuckle, one that you felt reverberate through your body. Your grip on him tightened; his on you, as well. “You are a nosy little villager, aren’t you?”

You said nothing, waiting expectantly.

Finally, he caved with a sigh that fanned across the shell of your ear. You shivered, and he reached down to pull a blanket around your shoulders. He said, choosing his words with the same care he placed into his projects, “Miranda can’t know about you. About… this.”

“I expect your mother would be happy you’ve taken a woman as your own,” you joked and smiled into his neck. “You would be the first of the Lords to do so.” Your grin faded slightly as a troubling, thunderous thought entered your mind. “That is, if… if you’ll still have me that far into the future.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” His words drove themselves into your chest like bullets as he pulled you up and held your face, bare hands warm against your cheeks. He gazed at you as if you were the solution to every problem he had, and it nearly brought tears to your eyes. He touched his forehead to yours, an action so gentle and unlike his usual gruff demeanor. He said, “I’ll always want you. I’ll always have you.”

You pursed your lips. You could drown in this sensation - of being wanted, and wanting just the same in return.

But that same downcast, almost saddened expression melted over his features again. “If she knew about you, she would take you away from me. Do things to you I couldn’t live with myself knowing happened.” His lips twitched. “That’s what mothers do, huh? Take away their brat’s toys when they misbehave.” One of his hands brushed your hair from your face, sliding a thumb across your cheek that left tingles in its wake. “You have to stay here, sweetheart. Where I can know you’re safe. And warm. And out of that bitch’s hands.”

“Okay.” The answer came so swiftly it nearly surprised the both of you. There came no hesitation or thought over it. There was no need. You lived by yourself in the village; you had no one to look after. And the other villagers thought as much of you as a begging dog at the foot of a king. You had nothing to leave behind.

And the idea of at last being eternally close to him at all hours of the day, no matter the time… it coursed your heart with a sense of pride and joy and love.

“Yeah?” he said, as if he needed one more confirmation to hear what you truly said.

You nodded your head once, resting your hand on the back of his neck so that your foreheads touched once more. “Yes,” you murmured. “Wherever you want me, I’ll be there.”

There came a moment of stillness between you, in which Karl’s throat bobbed slightly and his brows twitched as if they ached to draw together. Instead, he tipped his head and connected his lips to yours, grasping you tighter than he had even the prior night.

You were his now, and he, yours.

No one was going to take you from him.

No one.

[kimeoshi]

hello it's me again! Your biggest fan (LMAO) The one who asked for tips on coloring...

Another question has came up on me while I was coloring (finally aughhh). How do you shade hair? Without it looking unnatural?

Thank you for your help before!!! 😊

Hello and welcome back! I'm glad my previous advice helped! That is a difficult question as I do admit it is a bit challenging to me as well. It is guesswork + studying references, adjusting tid bits until it looks right, my own process relies on a trial and error approach.

Therefore, I suggest you pick some pieces you like where you find the hair gorgeous, and figuring out how the artist does it, or how might they do it, per active learning principles. Try to deduce it. While the following guide can be good for your starting concepts too, it's important to adapt it to your style and preferences. And I even encourage you to go against it, as creativity thrives on experimentation.

That said, I'll guide you through my own thought process, however. (With a quick Ratio sketch, because I really love to shade his hair; fluffy hair is very forgiving.)

Let's start off here (I'll be skipping the black and white part for simplicity's sake from the previous guide. I'll also be using a white environment with a pale overlight):

For highlights, I begin laying down a Glow Dodge layer with a hard brush that doesn't have full opacity, and draw a halo-like shape. After that, I refine the shape by erasing parts of it with a rough eraser to get the desired effect.

Alternative to the Glow Dodge layer, you can use pure white, or other layer types such as Lighten, Screen, Add and Overlay, etc.

In the following pictures, note that I adjust the layer's opacity freely.

Above, I simply blended it a bit to my own liking.

With an airbrush I softly start introducing shadows (Multiply layer, dark purple/blue color).

Then, I start introducing sharper shadows in a separate layer.

You can use a lasso tool for this to map out a jagged like shape which should remind you of mountains. You can blend this out too at certain segments.

(Sidetrack: if you feel like, I suggest reading up on the balance of hard and soft edges in painting, the topic is very interesting and I am still trying to grasp it as well, yet I find it immeasurably useful. This can come in handy upon rendering principles. A very skillful master of it is the artist Yuming Li.)

Furthermore, I add reflections. I've used a Lighten layer with a subtle blue color. As this is subtle, I want to point it out that it appears on the lower parts.

For a final touch, I pick out the skin's color and airbrush, shift the picked color to a more saturated one and apply it near his face/to the bangs, with an airbrush.

For the fundamentals of hair shading I usually wrap it up here and go off to rendering. I use a painterly brush to do this and pay attention to the jagged shape I mentioned earlier. The brush I use is already tilted, so it's easy to manipulate to make such shapes.

Additionally, I experiment with Overlay, Multiply (or any!) layers with either airbrushes or hardbrushes— as I said there isn't a specified way of doing this. Go wild; for such is the nature of hair. Add any shapes or lines you find appealing, introduce new colors from the environment nearby too to make it moredynamic and interesting as well.

EDIT: An addition! On Rendering tips and advice

(apologies on leaving this out initially! I only realized I should include this now )

Including astray curved lines to simulate how hair flows also builds to the hair-like quality. I also prefer to use it closer to the silhouette of my character as it adds further detailing and a fluffier look in the end!

Attempt to render each strand according to this diagram in mind, note the parabole-like(?) shape for the light, and note standard 3d spheric shading for shadows.