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omgeto · 1 year ago

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☆ COVER UP — tattoo artist!GETO SUGURU

summary: all you wanted was a cover up tattoo to replace the name your ex left on you. you didn't think you'd be leaving the tattoo shop with a replacement for your ex's tattoo and a replacement for him as well.

wc: 3k

cw: afab!reader, geto gives you backshots, he's kinda obsessed w/ your ass here, unprotected sex (since I forget condoms) BUT he's a gentleman pulls out </3 your kinda a meanie. he's kinda a meanie so light angst (?) but barely. MDNI

an: haven't posted a longer work in a hot minute, but here is how you meet tattoo artist boyfriend!geto soooo give this one a chance big fanks to my lil twat @kazushawty for helping me out and reading bits of it.

as you push open the heavy glass door of ‘cursed ink studios,’ a subtle bell chimes softly, announcing your presence. instantly, the atmosphere inside crackles with an electric charge. the air is thick with the intoxicating scent of ink, mingling with the sterile bite of antiseptic. the walls are adorned with vivid flash art form a chaotic tapestry, while the rhythmic hum of a tattoo gun echoes through the room.

and there he is, geto suguru – a tall, enigmatic figure with jet-black hair and sleeves of mesmerising tattoos that seem to tell stories of their own. he sits at his workbench, surrounded by an array of ink bottles and tattoo machines, his piercing eyes never leaving the art he's creating. a carefully curated playlist of music plays softly in the background, punctuated by the occasional buzzing of the tattoo gun.

he glances up from his intricate work as you enter, his gaze slowly travelling up and down your form. there's a hint of curiosity in his eyes, as though he's wondering why you, of all people, have ventured into his sacred space. his expression, however, suggests that he's far from thrilled about the interruption.

"need something?" he asks, his irritation evident.

"i need a cover-up” you swallow your nerves, holding your head high, your voice steady, ”my ex's name."

geto raises an eyebrow, seemingly unimpressed by your request. "ex's name, huh? you people never learn."

your jaw clenches at his condescending tone. "well, i'm here now, so can you do it or not?"

he continues to scrutinise you, his gaze feeling like a judgmental weight. finally, he nods, albeit reluctantly. "fine, show me."

with a sigh of resignation, you turn around, your heart pounding as you pull down the waistband of your jeans just enough to reveal the offending name covering your left ass cheek. it's a constant reminder of a relationship gone wrong, and you're more than ready to be rid of it.

"this won't be easy," he mutters, his fingers cool against your skin as he traces the outline of the name. his touch lingers, just a little too long, sending an unexpected shiver down your spine. his fingers, skilled and confident, continued to trace the inked letters of your ex's name on your skin — almost toyingly. and you could feel the chill of the tattoo parlour's air-conditioning contrasted by the warmth of his touch.

his voice, though still gruff, held a trace of disgust "who did this?" he asks, not looking up from the tattoo.

you hesitate, your memories of that past relationship flooding back. "my ex-boyfriend," you reply tersely.

geto's fingers stop their tracing, and he lets out a low, almost imperceptible sigh. "you let your boyfriend do a shitty tattoo on you, and you let him make it his name," he mutters, more to himself than to you. "you practically let him brand you."

“is it your job to be such a bitchy artist?” you snap, already fed up by his comments. you’ve heard it from your parents, your friends, ever since you got that trashy tattoo. but couldn't disagree with that sentiment — you knew it was a shit tattoo. “i thought i was paying you for your artistry, not your smart mouth.”

"listen," he growls, his voice low and dangerous. "you walk in here with that god awful mess on your skin, and you've got the nerve to criticise my attitude? if you want to be rid of it, you'll do well to keep that attitude in check, sweetheart."

you bite back a retort, realising that you've indeed crossed a line with your comment. there's a palpable tension in the air now, a simmering anger beneath the surface, and it seems that geto has no intention of backing down.

with a deep breath, you swallow your pride and offer a reluctant apology. "i'm sorry," you mutter, a touch of remorse in your voice. "i shouldn't have snapped at you."

he continues to hold your gaze for a moment, his expression still stern, before finally nodding. "apology accepted."

you didn’t actually have an idea of what you wanted for the cover up, you just knew you needed it gone. geto was a highly sought out cover artist so you had no doubt that he’d be able to do you good. with your initial meeting being heated, you thought it was best to leave him to do his thing.

with a sense of relief that the confrontation has subsided, you decide to give geto some space to work his magic. "i'll leave you to it," you say, your voice quieter now, and you turn away from him.

"good," he mutters, his focus fully on his ipad as he starts to sketch, not even looking as you leave the shop.

geto usually was quick to draw up tattoo sketches for clients, but when it came to you he was stunned — too busy thinking about how your ass looked rather than what he was meant to tattoo on it. from the moment you stepped in his shop, he was intrigued, you didn’t see the type to get work done by him and the marking stretched on your ass didn’t seem like it would belong to someone with an attitude like yours.

his mind was anything but focused on the design. he couldn't help but replay the encounter with you in his thoughts, your brashness and the way you'd stood your ground, even under his scrutiny.

"why the hell did she get that shitty tattoo?" he mutters to himself, his fingers deftly working his pen. the sketch was beginning to take shape, but his mind kept drifting back to the curve of your ass. he couldn't deny the attraction he felt, and it frustrated him. he was supposed to be a professional, detached from his clients beyond the art he created on their skin. but something about you had thrown him off balance.

“so you ready to get this tatted on you?” is the first thing he asks when you return the following day. you inspect his sketches in awe, of course you never doubted his talent but you didn’t think he’d be able to draw something you wanted without you even having to say.

“well it seems you do live up to your reputation,” you comment with a neutral facade, but you both know that you were downplaying your excitement — you were pleased. and like with any client, that made geto satisfied that he was doing his job correctly. but when he saw the way your eyes lit up when he initially showed you the sketches, it was a sight he wanted to see again. “i guess we can start the tattoo.”

“okay i’ll get my stuff set up, get rid of those,” he says nodding towards your jeans, “and lay down when you’re ready.” you slip yourself out of your bottoms, leaving the itty bitty thong that you knew you’d need for the appointment and that a small part of you hoped he liked.

he pauses when he sees you laying down on the seat in his station, your head resting in your arms, your ass slightly raised. ‘this is gonna be a long session,’ he thinks to himself as he smirks, shaking his head as he works his way to his seat.

as he sits down, he places the stencil over your ass, and you berate yourself for getting giddy at the feeling of him rubbing over the design to make sure it was in place — wishing that his hand stayed for longer.

“how are you with pain?” he asks, and from the way you were laying you weren’t able to see the way he was gawping at your ass.

“what type of pain?” you retort.

“y’know the type of pain where someones drilling into your ass for hours,” he comments as if it’s obvious but you both knew his words were hinting at more than just the tattoo.

“choice words there,” you muse, “but any type of pain i’m alright with, so give me your best.”

geto's needle hovers just above your skin, poised for action. "you sure about that?" he murmurs, his voice low and suggestive.

a coy smile tugs at your lips as you respond, "I can handle it if you can."

with a deliberate, almost tantalising slowness, he lowers the needle to your skin. the first touch is a sharp, stinging sensation, but you refuse to flinch. you're determined to hold your own, to meet geto's challenge head-on.

he continues to work, the needle dancing across your skin with a practised precision. the room is filled with the rhythmic sound of the tattoo machine, creating a hypnotic backdrop to your growing tension.

as minutes turn into hours, you find yourself lost in a strange mixture of pleasure and pain. the pain is undeniable, but there's something oddly exhilarating about it. you steal a glance at geto, his intense focus on his work, and you can't help but wonder if he's enjoying this as much as you are.

"still doing okay?" he asks, his tone a mix of concern and something more primal.

you bite your lower lip, suppressing a moan that threatens to escape. "i told you, i can handle it."

geto smirks, his gaze locked on your ass as he continues to tattoo. "you've got quite the threshold for pain. impressive."

“is it really? i'm sure you’ve worked on a lot of other clients with higher thresholds for pain.”

“but none of them have had an ass like yours though,” he mumbles to himself — but you hear him loud and clear, a grin forming on your face at the confession. “anyways, we’re all done now, go ahead and look in the mirror.”

you stand in the full length mirror, your head slightly turned at an angle as you gawp at your ass. your eyes widen seeing what was once your shitty exes name, now turned into a piece of true art.

“so what d’you think?” he asks, and you didn’t even notice him coming to stand behind you until you felt his breath on the back of your neck, “this shit is hot right?”

“you can say that again,” you agree, keeping your eyes focused on the tattoo, trying to ignore the quickening of your heart beat at the presence of him, “this is really great though, like i couldn’t imagine my ass could look this good after having that tattooed on on it all his time.”

“well no need to imagine anymore,” geto’s face forms a smiling grin, you can tell he was admiring way more than just his artwork, “you mind if i take a picture… for my instagram?” he says, barely asking as his phone is already out of his pocket and is in his hands, he looks up at you for permission and you give a slight nod before he’s snapping away at your ass.

“are you sure this is for your instagram,” you tease, as he continues to take photos crouched down, as he circles your ass with his phone, “or is this just for your personal wank bank?”

“would you like it to be?” he retorts back swiftly, there wasn’t even any mischief in his eyes as he looks up at you, just pure lust.

“um i–” you stutter, only now feeling exposed — as if he hadn’t been working on your ass already for the past six hours.

“don’t get shy on me now,” he coos, standing up to face you head on, “y’gonna let me finish off making you forget that ex or yours or what?”

“be my guest,” you respond, trying to come across as nonchalant, but the eager look in your eyes gave geto all he needed to know.

he pushes you softly, as he commands, “hands against the mirror and spread your legs.” and you do just that, as he comes behind you, fitting in between your legs perfectly. his hand forces ur back down, deeping the arch of your spine before both of his hands grab onto your ass.

geto really rubs and digs his thumbs into your cheeks, biting his lip at the sight at the way his fingers mould into your ass. “fuckk man,” he groans out, he’s not even in you yet and he was already obsessed with every inch of you.

he frees his dick from his pants, and pumps it quickly before sliding it across your already gushing slit. you hiss at the contact, a pleased smile working its way on your face as the tip of his dick edges into you.

“s-shit,” you stammer, as he inches himself into you deeper, “w-what about the rest of the shop?”

“what about them?” he shrugs, “you don’t want them to hear naught you’re being right now? HEY GUYS—”

“oi,” you hiss out, your eyes widening as you turn your head to look directly at him.

“i’m just playing, i’m not ready to share you quite just yet,” he retorts, his dick moving in you at an achingly slow pace, “now, keep your eyes focused on the mirror, and you better not let those hands slip.”

before you can respond, he thrust his hips into you as deep as he could, his dick slamming into you. you moan out at the surprising force, trying your best to keep your palms flat on the surface of the mirror, as you stare straight at him — watching how he works his hands from your ass to your hips so he can drive into you with all of his force.

“this pussy is s-so fucking good,” he praises, the sloppiness of your cunt making it easy for him to slide his dick in and out of you. “oh and this ass,” he continues giving a hard spank on your ass cheek, to emphasise his point, “c’mon throw your ass back on my dick, i wanna see it bounce.”

you fuck him back, doing exactly as he says, your ass meeting his hips with the same amount of force. his spanks encourage you to be quicker, to give him everything he wants. his repeating, strong strokes, have you feeling weaker, your hands slipping as you try to stay up right, when all you want to do is collapse and cum everywhere.

“f-fuckk it’s too much,” you whine, as he drills into you.

“nah,” he says, shrugging his head, “it’s not enough,” he lifts up his legs, his digits pressing into your deeper, as he now angles his strokes even further into your pussy, hitting your spot with ease. “give it to me harder, i know you can” he encourages, another two swift spanks landing on your ass.

with his continuous contact of your ass and his hips, and the way his dick pushes into you deeper, you felt like you were splitting in two. but you kept going, thinking back to your earlier conversation, you didn’t want to prove him wrong, you wanted to show him that you can handle it, handle him.

geto was practically beaming, licking his lips feverishly at the sight of your fucked out face through the mirror as he watches himself plough into you, your body rocking forward with every thrust. his eyes concentrate on your ass, as he says, “d’you see how your rocking my work on you now?” and you nod dumbly, too busy trying to reach your climax to string a sentence together, “so fuck that ex of yours and his shitty ass tattooing, from now on you only can me on your body, you got that?” he asks and you nod again, but he shakes his head, his hand moving from your waist to your chin as he grips it making your eyes stay locked on his through the mirror, “i said do you got that?”

“ahhh s-shit yet i do, i do,” you say, mirroring his words, “i will only have you on my body, ‘promise.”

“good girl,” he approves, giving your chin a squeeze before letting go, “now cum.”

with those simple words, you release all over him, your stance getting weaker, as you shoot out cum all over his dick. he’s quick to pull out of you though, stroking his dick as he sprays his cum all over your ass, with a deep groan.

your hands are still on the wall, as you take deep breaths, trying to recollect yourself. but you turn around swiftly seeing a flash of a camera behind you, and geto is back to crouching down, with his phone out, taking pictures of your cum covered ass.

“you mind if i keep these in my wank bank forreal this time?” he asks, smirking as you nod, “i’ll take some more later, but i got two questions to ask.”

“and those are…” you say, prompting him to continue.

“first, let me take you out after this?” he asks with a smirk, already knowing the answer. after the way he just dicked you down, you’d be a fool not to let him wine and dine you, “second, y’gonna come suffocate my face with that ass of yours or not?” you couldn’t even answer the second question since he’s pulling you down to the floor with him, with a joyous grin on his face.

AN: IGNORE THE FACT THAT HE CUMS ALL OVER UR FRESH TATTOO. LIKE JUST IGNORE IT. just focus on the fact that you have a lovely ass and geto loves it too. but yes do you want to see more, I HAVE ENOUGH IDEAS TO EVEN MAKE A LIL MASTERLIST FOR IT. I love tattoo artist boyfriend!geto so so much, like when u guys become an established relationship it actually gets so good. BUT I DONT REALLY LIKE THIS ONE, BUT IF U GUYS FW IT I PROMISE ILL ACTUALLY WRITE AND POST THE ONES I LOVE. BUT I FELT LIKE I HAD TO WRITE THIS FIRST SO YOU COULD SEE HOW U AND GETO STARTED. LMK UR THOUGHTS

#stampedwithanE★#jjk x reader #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #geto x reader #geto smut #geto suguru smut #geto suguru x you #geto suguru x reader #jjk fic #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujustsu kaisen x reader

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vivwritesfics · 3 months ago

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The Sex Playlist

How the fuck does Super Max find it's way into a sex playlist? And why the fuck did they have to find out during sex?

Warnings: smut, p in v, dominant reader, crack fic, h*lmut m*arko mentioned

The sex playlist. It was a carefully curated list of songs that they played to cover up the sounds of sex in a hotel room on a race weekend. The songs had been picked, tried and tested in the safety of their Monaco apartment.

No song in that playlist had been put in there by just one of them. It was a discussion they had, the both of them sat there, listening while they decided.

But you know what Spotify is like. It's so damn easy to unintentionally place a song in a playlist it wasn't meant to be in. It had happened before, in the safety of their Monaco apartment. In that instance, Max had pulled out, gotten up, and skipped the song. They later removed it from the playlist.

As far as either of them were aware, neither had added a song to the sex playlist since the last race weekend. As far as either of them were aware, every song had been tried and tested. They didn't need to go through it before the Zandvoort weekend.

The Zandvoort weekend. Max had gotten plenty of streaming done over the break, and Helmut had made it clear that he wasn't to stream over this race weekend. He was itching to do something as he laid in his hotel room, staring at the ceiling.

He needed some form of stimuli.

Sitting up, he grabbed a hole of his phone. His girl was at the tiny little desk in the hotel room, tapping away at her laptop. Normally that's where Max would have been set up to stream. But she was working on her thesis, something Max respected greatly.

But he wanted attention.

Placing his phone on the bedside table, he pressed Play on their shared playlist. The music started, and she visibly stiffened.

"Max," she said slowly, turning in her chair. "What're you doing?"

He stalked towards her, a predator with it's prey in it's sights. His hands touched her shoulders, moving in slow, circular motions. She couldn't deny that it felt good as she threw her head back to look at him.

As soon as she did that, his lips were on hers. "I'm bored," he mumbled against her lips, his hands slipping over her shoulder to settle over her chest. Not touching her anywhere inappropriate, yet.

"What do you want me to do about it?" But she was smirking as she said it. Her hand came up, grabbed a hold of his arm. Her finger tapped his arm to the beat of the song. He'd railed her to that beat before.

Standing up, she pushed him back towards the bed. Max went with it, grinning as his body bounced. He propped himself up on his elbows and watched as she stripped herself down to her underway.

Her hips swayed as she walked towards him. He made grabby hands at her, hands which she pushed away as she sat in his lap. She held his hands above his head. It would have been so easily to break out of her hold, but Max didn't want to.

"Hi, baby," she whispered, gently touching his face. "Are you gonna be good for me?"

Desperately, he nodded. If that was what she wanted, he was going to be so good.

But she suddenly gripped his cheeks, forcing him into a pout. "Words, Max," she said, fingers on the button of his jeans. Ready to pop it and free his dick.

He didn't mean to buck his hips up as he said, "yes. Yes, I'll be good for you."

That was all she needed to hear. She freed his dick and held it gently in her hands. But then she was moving above him, the silk of her underwear like heaven against the skin of his dick. "Fuck," he groaned and threw his head back.

He didn't mean to free himself from her hold. The minute his hands moved, an involuntary reaction to the pleasure he was receiving, she stopped. She looked at him, gaze piecing. A whimper left his lips and he quickly put his hands back above his head.

As soon as he had, a satisfied smile covered her face. She released her hold on him and stood up, but Max knew better than to move.

Pulling off her underwear, she climbed back on top of him. His hips moved involuntarily when she sat on him, when he felt just how wet she was against his dick. "Please," he whimpered.

She sank down onto him. When Max was on top, it was normal for them to sit there for a moment enjoy the feeling. But not this time. She immediately moved her hips to the rhythm of the song, hips rolling down onto him.

The song was barely audible over Max's moans and whines. Her grip on his wrists changed, instead holding his hands, fingers laced between his own. It was loving, a stark contrast to the way she was bouncing on his cock.

But then the song ended. She didn't change her rhythm, kept it up until the next song came up. Her rhythm would change then, change to match the next song.

The familiar sounds of F1 cars filled the room. The two of them looked at each other, brows furrowing as the singing filled the room. Sitting on top of him, she looked at the phone as it played Super Max of all songs.

Beneath her, Max was laughing. His laugh had her bouncing slightly, hands coming to settle on her hips now that the spell was broken. "How the fuck did this get in here?" He asked as his thumbs moved over her hips.

Her cheeks were hot as she looked down at Max. God, he looked so pretty beneath her, grinning as he waited for her reaction.

Her reaction was simple. She rolled her hips against him, and the grin was wiped from Max's face. "Fuck," he groaned, watching her. "Wait, we're not fucking to this," he said, lip pulled between his teeth to stop moans from spilling out.

Her hands rested on his chest. "Yeah, Super Max, we are."

His hands dropped her hips, giving up his control.

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wiiuapologist · 7 months ago

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modern au the first time marcille agrees to pick falin up for a date she spends like half the day before carefully curating the perfect playlist to show off her taste in music in the coolest way possible that is exactly the length of the drive plus three extra songs just in case of traffic and falin likes it so on the way back marcille is like what kind of music do you listen to? you can have the aux this time :) and falin is like ok ^_^ i’ve been really into this song lately and plugs in the aux and plays ocean man by ween

#this post has been beta tested by lon lon ranch #dungeon meshi #delicious in dungeon #dunmeshi #farcille

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iamthescalesofjustice · 2 years ago

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i dont have a ‘locked tomb playlist’ exactly but i will say that ‘the impossible dream’ from man of la mancha and ‘at the bottom of everything’ by bright eyes would both be on it if i did

#it would not be a curated thing that builds a narrative and carefully shifts tone over multiple songs either but rather a #pit into which i chuck everything that seems to me to have 'the vibes' in some way #one has a few instances of thematically relevant lyrics and picks up additional vibes from the dulcinea connection #i want it in there specifically so theres a conversation about deconstructing the 'lone guy on eternal quest' narrative that john tries to #build around himself etc etc but listen the other one is straight up nonacore. nonatheninthcore even

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pellucid-constellations · 3 months ago

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The Construct of Loyalty

Pairing: Cassian x Rhys's Sister!Reader

Summary: After months of "disobedience" your father calls upon Cassian to be your personal guard. That leaves Cassian, a soldier in the Night Court army, your childhood friend, and a man deeply in love with you, to protect you from all fronts—including the arranged marriage you were born into.

Word count: 4.2k

Warnings: Angst, arranged marriage, panic attacks, dual pov ;)

a/n: This wasn't going to be so long initially but then whoops it developed its own life. Part two will be necessary I think ♡ For context and clarification, the reader grew up with the IC and everyone is around 50-70 rn. Rhys's other sister is alive still but not really important to the plot.

Main Masterlist ♡

“What if we just—”

“No, y/n.”

“But, Cassian, this is ridiculous. I’ve been stuck in here for three days.”

“And you’ll be stuck a lot longer if you disobey your father again.”

“You don’t even like the guy! Why are you so intent on kissing his ass?”

Cassian bit the inside of his cheek and narrowed his eyes at the defeated posture you’d adopted. In truth, he didn’t like your father—hated him, actually. But Cassian knew the life you lived and what would come if you continued to act out against him. He knew things were becoming serious because Rhysand voiced his concerns over your circumstances when he was usually too protective to divulge anything, and he knew things were bad because the High Lord of the Night Court tasked him to watch over you.

Him, a bastard-born Illyrian who was nothing more than dirt on the bottom of his shoe.

But Cassian was dirt that you’d actually listen to.

According to Rhys, your father had appointed six high fae to be your personal guard over the past six months. All six had been sent away rather abruptly when they failed to rein you in. But “rein you in” was a ridiculous sentiment, as you called it. All you wanted to do was to get out of the room your father kept you cloistered in and actually experience a life.

You wanted to speak to people who weren’t your assigned propriety tutors or servants. You wanted to get out of the Moonstone Palace and be a person outside of the marital obligations your father placed on you. You wanted to shop in Verlaris with Mor and make Cassian take you flying and, above all, you wanted to understand your magic—to hone the combination of night and day that your father’s choice of mistress had carefully curated.

Because that union was the entire purpose of your birth, and the moment you turned 50 you were ripped from your family and hurled into the Moonstone Palace to live out your purpose.

You were to be the figurehead of the alliance between Night and Day and you were to fulfill that duty through marriage.

It didn’t matter that you were hardly seen as a person; you were a pawn, and as long as your father lived, you would continue to be used and maneuvered as the court saw fit.

Rhysand had been trying his hardest to keep you from marriage for as long as he could, but the more you acted against your father’s wishes, the closer you got to your fate.

You knew it was coming. You’d had far more freedom before you turned 50 but you’d still lived under your father’s thumb. Cassian always hated watching you get pulled from quiet nights in with your sister and would cast you sad looks when you were made to watch from the sidelines when everyone else was training. But that had always been your life, and there was never anything he could do about it.

Cassian clenched his jaw in abject frustration. “Y/n… don’t do this.”

You scoffed and harshly sat on your bed, the gauzy material of your dress splaying up before floating back down to rest on the blankets. Whatever hairstyle had been twisted upon your crown this morning was unraveling in a pretty mess around your face and Cassian itched to brush away the strands.

You’d always been so pretty.

He turned his fingers into his palm as you began to speak. “He wouldn’t even have to know. I wouldn’t leave your side once,” you mumbled. Your words felt more like a routine and less like an actual request. Because Cassian always said no when the other guards always gave in too easily.

Or you had simply slipped past them too easily.

“Look, Starfall is coming up. I’m sure your father would let you go out to be with everyone.”

You twisted your mouth in a way Cassian knew meant you were trying not to cry. You blinked up to look at the ceiling and nodded your head with your teeth embedded in your bottom lip, and Cassian’s heart was dangerously close to breaking.

When he’d gotten the station report—or rather, demand—to be your personal guard, Cassian had seen it as a good thing. He’d get a break from the grueling hours of being a soldier in the Night Court’s troops and he’d get to spend more time with you. He’d missed you terribly since you’d been sent to Hewn City.

But then he’d gotten to your room and spent three weeks telling you no and watching you go stir crazy and he was three seconds away from caving. It wasn’t surprising that the other appointed guards had failed so quickly—you were too lovely to deny, especially when you looked so sad.

Cassian breathed out a sigh and walked to your seat on the bed, his leathers groaning as he moved to crouch at your feet. You were still staring at the ceiling and Cassian was still aching to somehow fix all of this.

“Hey,” he prompted. When you only tightened your grip on the piles of luxurious blankets on your bed, Cassian took your chin between his finger and thumb and brought your gaze down to him. “There she is,” he smiled, but the hazy gleam in your eye felt like a punch to the gut.

“I hate this,” you whispered, all shaky and upset.

Cassian tsked. “I know, sweetheart.”

“I just want to go back home.”

“I know.”

“It’s so weird that you’re in charge of me.”

Cassian snorted. “I’m not in charge of you. I’m the one that has to follow you around.”

You narrowed your watery eyes. “If that were true you’d let me go back to Velaris. Or go anywhere other than this wretched place.”

“Well, in that way I guess I’m more protecting you than in charge of you. That’s what a guard does, sweetheart.”

“Protecting me,” you laughed, jaw clenching as Cassian kept it in his soft hold. “What would be so dangerous about going to Velaris, hm? Or… running away. Really, really far away.”

“Can’t run away, y/n. We’d all miss you too much,” Cassian teased, but the hint of panic in his eyes was unmistakable.

You raised an unamused brow. “Because you all see me so much now.”

Cassian offered you a bittersweet smile and gave your cheek a soft pat. “You know I’m not protecting you from the people out there. You know why I won’t let you leave.”

You looked resigned, but that reality was becoming more commonplace. You sighed and reached up to place your touch on Cassian’s knuckles. “I know, Cass,” you hummed. “I know.”

You shifted in your seat for the countless time that evening, the stone throne at your back doing little for comfort. The heavy crown on your head was giving you a headache and your father kept yelling, exacerbating the pounding behind your eyes.

You were made to attend official court business more often, your father assimilating you into the role he birthed you for with more urgency as you rebelled. Cassian stood behind you with a stiff posture and murder in his eye, playing the role of a guard to perfection. And you knew, with all certainty, that if anyone looked at you wrong they would be on the floor.

That was one benefit of having a personal guard—even more so a guard that you grew up with.

“—not accept this insolence,” you heard your father bite out. He jutted his hand back to the shorter throne you sat upon. “And you bring it in front of my daughter. I won’t have this. Not in my court.”

You hid a flinch as the man before the dais was forced to the ground by a free-flowing darkness you could recognize anywhere.

Your father’s show of power.

The man screamed and pleaded and you couldn’t remember what had brought him to this, but you knew this was just a ploy by your father to assert his dominance over the court. You breathed through your nose as he continued to scream and plead, pressing your lips into a line and maintaining your mask of neutrality and boredom.

You were never made out for the life your father expected from you.

After the man was thoroughly incapacitated and groaning, your father let up and sent him away and you were left feeling sick to your stomach.

Almost done, you reminded yourself, and then you could rot in your room with nothing to occupy you but the dread of your upcoming fate. You could feel Cassian’s presence at your back and it was somewhat reassuring that he would be rotting along with you. Maybe he would even play cards with you today or you could pass the time begging him to help you with your magic.

He always denied with an apologetic expression and you knew, deep down, that he would never agree to anything. The back and forth was simply a way to get through the day.

The doors to the throne room burst open with a loud boom, startling you out of your roaming thoughts. You sat up in alarm when a small brigade of soldiers dressed in Day Court armor marched in, preceding a well-built, stoic-looking man with a grimace plastered on his face.

You whipped around to look at Cassian in an uncharacteristic act of impropriety. Cassian looked just as lost as you were, but he blinked away the concern and sent you a reassuring nod as if he had everything under control. You watched his ruby siphons flicker and his fists clench as he clasped them together by his thighs, but you turned around. You had to turn around because you were not supposed to consult a guard about matters of your court.

A quick glance at your father told you that he was surprised as well, but pleasantly. “Blaise,” your father greeted, clapping with the word. You hid another flinch. “I was not expecting you today.”

“Clearly,” Blaise snarked, stopping before the thrones at the head of the room. “Your full court is not even here. Where is your heir?”

Your father’s expression morphed into a glare. “Training,” he said. And then, “But that shouldn’t be what concerns you. Your bride is just beside me.”

The world slowed, your thoughts and the movements of those around you sticky and heavy. You thought you might have opened your mouth but the action was delayed and it was hard to find the path to your muscles. Your chest caved. The light in the room became dim.

Blaise smirked and trailed his gaze to your figure. He let his eyes rove from your feet up to your face, so unhurried, so lax. As if you were already something he owned and he could take all the time he wished. In a way, you guessed he could—it wasn’t as if you had anywhere else to be.

“Huh.” Blaise stuck his tongue against his cheek. “Come.”

You blinked as the man stuck his hand out and waved his fingers in three harsh motions, beckoning you to him as if you were a dog.

It felt like you’d been doused in ice water as onlookers watched you expectantly. Rhys had told you he was buying more time. Cassian had told you. Azriel sent shadows to your room and you took them as signs of something. But before you stood your betrothed and behind you stood Cassian and there was nothing to be done.

You looked over to your father.

“This is Blaise. He is a duke in Day. You shall be married. Go to him,” he commanded, nodding towards the stern brow in the center of the throne room.

“Father—”

“Go to him.”

You rose. Everything fell off its axis, a rush of lightheadedness making you lose your balance and lean back to grip the arm of the throne. A steady hand on your elbow grounded you. You didn’t even need to turn to know it was Cassian, but you did, anyway.

Hazel eyes bore back into yours, devastation and determination mingling in the hues. Something dropped in your stomach and something else made you tear your gaze away and stare at your fate head-on. Cassian’s fingers lingered. They pulled away when you fully righted yourself.

“Do you give me an ill bride, High Lord?” Blaise accused with a mean raise of his brow.

“Of course not. Do not insult me.” No further explanation.

You passed your tongue across your drying lips and took the steps down to meet Blaise, the man instantly snatching your hand and raising it above your head. He walked around you, inspecting you as if you were something to be appraised before buying, and nodded after completing the circle. Then, to set your stomach rolling, he swooped down and pressed his mouth to your ear. You heard a rushed step behind you, but the sound was drowned out by hot breath and whispers.

“You’ll do nicely, given that you’re house-trained. Virgin?”

You pushed back on his armored chest to gain some distance and Blaise cackled, knocking his head back in delight.

“A bit skittish, but that’s fine. You said she’ll be used to Day? Definitely not staying here.”

Your father hummed, taking a bored sip from his chalice. “She’s spent time in Day. Her mother hails from the court.”

The rest of the conversation was lost to buzzing.

Cassian was wrought with panic.

He had already opened his mind and shared the information with Rhys, but Rhys was still honing his daemati abilities and Cassian had no idea if his brother even got the information.

He hid his panic behind a stone wall of neutrality and malice as he walked you back to your room, cataloging the way you took even steps and stared blankly at the walls in front of you. His facade was breaking down with each step you took; you seemed to be escaping into yourself and Cassian was becoming increasingly worried.

Part of not being able to practice and control your magic came the dangers of it overtaking you. No one was sure if you harnessed daemati powers like your father and brother, but if you did and weren’t aware, you could get stuck. Cassian had witnessed Rhys’s struggles with that when he was first learning to control his magic and emotions were high.

The moment your bedroom door clicked shut, Cassian’s hands were on your face.

“Y/n? Hey, look at me,” he urged, tucking his wings into his back because maybe the light from your windows would help somehow.

When you didn’t look, a faraway haze to your eyes, he shook you, rattling your head in desperation. You should be screaming, crying, begging him to let you leave after what you just discovered. And, instead, you were blank.

His next demands were stern. “Y/n, I can’t get Rhys here. You need to snap out of this. I don’t know how to help you.”

You breathed a little deeper, but no change.

“Fuck.” Cassian looked around the room, his head whipping back and forth as he searched for anything that could help. For Rhys, it was easier to develop skills to get him out of this state because he had been expecting it. For you, there was no prep, no warning.

Cassian turned back to you, his heart pounding out of his chest. If he couldn’t get you out of this before your father noticed—

He saw your eyes shift and something clicked.

You were staring intently at the red siphon gleaming on Cassian’s chest, blinking quicker the longer you stared.

“This helping?” Cassian murmured, yanking the siphon from his chest without care to hold it up to your eye level. “Okay, we’ll work with that.” You blinked even more with the tone of his voice and Cassian took that as motivation. “Keep working yourself out of this, sweetheart. You do this and I’ll teach you how to use a blade. Haven’t you been asking? Dumb question—you’ve been asking since we were twenty but—”

Cassian cut off his rambling when the first few tears fell down your cheeks. He watched each as they fell, wiping them away with his thumbs as he waited. And waited. And then you choked out a sob, and as much as he hated the sound, relief flooded through him at your state of consciousness.

“You—you said there was more time,” you stressed, stumbling over your tears. “Rhys… he told me there was more time.”

Cassian shook his head as he spoke. “I know. I know, sweetheart, but we’ll figure it out, okay? Me, Rhys, and Az. We can—”

“You can’t do anything,” you cried. Your breath was picking up. “No one has been able to do anything my entire life. Not my brother or you or even myself. I—Cassian, I was only born to do this. No one cares about anything else. You’re only here because my father willed you to be. Because it serves his agenda to have you guarding me.”

Cassian’s fingers buzzed as he wiped more and more tears from your face. He kept opening his mouth to say something, anything, but it didn’t matter. Nothing would make up for this.

“I—I can’t. I can’t be married to that man. Being locked in here was bad enough. Being coddled and prepped for my entire life was enough. I’m not a princess, Cassian. I’ve never wanted to… and now I…”

You were hyperventilating now, raucous inhales colliding with heavy, painful exhales. You dropped to your hands and knees and Cassian followed suit but with the sole purpose of propping you up and placing a steady hand on your stomach. You fought him, desperate to claw at the ground and escape the world, but Cassian wouldn’t have it.

“I need you to breathe,” Cassian requested, his words firm but soft. “I need you to focus on how I’m touching you and I need you to breathe into my hand.”

He’d done this before, it was familiar.

You used to get panic attacks anytime your father forced you to stay at the Palace for a weekend to view one of the many horrors at the Court of Nightmares. Rhys helped, but it was Cassian who noticed the tells—the uneven breaths, the panic in your gaze. It was Cassian who felt pain himself each time your throat closed.

You shook your head at Cassian’s demand, clawing at your chest.

“Yes, y/n. Try. For me, please.”

He could tell you were trying, even as you continued to shake your head until that ridiculous crown toppled onto the floor. You tugged at the shimmering black material on your chest and never broke eye contact with Cassian and you tried.

Slowly, eventually, Cassian saw your chest stutter and your breath begin to even out.

“That’s it,” he praised, rubbing his thumb along the boning of your dress. Your lashes fluttered until your eyes closed. “That’s it, baby,” he muttered, the endearment slipping past and getting lost in the air.

You reached down and gripped Cassian’s wrist. “I’m okay now. I think I’m okay.”

“You sure?”

You nodded. “I mean, I’m not okay. But I can breathe and think.”

“Those are accomplishments I guess.”

“I don’t think this is part of your job description,” you joked, the small laugh that followed half-hearted and weak.

Cassian smiled. “Did the other guards do it?”

“I can’t say they did.”

Cassian readjusted his position on the floor and shifted you to no longer sit on your knees. He brushed your hair back and fixed the neckline of your dress.

“You scared me,” he admitted, still focused on adjusting the mess you’d made of yourself.

“I’ve had panic attacks before.”

“No, not that. You got stuck, I think. Like how Rhys would when he was first learning to use his daemati abilities.”

“Don’t tell my father.” The words were so quick from your mouth that Cassian shot up to look at you. “Don’t. I already have a difficult time with the court abilities and I don’t need him to—”

“Y/n, I would never tell him,” Cassian interrupted, a furrow in his brow. “Why would you ever think I would do that to you.”

You cast your gaze down. “Well, I don’t know. You’re in his employ—you have to report to him and be loyal. The other guards—”

“I am not another guard.”

“Well, I obviously know that. But I just wasn’t sure where that part of you started and my friend ended.”

Cassian closed his eyes for a long, disappointed beat.

It was pretty obvious that Cassian was in love with you—at least, it was pretty obvious to himself as of three weeks ago. The moment he saw you again after months away, all pretty and sequestered away and so happy to see him you were glowing, he knew he was a goner. There had been hints of it when he was growing up, but seeing you again made it hit him full force.

Of course, you could never know, because as much as you said you weren’t and were adamantly against the title, you were a princess, and Cassian didn’t want to add more stress to the plethora of horrors in your life.

Still, the realization of his feelings only made your questioning tone hurt that much more.

“Y/n, look at me.” Eyes met in your bedroom. Cassian kept his hands in his lap and you had your fingers pressed to the ground. “My only goal is to keep you alive and happy. I frankly don’t give a shit about your father. Everything I do or have done has been to keep you safe. He isn’t safe, so I make sure to follow his orders because not doing so is dangerous for you. Rhys… Rhys has been keeping close tabs on the situation from the outside and informs me what I need to divulge or keep secret. Nothing has ever been done out of loyalty to your father.”

You released your bottom lip from your teeth and Cassian watched your shoulders sag in relief. He was about to say more, but then you launched yourself into his chest and his arms were wrapping around you without him willing them to. He had to stop the two of you from lying flat on the floor, jutting an arm out to stabilize the hug before bringing it back around to rest in your hair.

“I thought I'd lost you for a little while there,” you admitted, your face buried in Cassian’s shoulder.

Guilt ate at his heart. “I thought you said you understood why I was making you stay?”

“I did,” you mumbled. “Or, I thought I did. I knew you wanted to keep me safe, but I thought you also wanted to please my father.”

Cassian dragged you back from his chest, hands resting along your head and back. “I’m sorry it felt that way. I have only wanted to please your father for your benefit. I’m—we’re family, y/n—” and I love you, he wanted to add “—you’re my family.”

You stared back at Cassian, tears still fresh in your eyes and on your face. “Can we leave now?”

Another piece of Cassian crumbled, shattered. “We can’t. You can’t. Rhys is working on another way out of this but if you try to run right now you know your father will only come after you.”

“What about the human lands?” you rushed out, hands on Cassian’s chest and so close to his heart. “Or I could go off-continent. I could learn to glamour myself and try. Cassian, I could try.”

“Y/n, you just got lost in your own head and you have no idea what kind of powers you have beyond that. You have no fighting skills, no way to defend yourself. I know you’re capable, but you’ve had your every need catered since you were born. And your father would be after you. I don’t know if you’d survive.”

Cassian watched you deflate as he spoke. He brushed his hand up from your back to run a soft touch along your jaw. “And I would come with you—if you ran. But your brother has his head up his ass and he’s going to need help when he becomes High Lord.”

You smiled some—a sad, dejected smile.

“We’re gonna figure this out, sweetheart, just like I told you.” He leaned forward until your foreheads touched. “You’re not going anywhere I can’t go.”

“And what if none of you can do anything about it?” you whispered.

Cassian ignored the fear that threatened to cease him at the prospect. “Then I’m going to fight like hell until I can.”

#cassian x reader #cassian x you #cassian x y/n #cassian acotar #cassian fanfiction #cassian fic #acotar fanfiction #acotar #cassian lord of bloodshed #cassian angst

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solelifauna · 11 days ago

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With Bared Teeth & Prayers (Yandere Batfam X Neglected Reader) (Dark!!! Werewolf AU) (Prologue)

If she could, (Y/n) Wayne would go back in time and make sure she was never taken in by Bruce Wayne and his pack. Now, she has to live with the fact that her life may end on the day of her 18th birthday, that she's going to be slaughtered and ripped apart by the very people who she wished loved her. It's alright though, 'cause she has a plan. However, things are starting to get weird... scary weird.

You arrive at Wayne Manor at age twelve, newly-shifted, anxious, and hopeful. Your mother, an apparent old hook-up of Bruce Wayne, had decided that she couldn’t take care of a half-werewolf hybrid and proceeded to leave you to CPS as soon as you presented as a shifter. CPS of course ran a blood test to see if you had any viable relatives who would be able to take you in, something custom for children of shifters. You guessed they thought that shifters would be more inclined to take in a kid if they were related, something to do with pack bonds and whatnot.

So imagine both you and the worker's surprise when Bruce Wayne came up as a paternal match on the blood test. Everything that happened afterward was a blur. After several back-and-forth phone calls and e-mails, your caseworker made you pack whatever little belongings you had into a bag, herded you into a car, and started driving towards the nicer edge of Gotham.

You sat in the backseat, hope searing through your heart as you mulled over your fate. It wasn’t uncommon for already established packs to take in other members, especially if the newcomer was related to someone already in the pack. Of course, there would be an adjustment period in your case, you didn't expect to get along with everyone immediately, but it would all work out, right? Mr. Wayne had already signed the papers that officiated his custody over you, so that must mean he wanted you, right? A pack wouldn’t tolerate just anyone on their land, let alone in the heart of their territory.

So if they were allowing you to live with them, then that means that they were willing to consider you as pack. Your heart soared in the backseat, the hope and promise of a family and pack making you giddy with joy. According to your caseworker, there were seven other pack members, all legally considered Bruce Wayne's children. That meant you’d have siblings too; a lot of them at that. You couldn’t wait to hang out with them and play in the forest on the property.

However, when you finally pull up to the manor's entrance, things don’t go quite as you expected. First off, it takes a full ten minutes after your caseworker rings the doorbell for anyone to answer, and when the doors finally open, you find yourself looking up, and up, and up, until your eyes meet the cool steel-blue gaze of a towering man: Bruce Wayne, the pack leader, the alpha, your father.

You offer a tentative smile, trying to gauge his reaction, but he only gives you a brief glance before turning his attention to your caseworker. They launch into a conversation about paperwork and other mundane details, Bruce nodding as he opens the door wider, gesturing for you both to come inside. Stepping through the threshold, your eyes widen at the interior—grand and sprawling, yet somehow almost cozy in its opulence. A warmth you didn’t expect fills the space, as though it’s been carefully curated over time to be both stately and lived-in.

Your gaze drifts to an older man who approaches you with a kind smile, Alfred, the family’s butler. While Bruce and your caseworker continue their conversation, Alfred gently asks about your journey. You eagerly tell him about the deer you spotted on the drive over and how the surrounding forest seemed like something out of a story. Alfred listens patiently, nodding with a smile as you ramble on, your nerves momentarily forgotten.

Eventually, Bruce and your caseworker finish their conversation. She kneels down to give you a final goodbye, squeezing your shoulder reassuringly before she leaves. Now it’s just you and Bruce. You turn toward him, shy but hopeful, ready for something—a welcome, perhaps. But his expression is unreadable, his gaze indifferent, almost detached. The excitement bubbling in your chest fades, replaced by a quiet pang of disappointment.

Oh. You thought he’d be happier to see you.

Bruce studies you for a moment, his expression unreadable and a bit cold. It feels like he’s assessing you rather than welcoming you. Your excitement dims, but you keep your smile, hoping maybe this is just his way, that he’s just not sure how to be around a kid like you yet. After all, he’s the head of this massive family, and you’re a brand new addition. Surely he needs time to warm up. But as he looks you over, he finally speaks, his tone polite but distant.

“Alfred will show you to your room,” he says. “You’ll have some time to settle in, and we’ll talk more in the morning.” Then, as if you’re not really there, he glances back at Alfred. “Make sure she’s comfortable. And let the others know we’ll have dinner in an hour.”

With that, he turns and walks away without another word. You stand there, still holding your bag, feeling the weight of disappointment settle on you. You’d imagined this moment so many times—meeting your father, being accepted into his home, his pack. You hadn’t expected hugs or anything too mushy, but something warmer than whatever the hell you just experienced. Maybe a smile, or even a nod that felt like you mattered. Instead, all you’d received was a look that barely acknowledged you.

Alfred clears his throat softly, pulling you from your thoughts. “Right this way, young master,” he says with a gentle smile, gesturing for you to follow. “I’ll give you the grand tour tomorrow, but for now, let’s get you settled in your room. It’s rather lovely, if I may say so.”

You nod, mumbling a quiet, “Thank you,” as you follow him up the grand staircase, each step echoing in the vast, empty silence of the manor. Despite the opulence and luxury surrounding you, it feels a bit lonely and cold, a stark contrast to the warmth and comfort you’d imagined this home would have. Alfred tries to fill the silence, pointing out various rooms along the way: the library, the kitchen, the sitting room. You nod along, doing your best to listen and absorb it all, but your thoughts keep drifting to Bruce’s indifferent expression, the way he hadn’t even looked back.

Finally, Alfred stops in front of a door and opens it, revealing a spacious bedroom with a large bed, a cozy armchair by the window, and shelves lined with books, even a stuffed wolf on the bed, clearly placed there just for you. The sight tugs at your heart—a small attempt to make you feel at home.

“I hope it’s to your liking,” Alfred says softly, watching your reaction.

“It’s—it’s really nice. Thank you,” you reply, setting your bag down by the bed. You glance around, taking in the details, wondering if Bruce had anything to do with the setup. But something tells you it was probably Alfred who made sure it was welcoming.

He nods, giving you a gentle pat on the shoulder. “Dinner will be soon, and you’ll meet the others then. Don’t worry too much; they’re quite an interesting group, but they’ll warm up to you soon enough.”

You smile back at him, grateful for his kindness. Alfred excuses himself, leaving you alone in the quiet room. You sit down on the bed, running your hands over the soft blanket, still clutching that little bit of hope you have left. Maybe Bruce just needed time to adjust. Maybe, in his own way, he was trying to accept you.

But as you think back to the way he looked at you, you can’t help but feel a pang of uncertainty. You wonder if he’ll ever see you as part of his pack—or if you’ll always be an outsider in this place that you’re supposed to call home.

[Hey guys! This was a super short prologue, I promise the other chapters will be at least 2000 words. Anyway, I want to say that this story will be DARK. Like I'm being so serious rn, like this shit is messed up so please be careful!!! I'm talking about potential cannibalism...still, hope you enjoyed this!]

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