#may the universe forgive me for what I set upon it

[slvt4felix]

I Could Never Hate You (Part ||)

Pairing -> ninth member!reader x Lee Minho WC -> ~2,700 words Includes -> lots of fluff, a little bit of angst, swearing, one small sexual innuendo, some Lee know tissue violence, arguing, Jeongin appearance, reader has anxiety but it's not mentioned as much in this part Summary -> Due to the late night revelations, you nearly forget all about your argument with Hyunjin. Will you be able to forgive him? Author's note -> I tried to make this one a little lighter to hopefully end this story on a much happier note. So don’t mind my dreadful attempt of comedy. Let me know if you want part 3! I hope you have a happy new year!

♡ Masterlist // Previous // Next ♡

You gently begin to wake up feeling something soft move beneath your head. You groan lightly, not quite wanting to wake up just yet. This has to be some of the best sleep you have ever had in your life. It's warm and cozy, and you somehow feel thoroughly rested, which is often hard to come by when on tour in a different country. Some may say the day before had exhausted you, or maybe the hotel room was just really nice, but as soon as you manage to blink your eyes open, you know the true reason. You have finally found your way back home.

You shift slightly, the sun, peaking between the curtains and painting the room a beautiful golden color, was unfortunately shining right in your eyes. Now facing away from the window, you glance up at Minho, still clad in his basic white tee and sweatpants. Neither of you had even bothered to pull the blankets back up, rather seeking warmth from just each other. The blankets are still ruffled at the end of the bed from whatever Minho had been doing before you had entered the room yesterday, unbeknownst to the life-changing events that were about to occur. You slept all night laying on his chest with his arm wrapped tenderly around you, holding you close. This is definitely the reason you slept so well the night before. Who knew cuddling with your enemy could have such a positive effect?

Minho starts to grumble a bit underneath you and you begin to panic, not wanting him to wake up yet. You just want to cherish this sweet moment for as long as possible, too afraid of how his brain will react when he wakes up. There's always the chance he will regret it all, or maybe he was just joking, or maybe he was drunk. Okay, that last one might not make too much sense but you can't help but worry through all the possibilities. Your thoughts begin to race, forgetting the most important what if. That maybe, just maybe, he really did feel the same about you and everything he said last night was entirely true.

A hand caresses your cheek, breaking you from your destructive chain of thoughts. Your eyes fall upon Minho with his eyes cracked open and a gentle smile gracing his features. He must have woken up at some point while you were too lost in thought to notice.

"What's going on in that pretty little head of yours?" he asks, his eyes searching yours as if he could find all the answers to the universe within your gaze. You simply hum, not particularly fond of telling him the insecurities that were just previously running through your head. Although you love the man dearly, you are going to need a bit of time to learn to trust him again, but that's okay. Relationships need time, communication, and work to make them last.

You lean in to press a kiss to Minho’s cheek, his fluffy morning hair and groggy voice making your heart flutter. The two of you stare at each other, absorbing the moment. Despite the rough night four out of nine members had, there was still a lot of work to be done. In the life of an idol, there was no time for rest. But for now, you were going to appreciate the peaceful moment shared between the two of you. They hadn’t released a set time to leave yesterday, but neither of you worried. Chan will come around knocking on the door eventually letting everyone know when to be ready by. It’s the same routine that has happened at every stop this tour. The only difference now being you and Minho holding each other while waiting for the eventual interruption to come.

Just as expected, a hesitant knocking sounds through the room. Minho instantly groans and closes his eyes again. You sigh exaggeratedly, realizing you're actually going to have to depart from the warm bed. As you pull away from Minho, he frowns and makes grabby hands towards you, as if he wasn't well aware of the reason you were leaving. You swat at his hands, letting a small giggle escape as you approach the door. You swing it open without bothering to look in the peephole, assuming it was simply Chan on the other side to let you know the schedule for the day. Instead you open the door to Hyunjin, who appears very surprised as if he had almost expected you to not answer at all. Honestly, you probably wouldn't have answered if it wasn't for you believing whole-heartedly that it was Chan. Surprisingly, the fight from last night with Hyunjin hadn't been the first thing on your mind when waking up this morning.

However, as you stare at the nervous boy in front of you, you're reminded of all the cruel, harsh words he said to you just the night before. The look of annoyance was now seared into your brain. How could your best friend do that to you? Your heart starts to ache as you think about all your favorite moments with him trying to decipher how it could have lead up to this.

He brings his eyes up from where they shot to the floor when you first came out. Upon making eye contact, it's clear just how nervous he really is. There is deep regret painted across his face and sincerity within his gaze. He looks like he came with something to say, his mouth opening and closing again as he tries to get the simple words out.

"Why are you here?" you ask him, not too unkindly. You simply want to give him a way into a conversation; he looks scared half to death that your just gonna slam the door in his face.

"I wanted to apologize, I am so so sorry," he says, emphasizing the last part heavily. Just hearing those words is almost enough to make you cave and forgive him again. He is your best friend after all. You're pretty sure he didn't mean any of it, especially after the reassurances provided by Minho the night before, but it doesn’t take away all the harsh words that were spoken.

"Why would you say that to me?" you ask, hurt audible in your tone. "You know how insecure I am about that stuff."

"I didn't mean to hurt you, I was just really frustrated.”

“Well you did and it seems like you don’t even care how you made me feel.”

“Of course I care,” he says, offended at your accusation.

“Well it sure as hell seemed like you couldn’t give two shits last night.”

He simply stares back at you, regret running deep in his eyes. There’s a slight sparkle to them, enough to tell that he’s starting to tear up. He brings his hand up, scrunching the area between his eyes with his fingers. You almost remind him not to, telling him that it’ll bring wrinkles to his perfect face, but you hold yourself back remembering the unfortunate situation. Things aren’t okay between the two of you. It’s a weird felling considering it’s something that hasn’t really happened before.

Since the start of the band it’s really been you and Hyunjin. You were one of the favorite friendships for the fans to obsess over, and you loved it just as much as they did. You were two peas in a pod, never leaving each other's side.

You would’ve never expected for something like this to happen. Hyunjin wouldn’t do that to you.

But you have to think rationally if you want to keep the friendship. You can’t just throw all the years down the drain. He’s human, and he makes mistakes.

You hear Hyunjin inhale sharply from where he stands in front of you. You can tell he’s desperately trying to hold his sobs in, not wanting to make this about himself.

“Fucking idiot,” he whispers under his breath sending a pang through your chest. “Could we sit down and talk about it? I really want to make it up to you,” he says, regaining his composure. He straightens his back, his hands sliding into the pockets of his sweatpants. He nervously rocks forward a bit on his feet awaiting your answer.

As much as you want to talk it through, you’re not exactly comfortable with him right now. The idea of sitting down with him and being alone is definitely not on your to-do list. You need some time to process before you can get to that point. You’re sure that if you were to try to talk it out, it would probably turn into another argument, which is something you are desperately trying to avoid.

You glance back into the room, feeling Hyunjin’s eyes analyzing your movement. Minho is still in there, and it’s not really the time or place to dig deep into what happened. Time may be the main healer in this situation. He’s just going to have to regain your trust.

“Listen, now’s not really the best time. I’m not really ready to forgive you yet, but I’m not mad at you, okay?” He nods slowly, taking in your words. You can tell he’s disappointed, but he’s aware he’s not in the position to argue.

His eyes suddenly widen, a realization occurring. His eyes shift back to the room behind you.

“Is Minho in there? How did it go?” he asks, a sneaky smile growing on his face, completely amused at the situation.

"It went fine," you say shortly, trying to get Hyunjin to take a hint. Instead, he gently pushes past you into the hotel room. You would've shut the door on him had it not been suspicious. You spin around as Hyunjin struts into the room. You stare at him, confused considering you had just told him you weren't willing to talk right now.

You simply watch in wonder as he looks around, stepping back slightly when he notices an intimidating Minho, staring back at him from one of the beds. You may agree to be civil with Hyunjin while he attempts to make up for everything, but that doesn't mean Minho will. You're sure his typically empty threats will finally start to hold true.

Minho is still laying on the bed right where you had left him. His phone is in his hand, as if he had been trying to distract himself from listening to your conversation. However, it seems like the phone was neglected upon Hyunjin abruptly entering the room. His eyebrows are raised in a slightly annoyed manner. He hadn't been expecting Hyunjin to actually come into the room. His eyes shift from Hyunjin to you, and you quickly look away, embarrassed to be caught staring.

Although you would never admit it to his face, damn did he look hot while he was annoyed.

"You two slept in the same bed," Hyunjin says matter of factly, bringing you out of your thoughts. Your mouth opens in shock, not understanding how he could've possibly figured that out. Minho, however, doesn't take the moment of pause.

He instantly fires back, "Yah, don't start making accusations." He sits up a bit on the bed, prepared to chase after Hyunjin, like their fights usually result in.

"So, you're telling me you two did not sleep in the same bed?" he asks with his eyebrows raised in challenge. He glances between both of you as you try to figure out what to say. You don't want to lie to your best friend, but also based off what happened last night, he doesn't really deserve to know.

Minho beats you to it answering, "That's none of your business." He says it casually followed by a shrug of his shoulders. You nearly face palm, already knowing Hyunjin's reaction.

He instantly lights up, believing his theory to now be confirmed. He makes eye contact with both you and Minho, before he makes a run for it. He spins around and rushes for the door.

"Guys I won. I won the bet!" he begins to yell as he makes it to the hallway. Luckily, this was one of the few hotels you have stayed at where you had a whole floor to yourselves. There was a close encounter with fans at your last hotel, and they wanted to be extra cautious.

Hyunjin takes advantage of this, although you're not quite sure if it's purposeful or if he's just too excited to care. He goes to yell again, wanting to let the rest of the boys know the exciting news, but he is instantly cut off with a hand to his mouth. He recognizes it as Minho's, remembering the taste of dry tissues all too well.

Hyunjin nearly stumbles as he is dragged back into the room by the shorter man. Minho isn't too rough though, completely aware of his limits. He doesn't want to hurt him, maybe just restrain him.

Minho pushes him into the desk chair standing behind it. Hyunjin spits out the tissues, frustrated at being the victim of Minho's crimes yet again. He goes to stand up, eager to spill about your relationship to everyone, but he is kept seated by firm hand on his shoulder.

“Might as well tie him up while you’re at it” you say, giggling at Minho's antics.

“How’d you know I was into that?” Hyunjin retorts, a shit eating grin plastered on his face. In contrast, behind him Minho's face contorts into one of pure disgust. You can’t help but laugh at the craziness of the scene in front of you. The silliness is refreshing after the dramatic night before.

“Y/n, hand me more tissues,” Minho says, a look of determination growing on his face.

“I don’t know if that’s necessary…”

“He’s asking for it at this point,” he argues back, stretching his arm out obnoxiously. You shrug, unable to disagree with his point, emptying the last of the tissue box into his hand.

Panic fills Hyunjin’s eyes as he stares at you with deep betrayal. You simply laugh, aware that he's not actually upset.

Suddenly, all three of your heads snap towards the cracked open door as it's pushed open the rest of the way. It had been left slightly open after Minho dragged Hyunjin back in. You're nervous to see who it is, scared for the teasing to come if they find out. It's not that you don't want them to know about you and Minho, you just don't want to give them the satisfaction of being right. They've been trying to get you guys to interact again for years, so they are definitely going to give you a rough teasing over it. Plus, it doesn't sound like a bad idea to keep Minho to yourself for a little bit longer.

The door lightly hits the wall and the person is revealed. Jeongin is staring at the scene before him with wide eyes. The room is a little trashed due to Hyunjin knocking over a few things in the process of the kidnapping, and he looks terrified as Minho is holding tissues. It's definitely not the most welcoming thing he's ever seen.

He had come running out of his room after hearing Hyunjin yell, unsure as to what he had said. He was staying in the room next to you two and had simply wanted to check on Hyunjin or maybe join in on the fun.

However, this was not something he wanted to be included in this early in the morning. Hyunjin gives him pleading eyes, practically begging Jeongin to stay. The maknae doesn't listen, rather breaking eye contact and leaving for his room, too scared to be on the recieving end of Minho's wrath. He hadn't even said anything, his simple observance enough to make him leave.

That wouldn't be the end of it though, he knows he'll learn all about what happened eventually. He leaves with a small smirk, wondering if they had finally managed to finally get you and Minho to make up.

Next part out now!

Taglist: @armystay89 @thisisnotjacinta @silentreadersthings @seungminsapuppy

[aurianavaloria]

KoH - What Good May Come (Baldwin IV x Reader)

Fandom: Kingdom of Heaven

Pairing: Baldwin IV x Fem!Reader

PoV: Mixed/Split (Tiberias - Fem!Reader - Baldwin)

Length: Long (8k+ words! 😬)

TW: Vague mentions of disfigurement/leprosy

A/N: FINALLY, I've finished the Y/N fic that was voted on so long ago in this poll. Since the results were fairly close, I simply eliminated the least-voted option and went with a combination of the rest. 😁I've tried my best to keep Y/N truly generic, although she is female; in all other ways, though, it was my hope to make her vague enough that readers could envision whomever they liked in whatever universe/version of the story they wished. Backstory and circumstances are also left as vague as possible. As far as personality, I tried to go with what seemed most popular in general, again in an attempt to appeal to the widest audience. I sincerely hope you enjoy, and thank you all for being awesome! 🤗

================================================

“She adores you, you know.”

It was these words from Tiberias that broke the silence between king and vassal – a companionable one… one born from years of acquaintanceship that had seen both parties through their fair share of strife and misunderstandings. A type of camaraderie perhaps only two leaders in their position could comprehend and be satisfied with.

The Count of Tripoli watched as his liege-lord’s attention was drawn from the bright Jerusalem outdoors into which he was all but forbidden to emerge. Watched as eyes as blue as the sky Tiberias knew was above drifted to his own. One was clouded, now – a sign of impending blindness. But Tiberias remembered well when both possessed such a clear and sharp forget-me-not stare, bidding all who beheld their gaze to indeed forget them not…

“I beg your pardon, Raymond,” the king replied, the silver mask he wore slightly muffling carefully-chosen words, smooth as the waters of the Jordan. “My thoughts have wandered, as they often do these days, and I am uncertain as to whom you refer.”

The smallest of laughs escaped Tiberias’s lips as they briefly twisted into a half-smile – a response to His Majesty that perhaps only he could get away with. He swirled what remained of the deep claret wine in his goblet, leveling his gaze at the king over the rim; the Count had known his lord since before he had come of age, and no amount of masks could cover the fact that Baldwin IV of Jerusalem was always aware of more than he pretended.

“Forgive me for my lack of clarity, my lord,” Raymond answered wryly. “I speak of Lady Y/N.”

“Ah, yes.”

Baldwin’s response was accompanied by the slightest nod, silver shimmering with the movement as it caught a sunray. His eyes fell to the chess pieces that functioned not as part of an actual match between them, but merely an occupation for restless hands. Particularly the king’s. Gloved in white, one of those half-numb hands still somehow moved with grace, a slender finger perched atop the head of a knight, resting upon the carved arch of the stallion’s mane.

Tiberias noted the short answer, half-sighed. No doubt His Majesty’s thoughts continued where his lips dared not to go, if the Count knew him as well as he thought he did…

“She speaks of you fondly and often,” Raymond added, sipping of the wine. “I believe she is single-handedly determined to bring your presence back into court by mention of your name and titles alone.”

White fingers released the knight. “The court is far too vicious a place for as good a soul as hers,” Baldwin said at length, sitting back in his chair, another sigh escaping him like the hiss of steam behind his mask as he glanced away. “Lately, I have been thinking of what to do with her. It is increasingly obvious there is no place for her here. Not amongst these vultures.”

“Oh?” Tiberias’s brows arched high. “Isn’t there?”

“No. There is not.”

At that, the Count’s lips pressed together as he leaned forward, setting his goblet on the chess table and folding his hands in his lap. “My lord, surely you aren’t thinking of sending her away. Not from here, where she has found joy despite everything.” He caught his liege’s gaze as it returned to him, adding pointedly, “Where you have found it.”

“My joy is irrelevant,” Baldwin replied flatly. “And as for hers...” he paused, and Raymond could see the king’s throat bob past his bandages. “It will not persist. It is best she seek it elsewhere, before that which she has found here meets its inevitable end.”

The corner of the Count’s mouth twitched. “You, or Jerusalem?”

“I am Jerusalem,” the king answered simply.

Tiberias glanced away, closing his eyes for a moment as silence stretched between them. The Count in him knew that Baldwin was, in a way, correct. Disaster loomed on the horizon – a kind of calamity from which they might not return, and it would most assuredly begin with His Majesty’s death. If the physicians were right and not being overly generous in their assessment, then the king had less than a decade left in his short life. And imbeciles like Guy de Lusignan seemed determined to shorten it further. Yes, she would be safer – and perhaps happier in the long term – elsewhere…

Yet there was something so terribly tragic about it all that Tiberias couldn’t help but feel sympathy grow in his heart for the boy. Yes boy. He hadn’t even had the chance to grow a man’s whiskers on his cheeks before that damned disease had twisted his face almost beyond recognition. And Tiberias had seen it all. Even through the at-times frustrating trials of Baldwin’s kingship, the Count of Tripoli had watched as the golden-haired warrior of sixteen years had wasted away into this silver-faced specter that had become far too wise, far too young…

…but he had also watched those specter’s eyes glow with a long-absent light the moment Y/N had stood before him. For a fleeting instant, he had once again seen the eyes of a younger king, reminiscent of past joys and glorious victories.

Baldwin would extinguish that light in an instant for her sake, romantic fool that he was. Or perhaps it was Raymond himself who was the fool, as he thought of Y/N and how she, too, had been drawn to the king the moment they’d met. How such a precious creature, so rare upon this Earth, had fallen into such a deadly trap… and now it seemed, like a snared rabbit, her only option was to chew off her own limb before the hunter found her.

How to rescue them both from such a fate?

“The girl is in love with you, my lord,” he began after a moment, his voice a growling murmur. “To send her away would break her heart. It would destroy her.” He shook his head, meeting the king’s stare with his own. “As it would you, and you know it.”

“What would you have me do, Tiberias?” Baldwin asked, Raymond’s more familiar moniker finally coming out now that the Count’s words had pierced past the royal façade. “To let her stay will cause her only despair, and that will destroy the both of us as well. And I cannot be that selfish to such a benevolent soul.” Tiberias heard a long exhale behind the mask as the king cast his eyes to the ceiling, as if searching for answers amongst the lofty vaults. “Were it not for this disease I would ask her father for her hand and devote my life to her as her husband before the altar of God. But I am a leper, and I am forbidden that.” The pale gaze that returned to the Count’s was a haunting one now, as if all the ghosts of Purgatory screamed through it for salvation. A mirthless laugh followed, a dark sound born of darker thoughts. “It seems I can do nothing else but waste away before her very eyes. So tell me, my wise vassal – if I cannot protect her from what is to come, what is it that I can do?”

A flicker of a smile crossed Tiberias’s lips. “Love her, my lord. As I know you already do.” He paused, propping his elbows on the table and rubbing his sword-calloused hands together as he thought.

“It’s the whole reason for your self-flagellation, is it not?” he continued after a moment. “This talk of sending Y/N out of Jerusalem – your crown tells you one thing, but your heart tells you another, and for the first time you want to toss the crown by the wayside, and that makes you fear you are an incompetent king. So you pick up the crown again in hopes it will crush the heart, and perhaps the love along with it.”

Another sigh, the lids of the king’s eyes fluttering shut for a moment. “I only wish to do what is right, Tiberias. It is what I have striven for my entire life, and I will not abandon such principles now. If it means my own suffering, so be it. And as for her,” his eyes opened once more, latching to Raymond’s, “tell me what good may come from the love of a leper.”

This time, it was the Count who sighed, sitting back in his chair. “Peace. Mercy. Comfort. Everything you have brought to this kingdom.” He crossed an ankle over his knee, peaking his fingers. “You cannot know that a little cruelty now will not hurt her any less than what will come later. But you do know that loving her can only bring happiness to you both in the present moment – and that is what she lives for. Not the future.” He cocked his head at the king. “There is nothing wicked in what she desires. Nor in what you wish for her. The both of you want nothing more than the other’s well-being. How can that be anything but right?”

Raymond saw Baldwin’s throat bob again, the mask shimmering in the sunlight as he shifted in his seat, first looking down towards the floor, then back to the illuminated arcade.

“How shall I court her, then?” he inquired at length, his voice softer, cynicism at last yielding to tender warmth. “How to show her this affection of mine without forever staining her honor?”

Tiberias’s jaw worked as he thought for a few moments in silence. “If you wish to be discreet, my lord, I believe I may assist in this matter.”

It was then, as Baldwin returned his attention to the Count, that the latter saw a glimpse of boyish mischief sparkling in his liege’s eye. “I would trust no other to the task.”

================

“My lady, a courier flagged me down today and told me to give you this.”

Your lady-in-waiting approached, holding out a small wrapped parcel.

“What is it?” you asked, interest piqued.

The handmaid shook her head. “I have no idea, my lady. The courier didn’t say.”

You felt your brow furrow as you took the parcel in hand. The fabric was fine, but not terribly so – a soft cream color, tied with a simple yellow ribbon.

“Hmm. I wonder who it is from.”

“He didn’t say that, either,” your companion commented.

Curiosity mounting by the second, you decided to succumb to the impulse to open the parcel, tugging at the ribbon. Casting it aside, you pulled back the corners of the fabric to reveal a folded piece of parchment, within which had been tucked something slightly weighty…

Merely tilting the parchment to the side let the object slide free into your waiting palm, and you couldn’t stifle the gasp that escaped you. There, in your hand, lay a lovely brooch, sparkling in the sunlight that streamed in from your window. A small disk of gold, swirling floral patterns weaved across its surface and wound about its edge like vines of roses. At its center was set a sapphire cabochon, polished and glimmering, and from its bottom edge hung a single creamy white pearl, like a teardrop in shape.

“Oh, it’s beautiful!”

The words came from your lady-in-waiting; you were too busy still holding your breath as you took in the details of this exquisite piece. You ran a finger over the filigree and atop the smooth stone in wonder. Who could have possibly gifted you something so beautiful and why?

As if reading your mind, your fellow courtier prompted, “Maybe the parchment says who it’s from.”

Finally remembering to breathe, you nodded, carefully unfolding the small piece of vellum to see a tight, neat script, punctuated with neither signature nor seal:

You will never know how much light you bring into the lives of others. It is my only hope that this small token of my regard brings a measure of light into yours.

This time, it was both you and your handmaiden who gasped in unison, barely stifling squeaks of girlish delight as you exchanged looks with one another.

“You, my lady, have an admirer!”

In awe, you stared at the parchment, reading the words over and over again. But who could have possibly written them?

“So it seems,” you replied at length, running a thumb across the surface of the brooch.

“Well,” your comrade continued, straightening and putting her hands on her hips, “that will give you plenty to talk about at the feast tonight.”

Your brow furrowed. “Feast?”

She nodded with a grin. “Yes, feast! Princess Sibylla arranged it. Perhaps you’ll find your mysterious admirer amongst the guests there, hmm?”

At that, you could only blink for a moment, your thoughts a whirlwind in your mind. Of all the things to find in Jerusalem, you hadn’t quite expected an admirer to be one of them…

“I’m not sure whether to be frightened or excited by the prospects,” you finally replied honestly, a nervous chuckle following your words.

“Oh, lady,” your handmaid admonished, swatting a hand playfully at your shoulder. “It will be quite fun, I’m sure. The princess’s functions are always lighthearted affairs, or so I hear. I imagine there will be dancing and merry music aplenty. Just plan to enjoy yourself, and if something – or someone – intriguing comes along…” she trailed and winked.

You tried to fight the blush that sprang to your cheeks, but to no avail, leading your handmaid to laugh heartily. “Ah, my lady. By your leave, I must see to a few things before evening falls, but I will return to help you get ready.”

You couldn’t help but smile back, giving a nod of assent. “Of course.”

With that, the lady-in-waiting dipped into a polite curtsey and left, closing your chamber door gently behind her and leaving you to your increasingly-anxious thoughts. Your attention returned to the parchment and brooch – both were fine indeed, indicating that, whoever your admirer was, they were certainly someone of status. Yet there was a certain practicality to both; the author’s penmanship was practiced and elegant, but not overstated, and the brooch itself was obviously expensive, but neither was it overly extravagant.

It was also a rather fitting gift, considering you had only just lost your old one on the way to Jerusalem…

And then it hit you.

It can’t be…

Your heart began to beat harder in your chest as it all came to you in a rush. Yes, you’d lost your beloved brooch on the long journey to Jerusalem – one of your last remaining ties to your homeland. A silly thing to get upset about, you told yourself later on, and yet the loss of it affected you even after your arrival at court. Nevertheless, no one up until that point knew besides your lady-in-waiting. And there was only one Jerusalemite native to whom you had confided that little detail.

The king.

Your mouth ran dry as you remembered the instance as clearly as if it had been yesterday. It was only your third day at the palace, and you’d yet to become accustomed to its maze-like halls. Couple that with your fascination with the local architecture, and that led you to places, in hindsight, you probably ought not have tread. Yet no one stopped you, even as the number of palace guests thinned and you emerged upon a quiet, sunlit terrace…

…only to run right into a tall man in white.

It hadn’t taken you long to figure out that you’d plowed headlong into the king himself – quite embarrassing that. In fact, you were so mortified that you were sure you would die of it on the spot, even as you apologized profusely with the deepest curtsey you could manage on weak legs.

To your surprise, however, not even the slightest admonishment came from him. Instead, he chuckled, the sound muffled by the mask he wore. That caused you to look up, still frozen in your curtsey, and that was when you saw the bluest eyes you’d ever seen in your life looking back at you, their squinted corners evidence of a smile behind the almost-angelic visage of silver.

You smiled back nervously, at which point he bid you to rise, assuring you that you had done nothing wrong. An awkward introduction followed, during which you admitted that curiosity had gotten the better of you, and you praised the well-kept grounds and the lovely accommodations you’d been given…

As it so happened, however, he already knew precisely who you were from your name alone – where you were from and why you’d come to Jerusalem. Whether he had gleaned this information from spies or the rumor mill of the court, you weren’t certain, but the more he spoke, the more difficult it became to keep the flabbergasted look off your face. And along with that astonishment came the slightest bit of fear – if he knew this much about you, how much did everyone else know?

Despite your best efforts, though, you must have been unable to keep your face expressionless, as that was when he had invited you to his chambers to speak further in private.

To say you were surprised by such an offer was something of an understatement; it was the last thing you expected to hear after what had just transpired between you, especially from a king to a freshly-acquainted subject. And yet you found yourself quite unable to decline even out of modesty. For one thing, declining the offer of a king seemed most imprudent, and for another…

…well, you were actually rather curious about His Majesty, unwilling to end the encounter just yet.

So you followed him, marveling at him all the while. You knew he was a leper – that was something you’d been informed of before you’d departed for the Holy City – but that didn’t frighten you. You had seen lepers where you were from, and they hadn’t frightened you, either. You also knew the mask was meant to hide the deformities beneath. In fact, it was the presence of that mask that had led you to guess the identity of its owner before it was ever confirmed by his lips – it was a symbol as powerful as a crown. None of that was what had drawn your curiosity; you were motivated neither by morbid fascination nor a sense of pity.

No, it was his astonishingly-welcoming demeanor that had you almost spellbound. The easy willingness to listen and to forgive. The quiet, yet poised decorum. You’d known men and women alike with rank much lesser than his who possessed a cold and domineering manner that was immediately off-putting to almost everyone around them. Yet here was the king of this realm, conversing politely with a lady who had merely lost her way.

Already you had learned volumes about his character, and he’d barely spoken at all.

He had posted guards, you noted, but they kept their eyes straight ahead as you passed them, following King Baldwin into his private quarters. It was a mighty struggle, but you managed to resist the urge to succumb to the eye-wandering that had gotten you into this situation to begin with. Instead, with the same discipline of his guardsmen, you glued your gaze to his back, occupying yourself by mentally tracing the subtle patterns in his coat of white damask silk.

Ultimately, he offered you a seat, and as you accepted with another curtsey, he sat himself a respectable distance away, only the slightest stiffness of his limbs betraying his condition as he settled into the chair opposite you. In fact, you could imagine he occupied his throne in much the same manner as he leaned back, both white-gloved hands curving over the ends of its arms. A servant, unbidden, came forth out of the shadows with a fresh cup of wine, which you took with a polite nod. The man then retreated as quietly as he had arrived, disappearing beyond sheer curtains of pale fabric.

And then, you talked.

It was mostly he who asked the questions, and you answered them as best as you were able; you weren’t brave enough to ask him much of anything, and so you settled for what small bits of information he voluntarily divulged over the course of your conversation. All in all, it was a relatively light discussion. He mostly inquired about your homeland and of your journey – of whether you had experienced any hardships or had witnessed anything of interest on your way to the Holy City, and if you had troubles acclimating to Jerusalem. It was during this exchange that you revealed the caravan’s run-in with thieves… how they had stolen what small bit of jewelry you possessed, sneaking in and out of the tents of the pilgrims and vanishing into the desert night before anyone could catch them.

You only offhandedly mentioned the brooch as the one piece you had any sentimental attachment to. In all honesty, you weren’t even sure if he had been listening at that point, as he had closed his eyes for a long time. You thought perhaps he might even have fallen asleep for a moment; if so, you couldn’t blame him, as you knew his condition was exhausting – you couldn’t imagine dealing with it on top of everything else expected of a king.

It was also quite possible that you were boring the poor man out of his mind with your lengthy and rambling answers, and he was simply too polite to cut you off.

Yet if what your gut was telling you was right, then he had indeed been listening, and far more closely than you could ever have realized…

You hadn’t known, however, at the time. Instead, you’d felt increasingly self-conscious as his eyes opened again, their gaze meeting yours with a piercing stare. Truly, it was as if he was looking through you rather than at you as you turned the conversation to lighter matters – mostly all the wonderful sights you’d seen since arriving in the Holy Land, especially Jerusalem itself. Your observations seemed to please him, and he voiced his gladness that you were, for the most part, enjoying yourself. You’d thanked him for his hospitality, and it wasn’t long after that the discussion ended, king and subject cordially parting ways with nod and curtsey.

Little did you know that one meeting would soon turn into two. Then three. Then more.

Somehow, a few days after your unexpected first encounter, you ran into him again in the garden – though, thankfully, not literally this time. After exchanging a few pleasantries, he once more invited you to further conversation in private, and again you accepted. This time, he inquired if you knew the game of chess, and to your surprise (and secret amusement) he appeared rather pleased when you affirmed that you did. He then promptly challenged you to a match, to which you heartily agreed. Yet even though you were handily beaten, it was an enjoyable game, and you found yourself acquiescing to a future rematch.

It wasn’t long before these games became almost a routine part of your afternoon, save for the days when His Majesty was busy with his council or holding court. And it was during the course of these games that you realized just how lonely he must have been. For the more games you shared, the fewer of them were seen to completion; far more time was spent talking with the board sitting untouched between you than it was actually playing.

He never kept you longer than you desired to stay, and certainly never more than was appropriate for an unmarried lady such as yourself. In fact, he seemed to leave the coming and going mostly to you. Yet you didn’t fail to notice the way his eyes lit up when he saw you, their corners crinkling with a smile you couldn’t otherwise see. It broke your heart that he spent so much of his days, outside his duties, in near-isolation, when he was such a thoughtful, inquisitive, and intelligent soul… such a joy to converse with. And so you’d been sure to praise these qualities amongst your fellow courtiers whenever the chance arose…

It had only just occurred to you in the middle of a recent sleepless night that the reasons behind your persistent compliments might have run a bit deeper than the simple desire to keep his spirit alive in the court he barely saw.

You couldn’t deny the way your heart sped up when your eyes met – those eyes that you couldn’t quite decide were more like the sea or the sky. And it wasn’t just the content of his speech you enjoyed, but the way he delivered it… with a voice that was so easy to listen to for hours on end, so reflective of his serene and introspective nature.

And then there were the times, when he accidentally fumbled the pieces, that your fingers and his gloved ones nearly touched. When you both reached for the fallen pawn only for one of you to swiftly withdraw, each time followed by a soft chuckle. But you couldn’t ignore the sensation that charged the atmosphere, like the feeling that permeated the air just before a storm, and your heartbeat was the warning thunder in your ears…

You shook your head, your thoughts returning to the present as you rubbed your thumb over the brooch’s smooth gem. It was then that the tiniest doubt began to tickle and nag at the back of your mind. What if it wasn’t him at all? What if it was merely a coincidence? Something your heart foolishly yearned for, but that your mind knew well would never happen?

A frown pulled at your lips. Baldwin had proven to be someone to whom you could speak about almost anything without fear of reprisal. Nothing you had confided in him had ever escaped the bounds of his chamber – and there was plenty you had discussed, especially lately. Even if he hadn’t sent this jewel, you could trust him to advise you with wisdom. And despite his relative absence from court, there was no one who knew its members better…

By the time your handmaid returned to help you prepare for the evening, you’d made up your mind.

“I shall wear the blue bliaut tonight. To match this lovely brooch.”

================

Even past the bandages of thin linen and the silken veil covering his ears, Baldwin could still hear the distant strains of music floating through the palace’s long and lonely corridors… the latest in Sibylla’s efforts to keep the place lively even as its king slowly wasted away, out of sight and out of mind.

He could have made a surprise appearance, he supposed. He did that on occasion, whenever he felt particularly energetic, much to his physicians’ chagrin. It was mildly intriguing to see what kind of looks he would receive and from whom– though by this point, those expressions and their bearers had become almost boringly predictable. Fear and awe were ever present, manifesting in the form of slackened jaws and widened eyes and hushed whispers behind hands and veils. Rarer looks of disgust and revulsion were always quickly covered by feigned indifference. Then there were those especially-bold souls who dared to reveal their open contempt in their thinned lips and narrowed eyes.

It was pity, however, that he despised the most.

Dread, loathing, hatred – these were all traits with which any monarch could be clothed whether they wished to or not. Such was the burden of leadership. But pity…

Pity was a mantle that was distinctly his to wear.

Every time he saw it in the faces of those who looked upon him, he was reminded that his crown was secondary to his condition. That they saw the Leper before they saw the King. It was not that he lacked appreciation for those who truly worried for his health and his well-being, but in their eyes he saw reflected back at him what he tried desperately to ignore from the moment his physicians departed in the morning until they returned at night to dress his wounds.

The corner of his mouth twitched beneath his mask, and his quill stilled, poised for a moment in the one hand of his that still had life in it before he reached to return the pen to its stand.

Lady Y/N had never looked at him that way.

Sitting back in his chair, he wondered if she was enjoying herself this night. If Sibylla was hosting her well. He hoped that she was, and that his sister had not overwhelmed the poor girl with her almost shamefully lavish tastes. It was evident that Y/N was quite unused to Jerusalem’s abundance in almost every respect; those first few days after her arrival at court, her wide-eyed wonder had rendered her speechless on more than one occasion, or so he’d heard.

A light hum escaped him at the memory of their first meeting. It seemed as though it was forever ago, and yet, at the same time, it felt as if it were only yesterday.

She had been rather distracted, he recalled… so distracted, in fact, that she hadn’t seen him in the corridors, watching as she’d unwittingly wandered into the realm of the royal apartments. With great accuracy, he’d anticipated the trajectory of her meandering steps, and he purposefully made to intercept her before she breached the threshold of what the guards deemed acceptable, even for a lost lady.

Baldwin wasn’t quite as quick as he used to be, though, in part due to that damned dragging foot of his, and he’d neglected to account for his reduction in speed, resulting in an unfortunate collision on the terrace above the gardens.

Or perhaps, he thought in hindsight, it was fortunate after all…

He’d heard enough from his informants to guess who she was. Tiberias and others amongst his court might have suspected she was an assassin simply playing the part of a lost newcomer, and he had to admit that the thought had crossed his own mind, if briefly; in a world such as theirs, it was difficult to imagine anyone without some kind of ulterior motive. Yet it soon became apparent that she was as innocent as the day was long – if there was anything his disease had given him, it was experience reading tone and body language, and he wasn’t certain the best actress in the world could have feigned her level of self-conscious nervousness.

No, Y/N was simply curious and lost. And from what those same informants had told him, she was in desperate need of someone local she could trust. Though evidently satisfied with her new home in every other way, she had been slow to acclimate to the social environment of the court, preferring to keep to herself whenever possible. From this, he suspected her need to get away from the appraising gazes of total strangers was what had initially propelled her away from the great hall, and her natural inquisitiveness had continued to pull her into the quieter depths of the palace.

But the faint smile she’d worn and the sparkle in her eyes had been replaced with fear the instant she realized who she’d run into, and the stuttering apology and low curtsey she’d given him betrayed her anticipation of reprimand.

That was something he’d had to correct, and quickly.

In the moments that followed, he’d gauged it most appropriate for them to smooth over this encounter by getting to know each other better, and thus he’d invited her to do just that in the privacy of his quarters, where they would face little chance of interruption.

As he’d hoped, she’d accepted. And it was this first conversation of theirs that had led him to believe that Lady Y/N was terribly lonely.

Her chatter was slightly nervous and yet, at the same time, somewhat eager. There was little doubt that he’d learned far more about her than she had about him; with but a little coaxing, he had discovered much about her circumstances and about what plagued her. It had displeased him greatly to hear about the thieves that had raided her entourage’s tents on the way to the Holy City, and it irked him even more that she’d lost a treasured possession because of it. Her journey had already been a long and arduous one – had that not been enough?

Y/N put up a rather convincing façade of indifference on the matter, but when he focused on her voice alone, he heard her pain. No, she was no actress, he concluded.

He also hadn’t failed to notice her willingness to make eye contact with him… to look him full in the face and speak freely with every question he asked; she dodged neither query nor gaze. Outside her initial fright on the balcony, she displayed few other signs of trepidation regarding his presence. In fact, it seemed as though she’d just been waiting for someone with whom she could share her thoughts and feelings – as if she’d bottled up everything he’d asked about since arriving in Jerusalem and finally found someone willing to listen.

Had she truly felt so comfortable with him already, or was she simply a trusting soul? He was unaccustomed to both, and it was… refreshing.

His instincts warned him that the jackals of the court would surely eat her alive, and he feared what their viciousness might do to her. What kind of slander and gossip would come from what had been innocent curiosity on her part. How much her character would be maligned for sport. The very thought of it being a possibility made his blood boil.

Over the course of their subsequent conversations, however, he was forced to rethink that initial assumption. Kind-hearted she was, and still too good for the likes of her peers, but she could hold her own among them better than he had anticipated; a few casual inquiries over a few chess matches revealed that much. She saw, heard, and understood far more than her outward appearance would suggest. Behind that warm, gentle, and charmingly-inquisitive exterior was a clever and tenacious woman whom he found to be utterly captivating. No matter the storm around her, she always projected an air of geniality and good cheer, evidently determined not to let this unsettled world tear her down.

In short, the court didn’t deserve her.

He didn’t deserve her.

She never asked him for anything, and likewise she didn’t press questions upon him about his condition. Whenever they passed time together, he felt like neither king nor leper, but like an ordinary man. In her sparkling eyes and healing presence, he saw not pity, but life. A normal life for once. One where he did not have to dread what the next morning might bring.

Alas, that glorious feeling of contentment left him with her every departure.

The sound of exuberant cheers down the corridor pulled him from his musings, and he found himself back in the relative darkness of his chambers, watching the candle’s flame flicker upon his desk. He wondered which dance it was they’d just finished, imagining Y/N in his mind’s eye moving as hypnotically as that very flame. If she danced as beautifully as he envisioned, she would have the whole court entranced…

“Sire, you have a request for an audience.”

The guard called from the entrance to his quarters.

“Who is it?” he asked, hope, dread, and fear all churning in his stomach in a toxic maelstrom. He hadn’t the patience or the energy to deal with most petitioners this night, other than-

“Lady Y/N.”

His eyes widened.

That was quick.

Hope surged forth at the mention of her name, but neither dread nor fear was eliminated by this revelation. Not completely. He had a feeling the gifting of the brooch he’d commissioned would bring her to him sooner or later, but he hadn’t anticipated it being that very day, and especially not with the festivities Sibylla had planned…

Perhaps it is not that, he reminded himself solemnly, but something else altogether.

“I will see her,” he called back at last. “Let her pass.”

There were precious few seconds for him to compose himself before he saw her, at first a shadow at the entrance to his chambers, and then illuminated by lamp and candlelight as she cautiously strode forth. His breath caught in his lungs at the sight of her, her eyes glittering like stars from all those dancing fires. She wore the most beautiful court dress he’d ever seen her in – a sapphire-blue silk bliaut, laced tight at the sides to flatter her form, seemingly a thousand shimmering pleats flowing from her hips to the floor. At her waist had been tied a fabric belt of lighter blue, embroidered in gold, double-wrapped about her body and knotted in front in Frankish style. Her belled sleeves, with their golden trim, allowed only a glimpse of her stark white chemise beneath, and there, upon that same trim that adorned the dress’s wide neckline, had been pinned the brooch, pulling the dipping V above her heart into an elegant keyhole.

“Your Majesty,” she greeted him with a curtsey, offering a smile that shot straight to his heart. “I hope I haven’t come at an inopportune time.”

“Not at all,” he gestured for her to rise, turning in his seat to fully face her, “although I would have expected you to be at my sister’s gathering.”

Another smile. “I was, in fact. Alas, I felt the need to speak with you on a matter of great import. I hope Her Highness can forgive me for my early departure.”

The king nodded once. “I am all but certain she will. I am, however, glad you were at least able to make an appearance,” he remarked as he slowly rose from his chair, stifling a groan that threatened to escape him from his aching limbs. Then, pausing, he tilted his head as he allowed himself to take in her attire once more. “You look lovely. It would have been a shame to have wasted such beauty on my poor eyes alone; better indeed that you allowed others with keener sight the chance to appreciate your taste and talents before slipping away to these dark and distant halls.”

Even in the low candlelight, he could see her cheeks flush, and as her gaze briefly flicked away from his, he felt his twisted lips pull into an unseen smile.

“You are too kind, my lord,” she replied. “In truth, I found myself… inspired… by this new jewel I received just this afternoon.” Her fingers drifted to that very piece, pinned above her heart, and Baldwin forced himself to school his gaze… to pretend he hadn’t been the one to write up the specifics of its creation for the royal jeweler… that he hadn’t entrusted it to Tiberias to give to a capable courier… that he hadn’t prayed to God he hadn’t made an irreversible mistake by daring to tread on this unknown path.

“Do you like it?” she asked suddenly, her eyes meeting his. “Believe it or not, it is, in fact, the subject of my concern.”

Something in both her gaze and her tone told him she’d made the assumption he wished. Good. He had no desire to drag this out; indeed, hadn’t the time for it. And now that she was here, following the lead he’d purposefully fashioned, his only task was to find out if Tiberias was truly right about her and her feelings…

Swallowing back where his heart had gathered in his throat, he replied coolly, “Yes, it suits you. Although, I am uncertain as to why you would approach me for such an opinion,” he added with a chuckle, slightly bemused at the way she was choosing to approach this mystery. Indicating the chess table where they’d held so many conversations of late, he beckoned, “Come. Sit.”

Wordlessly, she acquiesced, dipping her head before moving to take her usual place, as he did his.

“I…” she began after a moment, her stare focused on one of the pieces as he settled himself opposite her. “Well, the truth is, I was hoping I could ask you for advice in a matter related to it. Regarding the one who sent it to me, in fact.”

“Yes?” he prompted as he watched her. Time to confirm that assumption.

“Well, you see… I don’t really know who sent it…”

His eyes met hers, squinting a little. “You don’t?” he asked, keeping the skepticism from his tone as he began to pull her thoughts from her.

“No.” She shook her head. “There was no name on the note that accompanied it, so I cannot know for certain who might have sent it. But,” yet another smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, her eyes sparkling again as she leaned forth and propped her elbows on the edge of the table, “I do have an idea, and I was hoping perhaps I might pass my thoughts by you. You know a great many in your court, after all. Perhaps you could confirm or deny my suspicions?”

Oh yes, she knew. He knew she knew. And now she played with him as much as he with her, both seeking confession…

“Perhaps I could,” he answered musingly. “What are your thoughts, then, Lady Y/N?”

“Well,” she began, dropping her gaze to the pieces once more, her fingertips toying with the white king, “I was just thinking of how appropriate such a gift was. Indeed, the person who sent it must know me rather well. It appeals so much to my tastes and is so fitting given recent events.”

His heart felt like it was about to beat itself out of his chest. “How fortuitous.”

“My thoughts precisely,” she agreed, glancing up at him. “And of those whom I’ve spent the most time with, there are few who would know me in such a manner.”

“Truly?”

“Truly.”

She paused, and he felt her eyes studying him intensely. “In fact, there is only one man who would have known just how fortuitous it was. Only one who would have known I would have need of such a piece. Now,” she leaned back a little, offering him a pointed look, “I do realize that brooches are popular as courting gifts,” she paused, her gaze latching to his, “but even so, I find the choice rather… convenient. Don’t you, my lord?”

“Yes,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “I understand your meaning.”

Deafening silence stretched between them during which neither of them moved.

“Only one man,” she repeated, her own voice having gone quiet, and Baldwin saw her eyes glimmer in the lamplight. Before he could even open his mouth to offer another comment, she leaned forward again, her gaze burning a hole through him. “Only one man who bothered to know me. To know my heart. To care for me and my life enough to remember what I held dear.” He saw her swallow heavily. “You, my king. You sent it to me, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” he breathed, nodding once in affirmation.

“Do you mean it?”

Her question was barely a whisper, yet Baldwin felt it in his heart – a probing inquiry seeking out the truth of his intentions.

His blood was rushing in his ears. “Every word, written and unwritten.”

And with that final admission everything was confirmed on his part. But as for hers…

The tears were obvious in her eyes now, pooling at the edges of her lashes. In that moment, he was sure he understood how the condemned felt just before the stroke of the headsman’s axe, before the tightening of the hangman’s noose. What would her answer be, then? He knew in his heart it would be better for her to simply walk away. But would she? Would she willingly doom herself to heartbreak?

At last Y/N spoke once more, her voice a tremulous whisper, and he hung upon every word as though his very life depended on it.

“I know this cannot be a courtship in the traditional sense,” she began softly, her liquid stare never leaving his, “and I know what the others will say…”

He began to feel lightheaded. At this rate, he was going to faint before he could hear her answer in full.

“…but I don’t care. For as long as there is life left in both of us, my king, I am yours. In whatever capacity you desire.”

“Oh.”

The word left him on a whoosh of breath, hissing behind his mask as relief washed over him in a powerful wave, every muscle in his body relaxing at once. Yet he couldn’t help the warped smile that overtook his countenance behind that façade of silver at the implications of her words.

She…?

“Yes,” she said with a nod, as if hearing the question his thoughts posed. A soft laugh followed, even as a shimmering tear slowly tracked down her cheek. “I love you, Baldwin. With all my heart. And I have since the day we met.”

At that, then, there was no longer any question of her feelings. He felt his own eyes welling with emotion, and he leaned towards her as close as he dared, propping his good hand on the table for support. “I regret that I will never be able to show you the extent of my own for you, my dear Lady Y/N. But understand this…” he paused, swallowing heavily. “My purest devotion has and always will belong to you. As much as a wretch such as I can be, I, too, am yours.”

She shook her head. “You are no wretch. Not to me.”

It was then her hand slowly moved towards where his gloved one yet lay on the table’s polished surface, and he flinched, a spike of fear darting through him like the bolt from a crossbow. “Y/N, no…”

Her gaze bored into his, her hand yet poised above his own. “I’m not afraid, my lord.”

“Y/N… please…”

The word was barely a whisper, slipping between the slightly-parted lips of his mask before he could catch it – a cry for her to stop and yet a plea for her not to. It was as if he had been paralyzed, unable to move away despite every corner of his mind screaming at him to withdraw.

If the glove was not enough… if it couldn’t safeguard her…

And yet all thoughts of everything came to a halt the moment her fingers lightly grazed his own, his breath catching in his throat. He felt it – the warmth of her through the thin silk – and it took all of his strength not to flinch away from her again, to curl his hand into a fist and recoil in upon himself to protect her from his horrid disease. Her eyes searched his, seemingly sifting through his soul as further she went. Slowly. Steadily. Her fingertips brushed with a feather-light touch over each set of knuckles, back and forth, and he couldn’t breathe. His lungs were desperate for air as she traced the delicate golden embroidery on the back of his hand; they finally betrayed him then, a shuddering exhale followed by a hitched intake of air he was certain she heard.

Yet Y/N only smiled at him once more, in that warm and gentle way of hers, her hand stilling as it rested atop his. And the entire world stilled along with it, his fear slowly ebbing as reason returned to replace it. These touches were all they had, he realized. All they could permit themselves. And yet still they could hold all the tenderness of a kiss.

Speaking of which…

He moved much more gently, then, as he twisted his hand underneath hers to catch her fingers in his grip. His gaze holding hers, he stroked his thumb across her knuckles before bringing that hand to his mask, where the cold and unfeeling lips touched the back of it in place of his own disfigured ones.

Despite not being able to give her a proper kiss, though, she evidently still understood the gesture, as another blush flushed her cheeks. A soft chuckle escaped him, and he remarked dryly, “There appears to be a bit of an obstacle here…”

At that, uncontrollable laughter burst from her, merry and full, and she clamped her other hand over her mouth to muffle it, leaning against the back of the chair as she continued to shake. He, too, laughed softly at her merriment, and for a moment the sound filled the room with a kind of joy it hadn’t witnessed in years.

After a moment, Y/N finally recovered, and she glanced over her shoulder as the faint strains of another song could be heard. Her gaze glittering with stars, both hands grasped his now and gently tugged as she stood. “Come. Dance with me.”

He blinked even as he slowly rose before her. “I… fear I’m not capable of much these days…”

“Not to worry,” she assured him with a grin, “I’ve just the dance in mind. Like this…”

With that, she pulled him to the open floor at the center of his chambers and began to show him the steps – two sidesteps here, two sidesteps there, a slow twirl of the lady in his arms, and begin again. For the first few cycles, she counted quietly until he caught the rhythm, and then there was only a warm, comfortable silence between them, the two gently swaying and turning to the distant music.

Tiberias was right. In that moment, Baldwin knew only happiness. Peace. Comfort. And so long as Y/N, too, felt these things, he could be content with whatever God had willed for him. He could only pray that, upon his death, the Almighty would be merciful to this woman, a living angel on Earth…

================================================

If you made it this far, thank you so much for reading! If you want more of my writing, I also have a WIP Baldwin-centric longfic posted on Ao3 (shameless plug)! 😁Do let me know if you want me to continue this Y/N story! I'd love to hear your thoughts.

Also, the dance mentioned at the end of the story was inspired by this lovely one:

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

Maybe a drabble in which our Lamb meets Chimaera Reader, the maker of all crowns? Like, he stumbles upon their lair, and sees all types of the crowns, big and small, black and white, one-eyed and two-eyed, etc.? Maybe even a little inter actions between the Reader and the Red Crown in which it recognises them as their maker?

Sorry for my English, it is not my native language-

Also sorry if this request repeats, tumblr May have doubled it-

I swear I'm gonna turn this into an OC one day because I LOVE the concept of a crown maker in the COTL universe

........

'Where am I now..?' Lamb pondered as they stepped into a cavern--one most unfamiliar to them.

It was strange, considering they've scoured nearly every corner of the Old Faith for resources, potential rival cult activity, and even martyrs for the Bishops.

But this area was entirely new to them.

With their weapon drawn, they cautiously ventured further inward, eventually arriving into a larger room that was almost entirely cloaked in darkness. They could barely see a thing even with the few torches scattered around lighting the way.

Then suddenly, they saw a bunch of eyes opening up on all sides of them, varying in shape, size, color, and number. And they just stared down at the little sheep.

While they were accustomed to having so many eyes on them, this was completely different.

These eyes certainly didn't belong to any follower of theirs.

What if this was a trap?

What if-?

"Welcome, little Lamb! Promised liberator of the Old Faith!"

Looking upwards, they could see you descending from the darkness. You looked like a tradition chimera: a lion, goat, dragon, and snake all mixed into one. Both of your heads smiled as you took a seat upon your throne, although you frowned a bit upon realizing how poor the lighting must have been.

"Oh forgive me, it is awful dim in here, isn't it? Hold on one moment." Your lion head breathed out a small blast of fire, aimed towards a nearby candle that lit up.

That set off a chain reaction which lit up dozens of other candles around your lair, and burned the torches bright enough for Lamb to see what all those eyes belonged to:

Crowns.

So many crowns.

Big and small, black and white, one-eyed and two-eyed..and even multi-eyed; some sported horns and some did not. Others had bare surfaces while others were decorated with jewels or marred with scars from time.

It was an astonishing sight, and when Lamb looked back up at you, they could see a crown on each of your heads--snake tail included.

Not to mention your seat was adorned with four familiar ones...

"So you..take crowns from fallen gods?"

"Do I take them?" You repeated, before laughing uproariously. "No, but I can see why you'd assume that. I'm [y/n], Maker of the Crowns."

They blinked. "You created the crowns?"

"I have since the first gods ruled over these lands." You chuckled, taking the Green Crown into your paw. "I mold them into a design of my liking, give them life, and then send them off into the world to find a worthy host. They're like my children, so I do get sentimental at times...but I know they'll do great things."

'Huh...Leshy did say the crown found him..' Lamb mused.

"Of all the ones I've created, though, I never thought to see the Bishops' crowns again. But they were in such terrible condition...falling apart, barely able to keep their eyes open....I couldn't believe it." Your gaze shifted down to the sheep. "You wouldn't happen to know why, would you?"

They tensed. "...well...um-"

"Haha! I only jest, Lamb. I know everything." You smiled reassuringly. "I've sensed strong spikes in their energy, and I'm well aware they've been used as aids for the bishops after Narinder's betrayal. Speaking of whom...."

Pausing, you outstretched your paws towards them. "I see the Red Crown has found a new master."

"It's a long story, but--hey!!" All of the sudden, the Red Crown slipped out of their hands, morphing back into its normal form as it began floating up to you. They were shocked and angered, feeling extremely vulnerable without it. "What are you doing?!"

"Nothing, little one. It came to me all on its own. Welcome home, my darling." With the crown nestled into your paw, your smile grew as its eye stared back up at you with happiness. You sighed and brought it closer to your cheek, allowing it to nuzzle up to you. "Oh how I've missed you, mighty crown of Death. I'm glad you have not forgotten me."

"Give it back!!" Lamb snarled, baring their sharp teeth as they tried storming up to your throne. But their little hooves kept slipping on the skull pile that served as its foundation, and they eventually tumbled downwards, landing on their rear. "I need it back right now!"

"...are they always like this?" You muttered to the Red Crown, who just rolled its pupil in response. "Huh, I thought so. Arrogant, entitled, paranoid....just like your first master-"

"Don't compare us." They scowled. "Narinder was worse than arrogant...he would have destroyed this entire world, along with you and all these crowns if I returned it to him! We are NOTHING alike."

"Hm, I see I've touched a nerve. My apologies. I just wanted to take care of this little chip in its horn." Smiling, you manifested some black ichor to seal the crack you discovered on the crown, before sharpening up its horns a little bit. "There. Much better."

"....thank you. Now may I have it back?" Lamb put their hand out, growing more anxious with each passing second they were separated from it. 'Why isn't it returning to me?"

"It doesn't see why it has to right at this very moment...and quite frankly, I don't either. It's not connected to your lifeforce. You're still standing without it-"

"Because I'm its new master! I gave it new purpose. I gave it freedom...and it should be obeying me unconditionally and I don't understand why it's being so stubborn. That crown wouldn't be anywhere NEAR as powerful if it weren't for-!!"

"Choose your next words carefully," you tutted, shaking your head as you gestured to the walls. "My children do not look it, but they too have ears."

Falling silent, they looked all around, noticing that the crowns were now glaring at them. They tensed up, a feeling of heavy discomfort and embarrassment washing over them as they slowly realized how childish they were acting.

And in front of the crown creator, of all people?

"Tell me..do you see the crown as nothing without you? Or perhaps you feel like you are nothing without the crown?"

"........"

"Your mistake, little lamb, is that you see crowns as simple tools to do your bidding. A conduit for your godhood. But do not forget, they are also living breathing creatures like you and I." You chastised. "As such, they deserve respect. I figured you would've been more grateful to meet their maker...such few have the privilege to enter my lair and receive such a warm welcome."

The Red Crown bobbed up and down in agreement, before it scowled down at Lamb, as though to say "you better listen to them and treat me better".

They just looked at the ground, unable to form words as shame creeped up their spine.

You sighed softly. "I understand your worries as a new god. The mere thought of separation from it drives you to rage, especially after what happened between you and Narinder. But I have no desire to take it from you. Not when you've fought so hard for it. All I wish is that you continue caring for it."

"....I'm sorry, Great Crown Maker.." Lamb muttered, finally letting themselves be humbled. "I don't mean to act like I did. It's just...he's been annoying me all day today, shouting about "divine right" and making my life a living hell. He still can't accept that it chose me over him.."

They felt the familiar and comforting weight of the Red Crown returning to the wool atop their head, but they only looked up at you with respect. "Thank you."

"Of course, young one." You nodded, smiling once more. "Narinder has possessed that crown since he was a wee little kit, so it's going to be quite a long time before he lets that grudge go. Perhaps in a hundred years, give or take."

"I understand...so.." Lamb looked around. "Do you have any wares?"

"Oh, plenty!" You clapped your paws together. "Feel free to take a gander! Since this is your first visit, you may have one of the tarot cards over there on the house. But just know that the crowns aren't for sale."

[chaimilkshake]

Pink Carnations - Worst Logan x reader

summary - Logan still thinks about the you from his universe, so what happens when he meets the you from this universe?

word count - 1.7k

warnings - none!

song - we’re in love by boygenius

a/n - this is much more my writing style, but still trying to figure out tumblr’s formatting so forgive me

The smell of freshly bloomed flowers and spring air filled Logan’s nose.

There you were, knelt in the garden, like always. Tending to your favorite flowers. Those pretty, pink carnations that came about every May, without fail.

A soft breeze pushed your hair back from your shoulders, revealing your face to him, as pretty as ever. He couldn’t do anything but stand there and stare. You looked so beautiful.

You turned your head as you noticed him, that familiar smile dawning upon your face, joy spreading to your eyes. “Hi, honey.”

The sweet sound of your voice rang through his ears, bringing a warm feeling to his chest. He let out a breath, finding himself unable to respond.

You sat back on your haunches, patting the dirt off your gloves. “Do you wanna help me?” You asked, gazing up at him.

“Logan?”

He couldn’t do anything but stare. Stare at your beautiful face, feel the spring breeze, smell the fresh flowers, hear your sweet voice.

“Logan, help me.”

Your voice adopted a concerned tone, looking at him now with panic in your eyes.

“Logan, help me! Logan!”

“Logan! Rise and shine, peanut!”

Wade’s voice shook Logan from his dream, causing him to come back to reality. The man stood over the couch, looking down at him.

“Good morning, sleepy head! Sleep well? I know I did. You’d think sleeping with an old blind woman would be disturbing, but she’s quite the cuddler,” the man went on as he rounded the couch, lifting Logan’s legs to sit down, allowing them to rest across his lap.

Logan pulled his legs away, sitting up with a sigh. He ran a hand over his face, convincing his conscious to come back to reality. “Slept fine,” he grumbled eventually.

“Great!” Wade said, patting Logan’s leg. “Then you’ll be ecstatic to know, it’s a very special day, my friend. You know Vanessa.”

Logan couldn’t help scoffing lightly at that. “Yes, I know Vanessa.”

“Well. It’s our anniversary. And I’m nothing if not a romantic. So, I’ve got an errand for you!”

Logan groaned, head leaning back against the couch. “I’m not running all around the city for you, asshole. She’s your girlfriend, you can do the heavy lifting.”

“Oh I will be. While I’m out on the town with my lovely lady friend, you will be back here, setting up for the after party.” Wade delivers a perfectly timed wink that says more than words had to.

Logan contemplates for a moment before sitting his head back up. “Fine.”

Wade gasped excitedly at that, clapping. “I knew you had it in you, Wolvie! I’ve already written you this lovely list of preparations.”

The man handed him a slip of paper, messily scribbled on, including doodles. The list read:

• Those tiny candles for mood setting ;)

• Wham! Make It Big CD

• Rose petal trail

Logan read over the list, having to squint a little to see the words correctly. The items seemed easy enough, and it gave him something to do with his day. “When do you need these?” He asked, watching Wade get up from the couch.

“ASAP, babycakes! But preferably by 5 PM, sharp!” He explained as he sauntered back down the hallway to their bathroom for a shower.

Logan grumbled at that, tossing the list on the coffee table for the time being. He had some time to go back to sleep for a bit.

It was around three o’clock, and Logan was almost done with Wade’s stupid errands. He’d collected the candles and the CD (after checking three different music stores), and now all that was left was the rose petals.

He’d heard about this local florist just by the apartment that was cheaper than any grocery store, and had incredibly good quality flowers. So, on his way back, Logan stopped for the rose petals.

He stepped in, welcomed by a shop with white tile floors and light green walls. Plants stood in every corner of the place, and a pleasant aroma hung in the air. It wasn’t until he saw you that everything clicked in place.

“Hi, welcome in! How can I help you?”

The familiar sound of your voice stuck in his head, his feet glued in their spot. Of course there’d be another you. This was another universe, after all. And you worked at a flower shop. Every piece of the puzzle was snapping together.

“Do you think we’re together in every universe?” You asked, cuddled into his side one cold, winter night. The fireplace was warm, but he was warmer. He wrapped an arm around you as you tucked into him.

He chuckled at your words. “I think that’s an interesting idea.”

“Promise me that we are? That you’d find me, in the next and the next?”

“I promise, my love.”

He had been standing and staring for a good minute now, and you were clearly getting creeped out.

“Uh, sir? Is there something I can help you with?” You asked again, leaning against the front counter.

Logan cleared his throat, looking down to the counter to avoid your gaze. “Yes, sorry. Do you, uh, do you guys sell rose petals? Or just roses I can take the petals off of?”

You hummed at that, nodding and moving to your display of roses. “Of course. We have red, white, pink, yell-“

“Red is fine.”

You stopped abruptly when he interrupted you, watching him for a second before nodding. “Alright. I can take those petals off for you and package them up. Wouldn’t want you to end up with a thorn in your thumb,” you hum as you pick a couple roses up from the bin.

Logan watches as you pluck each petal off the flower carefully, creating a pile. You always worked with such precision. That much hasn’t changed.

He took the pack of rose petals, fishing out his wallet. “How much?”

“That’d be $7.” You say, plugging it into the computer.

“That’s it?” Logan says before he can stop himself, looking up at you. He shook his head, pulling out a 20 and handing it over. “Keep the change.”

You looked between the 20 and him, shaking your head. “No, sir, I couldn’t possibly-“

“Please,” he pleaded, letting out a defeated sigh. “Just take it.”

You hesitate another second before taking the 20 from him and making the change. “Thank you…”

He nods, quickly exiting the shop before you could say anything else. He trekked back to the apartment, bags gripped tightly in his hands.

When he got home, Al was in the middle of leaving.

“I may be blind, but ain’t deaf. I sure as hell won’t be sticking around there for when they come home,” she protested as she walked towards the elevator.

Logan watched her go, sighing as he let himself in. His interaction with you was still lingering in his mind. It had never really occurred to him that there would be another you here. He still wasn’t really sure what to do about it, if anything.

Once it turned 4:30, Logan set up everything. Trailing the rose petals into Wade’s room, setting and lighting the candles, and putting the CD into the player.

As soon as he was done, he also set out for the night. He had no idea where he was going to go, but he would figure it out.

He wandered for a while, past bars and restaurants and clubs. But none of them appealed to him. Being around a bunch of young people, desperate for some kind of escape from their everyday lives didn’t sound appealing to him.

Soon, he found a smaller bar restaurant with a much calmer atmosphere. As he walked in, he was able to seat himself at the bar, immediately ordering a drink.

You were out to drink with a couple friends you hadn’t seen in a while when you saw him. The man who gave you the $13 tip earlier. Of course, it wasn’t much, but as a tip? Probably the biggest one you’ve received.

“I’ll be right back,” you say to your friends, taking your glass and sliding into the seat next to the man. “Hey,” you say, smiling over at him.

The older man looked up, face going white as soon as he saw you, as if he’d seen a ghost.

“I just wanted to thank you for the tip. You’ve bought me…about two drinks,” you joke, raising your glass slightly. “That was very generous of you.”

The man cleared his throat, looking back down at his own drink and nodding. “Don’t mention it,” he grumbled.

You hesitated, but continued. “I haven’t been able to go out with friends for a while. Haven’t had the money. But here I am,” you explain. Something about the man drew you in. You weren’t sure what, but he was…comfortable.

The man hummed, downing the rest of his drink while you watched. “I never caught your name,” you say, not backing off, despite him being uninterested.

“Logan,” he let out, finally moving to face you now.

“Logan,” you repeated, smiling. “It’s nice to meet you.”

As the night progressed, the two of you talked and talked. After the last call, you decided the conversation couldn’t end. “Walk me home?” You ask, sliding your jacket over your outfit.

“Course,” Logan assured you, holding the door open as you left the bar.

“So. You’re a florist,” he says, sliding his hands in his pockets while you walk.

“How’d you know?” You tease, smiling up at him.

He chuckled, looking down at his feet. Likely the first time that night you’d seen him laugh. “Do you have a favorite flower?” He asks, and you can tell he held his breath while he waited for the answer.

“Probably pink carnations,” you reply easily.

Although, nothing about the way Logan received that information was easy. In his world, he had let you down. Betrayed you to the highest degree. While the woman standing beside him was you, it wasn’t you. He knew he could never save you, but this was his chance to keep his promise.

In every universe.

[katerina-marie]

The Tragedy of a Duality

Gojo Satoru x Female Reader and (Past) Ryomen Sukuna x Female Reader

Chp 1, Chp 2, Chp 3, Chp 4, Chp 5, Chp 6, Chp 7 (Final)

In the present, you are a sorcerer and the cherished wife of the Honored One. In an era long gone, remembered by only one, you were ordinarily human and the beloved bride of the King of Curses. How fitting it would be, in an evening of destruction, to have your heart torn in two.

Content: JJK Universe and Canon Events (tho tweaked to incorporate reader), Fluff, Angst, Flashbacks, Ambiguous ending, Violence, Death, Female reader but left descriptively vague, No use of y/n, True Form Sukuna in the past, Itadori Yuji is Sukuna's vessel in the present but nothing inappropriate b/n reader and Itadori as the vessel, Innuendos, Allusions to + Vaguely described sex so avoid accordingly. Will add more CW to each chapter if needed.

WC: 4.4k

A/N: A bit of a bridge chapter/transitive chapter, if you will.

Chapter 3

The distance between your village and the next largest market isn’t terribly far, but it still takes up a good portion of your morning on the best of days. When the sky begins to grey and thunder rumbles closer and closer, you know your trek is about to become even longer. The smell of wet earth and crisp air is always pleasant to you, but nothing about continuing a journey in robes that are heavy with moisture and cling uncomfortably to your skin sounds enjoyable, so you divert from the road onto a lesser traveled path. 

Sanctuary from the rain under the cover of thick trees is your only option, so you wander and weave between them, cognizant of your general location but unaware of exactly where you might be. Droplets of rain occasionally splatter against your cheek as the sky opens up, and you can hear the droll of it against the foliage above you. Thankfully, you remain mostly dry, and you continue to walk slowly and hum to yourself while waiting for the weather to turn. 

After a few minutes, you spot a bunching of trees that seem different from the rest, and upon closer inspection, excitement runs through you when you realize they bear fruit. You inspect the trail behind you and then side to side to ensure you are alone before hurrying over to one. It takes two or three attempts of you leaping from the tips of your toes before you are able to snag a pear from the lowest lying branch that is still almost beyond your reach. You rub it against your sleeve before taking a bite and relishing in the burst of sweetness on your tongue. You finish it rather quickly and are reaching for another when a voice from behind startles you. 

“Do you have a habit of stealing fruit that doesn't belong to you?” 

When you spin around, your face is contrite and your hands are held up innocently in front of your chest. You are ready to entreat the assumed owner of the land for forgiveness until your eyes fall onto who stands before you, and any logical words die in your throat. You immediately fold yourself into a bow and stare at the ground while you brace trembling hands on your thighs. 

“I beg your forgiveness, my lord.” 

Weeks ago, news of the being that usurped the ruling of the lands you live in reaches your small village. People whisper words of horror and fear about the monster that Ryomen Sukuna is. You know of his second pair of arms and the extra eyes that sit under the first ones. His size and strength set him apart from anything else, but it is his viciousness and ruthlessness that strikes terror in the hearts of anyone who goes near him. The description of him is something out of a nightmare, and the sight of him proves to you the truthfulness of what you hear. 

“You may rise,” Sukuna tells you, but you are slow to stand back up, afraid to find out what happens to those who steal from the King of Curses. You keep your eyes downcast out of respect, but you can still see the white of his robes as he stalks toward you. 

“Am I so repulsive that you cannot bear to look at me?” 

You let out a squeak of alarm and fling your eyes upwards, and you aren’t sure what to make of the interest coloring his face. 

“No, no,” you say placatingly, “that is not it all.” You pause before adding “my lord,” hastily. 

Sukuna laughs, and it is deep and dark from somewhere in his chest. He prowls nearer to you, and you gulp in trepidation. While the image he makes is as intimidating and heart-stopping as you know him to be, there is something otherworldly and enticing about him. The white fabric of his robes are edged in blue and they split open across the great expanse of his chest. You follow the black tattoos from where they trail down his jaw, loop over his shoulder and then continue down his torso. They compete with the muscles of his chest to steal your attention. 

“Tell me,” he muses, finally coming to a stop just an arms length away from you, “what brings you to my new estate?”

Your heart drops to your feet and you blanch. “Your estate?”

“The edge of it, to be exact, but yes—my estate.” 

You contemplate whether making up some pitiful excuse could earn you mercy, but the thought of getting caught in a lie and the punishment that would follow has you choosing truthfulness.

“The r-rain,” you stammer. Sukuna looks at you expectantly, waiting for you to continue, and you step back in wariness. He pursues you, and his feet land in the place yours had just been. “I was on my way to the market in the town north of here when it began to rain.” 

Your hands flit about in front of you before gesturing towards the sky, and you note curiously that while Sukuna’s main set of eyes follow the path of your hands, the ones lower trail over your figure before settling on your face. 

“The trees would keep me dry while I waited for it to stop, but it seems I also felt a bit hungry,” you finish, and your arms flop ineloquently back against your sides. 

In an effort to appear deferential, you quickly clasp your hands over one another in the front of your stomach and hope that Sukuna can’t see how tightly you clench the fabric of your robes between your fingers. He makes a noise in the back of his throat as he weighs your words, and you cast furtive glances over his shoulder or to your feet, anywhere that isn’t his eyes and the intensity of them. They are predatory in their observancy, and you would worry for your life if they did not trace the dip of your collarbones or linger at the curve of your bottom lip.

“How about you return with me?” he offers, and you jerk your gaze back to him. “You may wait out the rain in the comfort of my home and I will repay your company with a meal.” 

No amount of critical thinking produces a plausible answer as to why Ryomen Sukuna is inviting you to his estate. You do consider your own mortality and how vulnerable it is in his presence, though you suspect that bringing you along to his home only to kill you would be excessive and unnecessary. In a similarly frightening, but shockingly alluring alternative, Sukuna could intend to make use of your company in a more salacious and carnal manner. Or it could be as simple as sharing food with one another and filling the time with conversation, maybe giving you the opportunity to deduce a possible explanation by the end. Either choice carries with it problems and difficulties to a varying degree, but the thrill of what is not yet known urges you to acquiesce.

To maintain some sense of propriety, you pretend to ponder his request just a little longer and let your focus flit about to the scenery around you, avoiding Sukuna entirely. From the way his eyebrow quirks upwards and his hands twitch at his sides, you suppose he has caught on to your teasing. 

“I might find that agreeable,” you say, and that draws a sly smirk from him as his eyes flare wide. He moves toward you, but you hold up a hand to stop him. “However, I would like to request another pear before we leave.” 

Sukuna doesn’t say anything, but he takes two large steps forward until his chest skims yours. You tip your chin up to keep a hold of his eyes as he stretches an arm above your head. 

“Whatever you desire,” he croons, and when his hand appears again before your eyes, an unblemished green pear is trapped between his forefinger and thumb as he holds it out to you.

---

In the coming weeks, you are summoned back to Sukuna’s estate with some regularity after the first time he invited you in to ply you with food and drink while he peppered you with questions about your innocuous life. 

A being appears at your door with white hair cut short and an odd strip of red around the back. You have to come to know them as Uraume, unsettling and uninviting in their demeanor, and they hurry you out each time with nothing more than a placid remark of, “it is Sukuna-sama’s request.” 

This time, when the weather is a little warmer, you find yourself in the middle of an expansive garden. It stretches farther than your eyes can see, overflowing with abundance, and when Uraume vanishes after telling you Sukuna will arrive shortly, you take the time to study flowers and plants you are familiar with and wonder at the ones you are not. 

“Why is it no surprise that I find you enamored by common weeds?” 

Sukuna, as you have come to learn, makes no noise that alerts to his sudden appearances. His voice usually sends your heart racing and a gasp is ripped from your lips, though you gradually become used to the slight shift in energy that precedes him. As time passes, you might startle less and less, but until then, you give him an unimpressed look over your shoulder for the way he grins because he scared you, and for the mild insult.

“And why is it no surprise that you would think so lowly of them?” When he narrows his eyes at you, you smile coyly and bow your head just slightly. “My lord.” 

Sukuna is by your side and offers a hand when you begin to rise from your knees. Once you are steadied, he crosses his arms and tucks them back into his sleeves. 

“They are suitable decorations, I can admit, but that is the extent of which I appreciate them.” Sukuna lowers his head to peer into your eyes, and there is something playful and teasing lurking in them. “My interests lie in other more…invigorating pursuits.” 

You cut your gaze from him, shifting a little to be back in reach of the flowers, anything to escape the underlying insinuation of his words and the way they make you flush hot. The sun is also warm on your back, and it is anyone’s best guess as to which is responsible for the way a bead of sweat drips down your neck.

“I acknowledge your opinion, but I do not happen to share it,” you tell him. You turn your back to him completely to brush your hand over a bush of varying colors. “Some of these are medicinal. Others have a pleasant fragrance that I tend to enjoy.” 

You pause and pluck a particular flower from the bunch before facing Sukuna again. “And others simply serve no other purpose than being a beautiful sight to behold.” You lift your hand in front of his face, and cradled in your palm is a blossom the same shade of pink as his hair. 

It delights you to see the way he fights a grin, and in a move that you do not perceive as normally characteristic of him, Sukuna plucks the flower from your fingers and slots it delicately behind your ear. His hand lingers to dance over the apple of your cheek, and when his thumb catches on your bottom lip, you bat your lashes at him coquettishly. 

It is a powerful look you have discovered. The last time you pulled it from your arsenal, you had nipped a piece of fruit from Sukuna’s proffered fingers and let your teeth scratch over the joint of his knuckle. He kissed you breathless there after, and you yearn for it again now. 

It seems to be successful. Sukuna’s hands cup your jaw and tilt your head up. A second pair of arms wind around your waist to drag you against his chest, and your eyelids flutter closed on their own accord when you feel his breath whisper over your lips.

“Tempting,” he says, and a chuckle comes next. Your eyes snap back open, and he taps your mouth when it turns down into a pout. “Worry not, I have a proposition for you.” 

Your expression switches into one of inquisitive interest, and while waiting for Sukuna to continue, you twine your hands into the belt that keeps his robes tied shut. 

“Wed yourself to me.”

---

Two pairs of elaborately decorated ceremonial robes lie discarded on the floor. The storm clouds outside darken Sukuna’s bed chambers and you can hear errant drops of rain hit the ground. Your belly is still full from the celebratory feast that took place after your wedding, but now a deeper satiation makes your body languid and warm. 

You twine your arms under the pillow that cushions your head and stretch lazily against the bed. Your back is exposed to the cool air and it pricks at the drying sweat on your skin. Exhaustion is lowering your eyelids and sleep is beckoning. Before you get there, the side of the bed dips.

“Did you miss me while I was gone?” Sukuna murmurs, though it is playful and unserious. “I have returned to you now.”

A damp linen cloth drags over your lower back and legs before you can answer. You shiver at the chill it leaves, but the warmth of Sukuna’s hand follows behind to chase it away. The gentleness of it is a stark contrast to just earlier when you were under Sukuna and at his mercy to how his hands squeezed, and grasped, and kneaded your body. 

A breath of laughter escapes your nose. “How can I miss you when you were only gone for a moment?” 

Sukuna’s hands freeze and he grunts. “Cantankerous wife,” he mutters. But you smile into the pillow at the affection in his voice, and when he resumes his ministrations on your body, you let the feeling of his hands and the pattering of rain lull you into sleep. 

---------------------------------

Four days pass before you see Itadori Yuji again. 

Much like the afternoon following the incident, you spend the rest of the week proctoring the training of Fushiguro and Kugisaki while Satoru keeps Itadori hidden away for whatever it is that he and Nanami have him doing. You hear bits and pieces from your two students about how Itadori seems to be faring well despite the circumstances, and that the three of them are getting along just fine. 

The scant details are enough to keep your worry mostly abated, and in the spirit of the approaching weekend, you release them from their training a couple hours early. Kugisaki is effusive in her rambles, and you barely catch whatever plans she describes as she hurries off. Fushiguro is much less excitable in his expression of gratitude and departs with a simple bow of his head. Their opposing personalities warm your chest with affection and leave you with a tranquil lightness as you head back to your shared office with Satoru (his insistence) to catch up on reports while you wait for him to finish his day’s work. 

Through the window at your back, the setting sun casts looming shadows into the room, and you have to shake yourself awake as you feel your eyes grow heavy. There is a knock at the door that breaks your concentration from the computer screen in front of you. When you look up, Itadori is standing ramrod straight in the doorway. His shoulders are tense and his eyes are wide, but the expression on his face is friendly. 

“Hello, Itadori,” you say as you lean back in the chair situated at your desk, and he waves at you. “Is everything okay?”

“Yup, everything’s fine.” Except Itadori’s voice is strained and he makes no move to step into your office, nor turn back to walk down the hall. Instead, he rocks on the balls of his feet and shoves his hands into his pockets. You purse your lips and fold your arms across your chest as you watch him expectantly. Itadori blinks back at you. 

“Is there something I can help you with?” you prompt him. Itadori shakes his head, leaving you at a loss, but this time he walks forward and sweeps his eyes across your office. He shuffles to the towering shelves on the right wall and looks closely at a couple books before meandering across the room to pick up various knick knacks you have sitting on a hutch. Your eyes follow him the entire time, and you notice how he quickly moves his focus away from various photographs of you and Satoru over the years that you have pasted on a corkboard hanging on the wall. 

With a sudden spin and jerky movements, Itadori finally comes to sit in the—in your opinion—unsightly black sofa that Satoru placed in the middle of the office and just a few feet in front of your desk so he would have something to nap on when he felt the urge. From it, all Itadori does is look at you. You glance at your computer, unsure what to do, and when the silence starts to feel awkward, you tap your nail against your thumb as you rack your brain for what to say. 

“Are you sure there isn’t anything I can help you with?” you ask. “Or if you’re not comfortable sharing with me, I’m happy to call Nanami or Satoru for you.” You’re already reaching for your phone where it sits next to you on your desk when Itadori blurts out a hasty “no!” 

Your hand freezes, and when you look back up at Itadori, he’s rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly, and his knee bounces rapidly. “So, how did you and Gojo-sensei meet?” 

The question catches you off guard, and you stammer as Itadori awaits your answer. It crosses your mind that the boy might simply be lonely and looking for some company now that the school day is over, but it’s nearing evening on a Friday, and you expect him to be finding a way to celebrate the incoming weekend. Just to be certain, you raise your brows in question, and even though Itadori grimaces briefly like he wishes he could take back his request, he nods at you in encouragement. 

“Uh, well,” you start, blowing out a breath and clasping your hands together. “He and I were once students at the school here together…”

It’s not as if you haven’t heard about “the Honored One” before. You’d be hard pressed to believe that anyone in the jujutsu world could have existed presently without knowing of the infamous white-haired sorcerer. Of course you know of his talent, how he is considered the strongest, and you suppose such a title would allow for the level of arrogance he is known to carry. More so, you’ve been subjected enough to the whispered giggles and gossip from the other girls in your school to know that Gojo is—objectively, of course—as attractive as he is powerful, though you didn’t view that bit of information as anything pertinent. 

When Geto Suguru spends two months at your school that was hours and hours away from his for some assignment, you find yourself paired up with him and thus privy to the details of his life as the two of you spend time getting to know one another. You resist asking him about Gojo Satoru in an effort to preserve your dignity, but curiosity gets the best of you, and you give in just a couple of days into the partnership. To your utter shock, as the two of you are walking back to the dorms after a training session, the first thing to pop out of Geto’s mouth about his best friend is to call him a “monumental pain in my ass—affectionately, of course.” 

The words come out warmly, but they cause your jaw to drop nonetheless. Geto laughs and proceeds to tell you everything about Gojo Satoru that you have never hoped to know. He’s goofy and surprisingly awkward at times. His constant craving for sweets is borderline child-like and more akin to an addiction than a simple preference. He sometimes uses too many Digimon references in a sentence, and even Geto can’t always figure out what he means.

When the laughter dies down and the two of you stop at the doors of the dormitory, Geto’s face goes somber and his smile is weak. “Satoru can be a lot, but…he is the biggest burden to himself, and I wish it didn’t have to be that way.” 

Now, half a year later, when circumstances move you to the Tokyo school, Geto Suguru looks mildly embarrassed as he walks you through the gates of the campus. The high bones of his cheeks are mottled red, though that could be explained away by the bitterness of the winter winds, but the hand that’s not carrying one of your duffle bags squeezes at the back of his neck as he chuckles nervously. You drag a suitcase behind you, another bag slung over your shoulder, and you’re grateful that Geto was willing to greet you outside the school to help you get settled in.

“I know I already kind of warned you about him, but I promise he’s actually harmless, if not a bit overly playful.” 

“Trust me,” you say amusedly, “I remember what you told me about Gojo Satoru.” 

“Yeah, well,” Geto mutters, “it’s a whole other thing to hear about Satoru versus actually experiencing him in person for yourself.” 

You roll your eyes and are momentarily perplexed about how lovingly Geto disparages his best friend, but before you can question him about it, someone enthusiastically calls his name from across the grass, and the both of you look ahead in the direction it came from. Gojo Satoru waves erratically before breaking into a jog, and Geto turns back to you with a pointed widening of his eyes. 

You ignore him in favor of watching Gojo eat up the ground with those long legs of his, and all those details come flooding back, even the ones you didn’t care to focus on. The blue of his eyes are breathtaking and unnaturally so. His height makes him lanky, and you figure that time will fill out the rest of his stature, but it doesn’t take away from the charmingness of his boyish grin and the fact that the girls at school are right; he is handsome.

“Suguru!” he exclaims in a greeting once he comes to a stop in front of you two, and Geto nods at his friend. He turns to you next, looking down at you over the rims of his darkened sunglasses, and the smirk on his lips gives you butterflies. And, maybe, you’re a little awestruck because he really is pretty and those eyes of his are unnerving, but you don’t particularly care and—

And then Gojo Satoru opens his mouth and the bubble bursts.

“Ha! He said that?!” Itadori crows, and he throws his head back in unabashed laughter and grasps at his chest. 

You giggle along with him. “He certainly did, but luckily,” and you pause to lift your left hand and wiggle your ring finger so the metal on it gleams, “things worked out just fine.” 

Slowly, both of your laughter disappears and you each look in different directions around the room to fill the silence. The clock next to your door says it’s nearly seven, and the grumbling in your stomach has you considering leaving Satoru to fend for himself in favor of finding yourself a meal. However, Itadori doesn’t make a move to get up, so you let go of your hopes for takeout and shake your computer awake with your mouse before typing away again at your nearly complete report. You’re happy to let the boy sit in companionable quiet if that’s what he needs.

“That was a nice story,” Itadori says a few minutes later, and you are so intently focused on your work that you’re startled into remembering that he is there. “Thank you for telling it to me.” 

  His hands slap against his knees and he springs up from the sofa, and you’re stunned by his abrupt departure. He’s nearly out the door when you finally find your tongue, and the firm way you say his name has him stopping in his tracks. You wait to see if he would respond, but when he doesn’t, you repeat his name a bit more gently this time. 

“What is it?” you coax, and when he turns, his facade of unbotheredness falls, and his face is tired in its place. The sight breaks your heart a little. 

“I don’t mean to waste your time,” he says regrettably and wrings his hands together. You shake your head to reassure him as his shoulders fall dejectedly. “He wanted to see you, is all.” 

The meaning of his words don’t strike you right away, and Itadori raises a hand to tap at his temple. Understanding hits you like a truck when you realize he’s referring to Sukuna, and your mouth falls open.

“Sukuna was really adamant about it for the last couple hours. He’s finally quiet now,” he adds, “so I guess…” 

Itadori trails off with a nonchalant shrug, and you find it entirely too casual for what he just said, but he seems unrattled by the request from the being inside of him. 

“Oh,” you breathe out, stupefied and way too tired to formulate a sensible response or thought. “Well, uh…okay?” 

The laugh that makes its way out of your mouth is a touch disbelieving and maybe a little unhinged, but it pulls a bigger smile out of Itadori, and he uses a hand to gesture vaguely over his shoulder as he begins to take a couple steps backwards towards the door. 

“I’m going to go find Fushiguro and Kugisaki,” he tells you. “I’ll see you and Gojo-sensei next week!” 

Now that you can see the tension has left his body and he appears lighter in mind and spirit, you’re content to return Itadori’s wave of goodbye as he hurries out the door. Once you hear his footsteps fade down the hall, you slump back in your chair and throw an arm over your eyes. 

The King of Curses had wanted to see you, even if only through the eyes of his vessel, so much so that it seems he was willing to pester him into doing his bidding until Itdaori finally relented.

----------------------------

A/N: Chapter count got upped by one, but it should still all come out in a timely manner. We'll get a part 2 to the Reader/Gojo flashback in the next chapter :)

Taglist (open): @kalopsia-flaneur

[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

[jooillusion]

🌸Since you said ask for ANYTHING, I'll comply.

Seungmin and messy sex😭, person likes it messy, but they never really talked about it before and he just starts to notice cause she would be way sloppier than what he was used to, letting her drool fall but always pretending it wasn't on porpoise (maybe in the beginning it wasn't hehe) he would end up full of her drool and saliva just from making out. Extra points if he notices she would actively try to squirt on him on porpoise 🫠🫠 and would pay way too much attention to his cum.

Even more extra points if they aren't really dating quite yet. If he says any kind of pet name including the word 'messy' I swear I'll combust (idk why but it sounds hot)

I like to think he would kinda baby them a bit if he noticed, but not too much, just find it kinda funny when he notices that's a kink of hers, but please set the mood to whatever you want!!!

(I've been thinking about this for more time than what's probably healthy. may the universe forgive me) ILY FOR THIS, YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW MUCH MY SEUNGMIN BRAINROT AS BEEN KILLING ME

getting messy with seungmin <3

warnings: mutual masturbation, squirting

oh 🌸 anon how much i love you…

you and seungmin loved to experiment when it came to exploring more of what you both like. at first he thought you really really liked him, and you do, but the more heated your makeout sessions got the more he’d pull away with his lips being swollen and glossy as if he put on lip gloss. same with you except the drool that leaked from the corners of your lips down to your chin. he’d chuckle and use his thumb to wipe it off, cupping your chin again and pulling you back onto his lips.

then it got to the point where it happened way too often to where his the sleeve of his sweater would be drenched in your saliva due to him having to wipe it off his chin everytime you pulled away. and when he finally mustered up the courage to ask about it you’d pout and say that it’s not your fault, he’s just too hot for you to handle and you want him all to yourself. oh boy does that turn him on since you two haven’t even made things official yet. this whole endeavor started after a drunken hookup, leaving you both craving each other since you two know how to properly make each other feel good.

seungmin especially loves it when he makes you squirt.

the first time it happened, you had told seungmin you wanted to try something out and of course he’s quick to do anything to satisfy you, knowing that in the end he’d leave just as satisfied. this led to you both facing each other, your hand wrapped around seungmin’s length and his fingers fucking themselves into your hole, using your spit as lube upon request. he wasn’t complaining, it felt incredible for the both of you.

he watches how your mouth falls open and your head flies back with each time his long, slender fingers thrust into you, the tips of his fingers graze against your g-spot deliciously. your grip around his cock tightens and his teeth grit, feeling his orgasm creeping into the pit of his stomach. seungmin uses his thumb to circle over your clit, your moans getting high pitched as the sensitivity hits.

“fuck,” seungmin breathes out. “you’re making a mess baby.”

his words alone make your hips buck up, your free hand grabs at seungmins wrist trying to stop what’s about to leave your cunt. it happened once before and you’ve only ever brought yourself to that point. it’s too late to think about how he’d react since his hand has no intentions on stopping, full on slamming his digits inside of you and speeding up when he feels them tighten around them.

it happens fast. your thighs close together and you cry out weakly before it finally gushes out, and it completely catches seungmin off guard as some of it lands onto him. his hand comes to a halt and he pulls his fingers out, your hand on his wrist tightly holding it, trying to desperately pull it back towards you. he’s hesitant at first, but his hand goes to rub fast circles on your clit, more squirt gushing from between your thighs.

seungmin thrusts into your fist the more it lands on him, coming on a low choked sob, cum spurting on your legs. the both of you breathe heavily, one hand behind you to keep yourselves from falling back. you stay like that until your eyes finally flutter open to see seungmin staring at you, the realization of what you just did hitting you. you open your mouth to speak, ready to apologize and tell him you could change and wash his sheets for him.

“i need you to do that for me more.” he beats you to it, breathily laughing and shifting to hover over you to kiss your lips.

now that he knew he was capable of making you squirt, he used that to his best advantage, his hand always finding its way to your clit, whether he has you bent over, on top, on your side, having him on top, grinding on his thigh, or riding his fingers it wouldn’t matter, he wouldn’t let you leave if your juices weren’t on him by the end of the night. he chuckles when he brings you to that point, cooing into your ear, “give me more, angel.”

please remember that this is a pure work of fiction.

[earthry]

Hello love I know your requests are closed, but i have to get it out of my system and tell to you about it (please just ignore me) I can't stop thinking about the idea of papas breaking up with reader to protect them and even telling them 'I never loved you' because this way it will be a faster way for reader to move on and stop asking question to their papa, BUT i think the even more angstiest plot twist would be if it was the exactly same day when reader was ready to tell her papa she's pregnant. A few months/weeks after this whole breaking out thing he could by accident find out about 'the news' (im sorry for taking your time, but this thing is on my mind literally on a loop for days and i think you're angst enjoyer just like me ALSO i hope you have an amazing weekend)

~🐍

Aksjshsh ANON it’s funny cause I literally had something almost exactly like that in my discarded drafts snsbsbsb I don’t really plan on finishing it or writing a full HC for it, but here's a little treat just for you. You can imagine any Papa here <3

tw: pregnancy, slut-shaming, self deprecation, hurt/comfort, angst, breaking up, happy ending! please keep in mind this is mostly unedited and just randomly written out spur of the moment.

After the breakup, everything he does reminds him of you. 

It was a mistake— thinking that breaking up with you would set you on the right path, a better one. You had a whole life ahead of you, he didn’t want you wasting it by waiting for him every time he left for tour or had to cancel plans to attend to his papal duties.

He can see the toll it takes on you, the crestfallen expression you think you hide so well when he has to leave a date night early or when he has to call a rain check. The anxiety vibrating off you when you text him after a new concert video is released of him flirting with the audience, asking if it's okay to get reassurance that it’s just an act.

He needed to let you go.

It broke his heart to, but he in his eyes it was setting you free for your own good. You would never let him go if you knew his reasoning— he knew this so he had to make it seem like he didn’t want you anymore.

You didn’t believe him at first, begging him to open up to you and to stop joking around. You were convinced something or someone must have said something; the Papa you knew loved you, he wouldn’t suddenly fall out of love so quickly or be so cruel. 

So he aims for the heart. He tells you it wasn’t really real, that it was all a game to him to play house for a while because he was curious. Now that his curiosity has been sated and he is bored, he sees no reason to keep you around.

It hurts him to say so, and he will never forgive himself for it, but he tells you that he never loved you in the first place, that you were just another body. That you were so easy to bed, it only took a few sweet words and you had already fallen so hard. He calls you laughable. Pathetic. A whore. He laughs as tears begin to gather, taunting you when you run out crying.

You avoid him after that— and he has his Ghouls deliver anything that you’d left in his room to your old room. 

You toss the positive pregnancy test that you were waiting for the perfect moment to show him— it seems like there would be no perfect moment, there would be no moment at all.

He may not have loved you, but you did. Despite the pain, you can’t imagine a universe that you wouldn’t keep his baby. 

You just don’t know how he’ll react. Once upon a time you had thought he would never ask you to get rid of the baby, that he would ask you what you wanted first and respect that decision. But you had also thought he loved you just as much and you were so very wrong.

You try hiding it as long as you can but eventually your belly gets too round to conceal. 

You can see the realization cross his face in real time and when he tries approaching, you can’t help but look at him with hurt, fearful eyes. All it takes is for you to rest a protective hand on your stomach to tell him what he wanted to know. 

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out, “I’m sorry, please don’t make me—“ you swallow back a soft sob, unable to even finish the sentence.

Of all the things he’s ever done, leading a satanic church, promoting sin and pleasure and corruption, this will forever be what he feels guiltiest for.

He doesn’t even think before reaching for you, trying to pull you into his arms to comfort. Can't think of anything else except that right now he needs to soothe you, needs to fix this.

Before, you would have melted into his embrace straight away. Now, however, you struggle and push him back.

He lets you, not wanting to force anything, not wanting to distress you. It’s bad for you— and the baby.

"Tesoro," He tries, gentling his tone as much as he can, holding his hands out with his palms up in an attempt to show that he means no harm, "Shh, shh— I won't make you, I'm not mad. I promise."

You don't believe him and he can tell from the way you are holding yourself— like a house of cards one blow from caving in. You don't know if you can do this again.

He had made promises before, too. Promises you had foolishly believed with naivety. How could you be so stupid, so gullible? To believe that out of all the people in the ministry, in the world, he would choose you? That Papa Emeritus himself could love you.

You should have seen it from the start but you had been too in love with him, too busy making sure you could be enough for him, only to realize that you never would be. There's a sinking realization that you were never enough in the first place.

You never meant anything, after all. He said it himself.

You wonder how it must have felt for him, to have to deal with your inadequacy and even your desire to learn how to make things feel good for him because you had little experience. He must have found it laughable, he certainly told you so.

You were laughable. Pathetic. Whore.

To want to be good at the one only thing you were good for... you wonder how he was able to stand you that long.

You put distance between you and him, arms wrapped protectively around your waist. He looks pained and you're having trouble figuring out what.

Was it because it would ruin his reputation? To have knocked up someone like you?

"I won't say anything," you rush out, "No one will know it's yours, please. Please let me keep it. Please."

"Amore mio—"

"I'm not your 'amore'. I never was, never will be. It's okay I understand that now. Please let me k-keep it."

"I..." He wants to say more, he wants to comfort you and hold you. But he doesn't really have a right to anymore and he can tell how upset you are, he doesn't want to aggravate you any further. "Yes, yes you can keep it. I won't interfere, you have my word."

You still look doubtful and he adds, "I swear to Lucifer himself."

There's a little more reassurance in that. You know him enough to know he wouldn't say those words lightly, even if he had lied to you and toyed with you the way he did. There's a relief that passes over you and you thank him as quickly as you can before dashing off. You hear him shout your name but you don't stop and he doesn't follow.

---

INSERT PAPA DOING HIS BEST TO MAKE UP AND DO EVERYTHING HE CAN TO MAKE YOU HAPPY. LOTS OF SELF LOATHING FOR PAPA BECAUSE HE DID A FUCKYWUCKY.

Eventually there's a moment where you ask why he's being nice, why he's doing this and he tells you he loves you and you call him a liar. He then admits his mistake and apologizes. He says he'll never do it again and will wait until the end of time for your forgiveness if necessary. Or if you never give it, he will wait forever even after the end of time. He is at your mercy.

You eventually warm up to him with hesitation, but you're cautious and always bracing yourself for the catch, for the bad things to happen again.

Papa continues doing his best to support you and be there for you and when he shows his dedication by being there for the birth of his baby and being there for you the entire time, you finally let him back in and offer him the first olive branch by asking him if he would like to hold his child for the first time.

[victoria-rue]

victoria-rue's Recommendation Masterlist part 4

I can't believe I've done this four times. I should probably link the other four lists, I just now thought of that. In every list there are at most 50 people tagged, just because I once read that was the limit. I have now learned otherwise; I won't be changing that up now, it feels like tradition. Also, every single story linked in all of my masterlists has at least 2 chapters. But now, the important part, the Authors. These authors deserve to have their stories spread, the same stories that linger long after the last page. Their creativity ignites imaginations and sparks conversations that bring us closer together. So even if barely anyone will see this, I hope the people who do enjoy their stories as much as I did ♥︎

Recommendation Masterlist part 1, part 2, part 3, & part 4

Marvel

Peter/Pietro Maximoff

Bitchin' by @taintandviolent

You always wear your silver rollerskates. But, when Peter Maximoff decides to check out the roller rink's arcade, and spots you... It's fate. At least, Peter thinks so.

Matthew Murdock

and then I met you by @souliebird

A one-night stand years ago gave you a daughter and you are now able to put a name to her father – Matthew Murdock. Everything is about to change again as you navigate trying to integrate your life with that of the handsome and charming blind lawyer’s and Matt realizes he needs to not only protect his new family from Hell's Kitchen, but from the world.

Bucky Barnes

Honey Girl By @violentdelightsandviolentends

The Universe shows you your soulmate when it feels like you need them most. When you least expect it, you're given yours - Bucky Barnes. Your Dad's best friend. You can try to refuse it all you like; but the universe wants what it wants. There's no denying fate.

Mermaid eyes by @lady-laree-world

Peter Parker

Basic Training by @cherienymphe

A pit stop during a road trip ends tragically when a small town cop sets his sights on you. You’re the newest addition in a long standing fucked up family tradition.

Starcrossed lovers by @frost-queen

You & Peter were in love till he lost you. Pulled through a portal he did not expected to meet you again on a different earth. When the battle against Green Goblin in upon them has Peter a chance to forgive himself but at what cost?

Miguel O'hara

Caught in the Cat’s Web by @jedijesi

Felicia Hardy, Black Cat, endures a nasty breakup with Peter Parker, and now with her new Spider-Powers, she must navigate the Spider society and her hot yet unbearable leader, Miguel O'Hara

(You're my) Antidote by @allysunny

Carrying Miguel's child was the best thing that happened to you. It meant he loved you and you two were on your way to start a family. But what you don't see, are the brightly coloured screens in his office that tell him you are slowly dying.

Puzzle Pieces by @exhaslo

A Second Chance by @naturesqueen23

After the loss of his daughter Miguel wants nothing to do with kids that is until he impulsively offers his pregnant neighbor a job at the Spider-Society.

EVERY YOU EVERY ME by @astroboots

You are falling from the 44th floor of the Chrysler building when you're saved by the unfriendly neighborhood Spider-man.

Marc Spector/Steven Grant/Jake Lockley

To Have & To Hold by @ofstarsandvibranium

To ensure you're always safe even after his passing, your father, a mob boss, makes you marry his right hand, Marc Spector. You don't necessarily hate Marc, but you don't get along either. Therefore, this marriage of convenience may be a bit difficult for you.

How To Train Your Dragon

Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III

A Gift from the Gods by @pastel0rchid

Centuries ago, the gods granted your family a gift. But everyone else saw it as a curse. You are the last of your clan because others find your family’s gift as anything but. Your life has been filled with hiding in the woods, away from the Vikings who threaten your existence. The forest quickly became your safe space. Everything in your quiet life suddenly changes when you are spotted by a Viking and his Night Fury, who quickly notice something strange about you. You had wings… dragon wings.

Ultraman Rising

Kenji Sato

mommy’s here by @kiwiikato

Grocery girl by @harveyb-wabbit92

You were a delivery girl who was a frequently dispatched to famous baseball player's Ken Sato residence, you were a nobody that anyone hardly paid attention to, until you found the legendary baseball passed out on his front steps looking like hell, being a bit of worry wart you help him inside and that things took a HUGE turn when you find yourself playing mommy for a giant baby dragon....

Harry Potter

Remus Lupin

Secret Smokes by @writing-in-the-impala

When the reader bumps into the new DADA professor on the bridge in Hogwarts she begins to build a friendship with him all thanks to their shared feeling of not belonging and love for muggle cigarettes. Their friendship blooms while they both fight internal battles deciding what is wrong and what is right leading to a lot of fluff, angst, flirting, and a rollercoaster of emotions.

James Potter

Enchanted by @pretty-little-mind33

Three weeks after his devastating break up with Lily, James wanted Remus and Sirius to bring him to a muggle bar in central London.

Harry Potter

The Malfoy sister by @mastermindmiko

Harry Potter hated only one person more than Draco Malfoy, and that person was y/n malfoy, her and that perfect smile. 

Neville Longbottom

your girl by @hogwartseighthyear

neville’s roommates find you in his bed after your first time together.

George Weasley

The Daring, Forbidden and Evil by @futurewriter2000

Being the daughter of the famous Death Eaters really hasn't been one of your proudest features but you haven't let that stop you from being exactly who you are. Since your grandmother died, you had to move in with your mother's side of the family, moving to the Malfoy Manor and transferring to another school. It was all horrible all up until you met a certain somebody that made the expereince a bit more interesting. 

Weasley twins

Vulnera Sanentur by @emeritusemeritus

The battle of the seven Potters throws your world into chaos when one of your boyfriend’s is cursed. As Snape’s ex-potions assistant and previous protégée, you recognise the inflicted curse immediately and demand answers from your mentor.

Wanna Bewitch you in the moonlight by @emeritusemeritus

Both twins like Gryffindor!reader. Reader likes both twins. How will she decide who to chose in the end? Amortentia might be able to help, or not. 

Descendents

Harry Hook

girl almighty by @httpwarmth

Cant stop this feeling by @descendantofthesparrow

it was just a normal night, a few days into the senior trip for the Auradon prep seniors, all the vks and aks were together on the royal cruise ship. but it suddenly takes a turn when Harry fucking Hook comes to your door late at night with a hard-on, and he can't get himself off without help, it hurts to even try; and for some odd reason, he couldn't help but be attracted to your room.... it's a damn good thing you ended up not having a roommate for this trip.

Avatar

Miles Quaritch

The enemy’s mate by @lovebeinaprincessworld

Your fathers enemy being your vitra muntxa seemed like Eywa was punishing you. But maybe it wasn’t that bad after all. 

Infatuation by @nervousd

Recom! Miles Quaritch is tasked with a mission to reunite you with his predecessor in his grave

Tsu'tey te Rongloa Ateyo'itan

Unrequited by @randxmthxughts

y/n had been in love with tsu'tey since they were kids, watching him get his heart broken over and over, until he became hardened. on one particular night, she offers him intimacy with no expectations in return, which sparks up a complex relationship between them. y/n and tsu'tey struggle with guilt, unrequited love, and newfound intimacy, as they navigate the depths of their feelings for each other. can tsu'tey ever find it in his heart to love somebody else?

Ronal & Tonowari

tsamsiyu ta'em by @torukmaktoskxawng

Corporal Makayla Sully believed she was the last of her family. Her parents were long gone, her brother Tom was killed for his wallet, and his twin Jake abandoned her in exchange for the sunny paradise Pandora. Kayla is informed of Jake's passing and so she decides to take a job opportunity with General Frances Ardmore. She hitches a ride to Pandora with the intent of recovering her brother's remains, twenty years since the last time she's seen him. Instead of a box of bones or ash, however, she's given something she thought she lost a long time ago.

Similar by @ofaatuu

you meet the Tsahik and Olo'ekytan of the metkayina clan and have similar features. They found you interesting and watch you from afar.

Neteyam te Suli Tsyeyk'itan

Secret Cove by @pandorafairy

Safe Haven by @thewalkingwillowtree

Seeking refuge, Xilä and her father venture to the lands of the Omatikaya clan in the hopes that the Toruk Makto would be generous in allowing them to stay. This is her story about not only finding her strength, but finding love. 

Sully Family

Stxeli by @onskepa

Where Mo'at found the reader when she was a baby

neglected sully by @marymary-diva17

There was a family motto that Jake had taught all his children that sully stick together and that their family is a fortress. Well, that was not only true for the one sully child neglected all her life. She didn’t get the same love her siblings had and had always been seen as less than by her parents and clan, soon banished and disowned by her own family for an event that was out of her hands. The daughter will quickly start a new life, being seen and loved by others, but soon, the people from her past will return.

tame impala by @lvrcpid

you’re the oldest sully child. only born a year before neteyam. everything was sweet until your siblings came along. your parents slowly forgot you, soon your siblings did too. you were the forgotten sully. but what happens when you’re given another chance at life after your death.

Narcos

Javier Peña

Bones Full of Words by @wardenparker

Javier Peña had no way of knowing for certain the American journalist he sometimes sees sniffing around the embassy for her stories is also getting information about the narcos from the same girls that he is. After Helena is brutalized by sicarios, it is that same journalist who comes to take her away and look after her -- giving Javi reason to pause and reconsider his opinion of the woman he had previously not considered as anything more than eye candy. He has no idea that once she has walked fully into his life, he will be battling with himself over whether or not he should stop her from walking out it of again.

Hubby and Wife by @notjustjavierpena

A slice-of-life series of former DEA agent Javier F. Peña turned husband of his wife. This series serves the purpose of letting you into the intimate bits of how he falls for you to you giving him a beautiful family. Life with Javi is a fun, lighthearted, supportive, and sexy adventure ❤️

Javi & Steve

The Raid by @toxicanonymity

Two DEA agents find you on a drug raid and make some changes in your life, starting with getting you off drugs. They share you and have sexual tension with each other.  Steve is not married. Reader is not physically described, but has some general background as a drug user who had a boyfriend.

Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children

Enoch O’Connor

A Little Green by @pythonees

Idyllic by @intoanothermind

Is it possible to fall in love through stories? Well, it happened to me. I fell in love with the stories that my grandmother told me.

Hazbin Hotel

Lucifer

He Chose You by @trashogram

Hazbin Hotel AU where Lilith never existed, Lucifer has been lonely for over a millennia and Charlie will be born one way or another.

𝐈 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐘 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐋𝐈𝐄 by @yuitoru

you knew that you would always be second to her. no matter how hard you tried or whatever you did, he would continue loving her over everything else. the ring on his finger proved it. even after seven years of heartbreak and betrayal, he still wears the ring, the shiny metal practically taunting at you every single day. it served as a reminder to you about how irrelevant you really were in comparison to his first love - how he would choose her over you without even having to think about it. you were just there, a temporary distraction to his years of grief.

LUCIFER MAGNE by @champagnefountains

Lucifer continuing to wear his wedding ring despite being in a relationship with you.

TWO SIDES OF THE SAME COIN by @lxkeee

Alastor

Deer dolly by @ohproserpine

"So what?" Angel Dust hummed, drumming his nails on the counter. "You and Alastor are like... friends?" "Oh, well, that ain't the word I would’ve used, but it's something like that!" Mimzy chirped, reaching for her drink and downing it in one go. "He used to frequent the club I had! In fact, that’s where he met his wife—" “Wife?!” Angel Dust cut her off, jaw dropping. “Freaky face is married?” “Oh yeah,” Mimzy hummed, waving her hand around. “Under all that murder and cannibalism, he’s a total sap! Can't blame him, I mean—his wife is a doll! Me an' her used to perform together!”

Alastor's Birdy by @rory-cakes

Royally Pissed by @selineram3421

Alastor with a y/n who's Charlie's sibling/Lucifer's child.

[fair-city-reporter]

Whumping in Wordgirl

Please forgive the atrocities I'm going to write!

As a current Whumptober participant, I figured why not talk about the newest Wordgirl fic because it's a little disaster. Becky's our unfortunate whumpee in this, and it's a bit... mature (meaning darker depictions of things than the canon-). This fic will not be for everyone, but the idea simply wouldn't leave me alone tbh,

Though let's get right to it, yes?

Wordgirl Whump Ramblings;

Everything begins after Becky defeats a villain, but finds herself extremely winded and tuckered out which unfortunately leaves her vulnerable for other people. Due to the involvement of an organization, which doesn't have Fair City's best interests in mind, Wordgirl unexpectedly goes missing. Of course, the city falls into a literal uproar because of villains still being on the loose. Though... crime suddenly stops as Fair City's villainous citizens suddenly embark on a mission to find her, but... the damage is already done.

Let me just say one thing: the villains do see Becky as a member of their family; at absolute best, they're work colleagues who respect each other, and are mindful of one another. To see if one of their own suddenly vanish without a trace - well, it's not going to end well.

Of course, on top of the fact Wordgirl's missing, another very unrelated incident has gone down. Becky Botsford also went missing. Her family is now freaking out - having filed a report on their daughter, hoping she'll come home. No one is certain of what's going on, and well, to say the least... Sally Botsford will stop at nothing to bring down the fools who kidnapped her daughter.

Read below the cut for more information!

Headcanons/Rambles (Pt. 2)

Becky is going to be around 14-15 within the context of this universe. As it is major whump, the themes are dark and heavy which I will not be doing to a ten (and a half) year old Becky

Her powers do get stronger upon hitting the Lexiconian version of puberty; however, excessive use of powers does tire out the user and it's what's being used to weaken her for the fic (among other things, but we'll get to that later)

As mentioned before, the villains view Wordgirl as an adoptive member of their odd, little family. They are highly protective of their super-heroine (at least when it doesn't have to do with their criminal activities!)

The organization is an independently run facility. Being a little too curious on how superpowers work, they decide Becky's the perfect way to see this and, well, you'll just have to read the rest

Becky is an orphan back on Lexicon. This won't be relevant to the fanfic in the slightest, but I wanted to bring it up 'cause why not?

D2B has mixed thoughts on Wordgirl, esp. considering their history. It's just tense all-around but this man would level a building if something happened to her lol

The Butcher, Chuck, and Wordgirl have more of a sibling thing going - although Chuck's kind of like the awkward uncle at a family reunion; and because there may be Cheese Sandwich shipping here but I'm not sure yet

I'm not including every villain, but let me just say things will go very, very south once it becomes apparent what happened to the missing heroine

Tobey's crush on Wordgirl has simmered down over the years, and it did nearly vanish. He sees her as more of an equal - the plans, of course, a little different

This is whump. Becky's the chosen wet cat of the hour, unfortunately and is still a delight for me as writer - I'm going to break her in this, but this does have a happy ending, I swear. Just be patient with me lol

I might make this a multi-chapter, or there's a chance I write a lengthy one-shot. Reader Discretion is advised when reading this because it's going to deep into the prompts and I'm definitely mean when it comes to writing angst/whump

I would definitely say this is 'canon' in a very vague sense. It is set post-canon, but it still wouldn't have anything to do with it; it's just my own interpretation, woof but I'll leave this for now!

[entomolog-t]

I know you’re swamped with many g/t tropes but i have to know:

One of my favorite g/t tropes is when the tiny gets sacrificed to the giant. What are your thoughts on that?

*Kicks down the door*

Dr. Ento is back Baby.

This is certainly an interesting trope, though certain aspects of it need to be expanded upon for me to have a firm grasp on the scenario.

Moving forward I am going to be making assumptions about the trope. If I am off base, please feel free to book a follow up appointment at your earliest convenience.

My main assumption moving forward are that this is not a "true sacrifice" scenario involving death.

Though the context of the preferred sacrifice can be deeply insightful

Are they sacrificed to appease a caring and gentle giant who does not want these sacrifices other than to rescue them?

Does the giant normally eat/kill the sacrifices and they are the exception for whatever reason?

Are they being sacrificed for any particular reason (atonement, being unwanted etc...) ?

All of these scenarios likely have some subconscious imagery that would be very telling to explore.

As per normal, we also should analyze where you see yourself - as the giant or the tiny?

For example, seeing oneself as a benevolent giant taking pity on a tiny thief who was caught and offered up as a sacrifice could show the way you value forgiveness and understanding- if you pay particular attention to the traits you would assign to said tiny, you would likely find some projected traits that you yourself may want to be forgiven for as well (either by others or by yourself). Normally this is a bit more subtle than "They are a thief, I want to be forgiven for stealing"- you may assign the thief a cold personality, or make them untrusting, or give them a past that closely reflects part of your own.

Seeing the tiny as the exception to the sacrifice could imply that the tiny exemplifies something you deeply desire or cherish in yourself.

The giant being awestruck with the tinys beauty could be a longing for someone to show you special attention or infatuation. Perhaps the tiny escapes, and it is their nerve/skills that captivate the giant. You may wish for others to see you as brave and capable, and what better way to concentrate that fantasy than having those traits recognized by someone of magnitude.

Being the more cruel giant yourself could allude to a power fantasy- a yearning to be feared. While this may sound cruel on the surface often times it is a subconscious defense- if others are scared of you, you yourself are safe from harm (context dependent obviously.) Wanting that kind of fear in others could be a projection of the fear that has been instilled in you in some way/shape or form.

Another take could be that it is your subconscious expressing feelings of isolation and ostracization that you face in your day to day. Even if you envision yourself as the tiny, try to think of what traits you typically assign to the giant. Are they traits that you can see reflected in yourself? Further dissect those that ring true, especially with what you might feel misunderstood with; Being loud, scary, too friendly, too cold etc...

Sacrifice in and of itself is a strong metaphor that for the most part is universally understood; giving something up. Now I could expand on this, as there is a great beauty in sacrifice, but for the sake of time I will stick with the simple definition. This trope (under the aforementioned assumptions) subverts the expectation of the sacrifice. Something is not given up- because a part of us (or perhaps a vision of someone you know) is being sacrificed and the object of the sacrifice is choosing that the sacrifice itself is of more value than what it is being sacrificed for- in short, it has worth.

Sacrifice tropes very often deal with massive amounts of fearplay and trust, as do so many of our beloved g/t tropes, but it is this metaphor of worthiness that I see as the most poignant part- what truly sets this trope apart from others.

I hope you enjoyed our session today, please take the time to further dissect the aspects of what entices you about this trope for more insight on your personal psyche.

----

My secretary is just right outside the office. We accept cash, credit and Canadian Tire Money as form of payment. I look forward to seeing you at our next appointment.

[vampireshaman]

# 𝐕𝐀𝐌𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐌𝐀𝐍: an independent, semi-selective, & non-exclusive roleplay blog featuring HAE-SEOL KIM, an original crossover character set within the universe of BLOOD+ / Marvel's Avengers. Please read the rules before interacting.

I think of her now—my granddaughter, my greatest pride, and my greatest sorrow. She will be a Daemudang one day, just as I was. The blood that runs through her veins is strong, and she carries the weight of all the sacrifices I made to protect this lineage. But Haeseol does not see the world the way I did at her age. She is kind where I was cold, forgiving where I was ruthless. And I wonder—will that kindness be her undoing? Or will it make her stronger than I could ever hope to be?

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐄: the reluctant hero, a heart of gold, the resilient survivor, haunted by past traumas, an outsider in every world, a keeper of secrets, the tragic protector, the cursed soul, an empathic seer of dreams, quiet but unbreakable, a beacon of hope, and a protector weighed down by fate.

ੈ𑁍༘  INTRODUCTION

welcome to my blog, my name is moe ( she / her ) & I am twenty-five years old. This blog is multi-ship positive and though semi-selective, it is also crossover friendly and as a added bonus, non-mutuals may interact. Discord for 1x1 rps is available upon request!

elixir caps: one | elixir pages: one

icon / divider credit

Comic FC: Bayan (Elixir Of The Sun) | Live Action FC: Kim Tae-Ri

ੈ𑁍༘  GUIDELINES

first and foremost, due to my ADHD, I am a impulsive and slow writer - replies ( which can range from months to weeks, especially due to tumblr formatting ) are more a spur of the moment when I'm in the writing mood. I am prone to long burnouts. this is a mid to low activity blog. But I am faster on discord.

No drama. No harassment. I am here to have fun - if you have a problem with me, either approach me privately ( and calmly ) or click the block button and have a nice day.

If I follow you, I want to write with you! Though this blog is semi-selective and welcomes non-mutuals with open arms. I follow for about three days to a week to see if the person will follow me back before unfollowing (I sincerely don't want to force anyone to write with me!) but if you feel the need to jump into my inbox to clarify things about the non-mutuals aspect of your rules, go right ahead!

I don't place time limits on replies. We get to them when we get to them and nine times out of ten, I'm always still interested! If one roleplay is just feeling stale or a muse is being difficult let's just make a new story! What matters to me is that me and my partner are having a good time.

ੈ𑁍༘  CONTENT WARNINGS

this blog contains dark & triggering themes meant for mature audiences ( minors / personals will be blocked ) and above the age of eighteen - viewer discretion advised. custom tags for triggers are fine.

dark and triggering themes related to violence, gore, pregnancy, vampirism and demonic possession will be present on this blog. This includes NSFW / SMUT as well but everything will be tagged and put under "read more" It should be kept in mind that my muse is legally 25 years old (and bisexual) and her age is verse dependant.

PART 4.1

ੈ𑁍༘  ABOUT THE MUSE

BACKGROUND INFO: [ PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4 ]

EXTRA NOTES: PART 6.1 | PART 6.2 | PART 5 |

CULTURE & HISTORY: Part 1 |

Haeseol Kim is the biological daughter of STEVEN GRANT ROGERS & SAYA OTONASHI that was created by small group of RED SHIELD members without either person's consent or knowledge - a lab grown experiment that is a unique hybrid of human & chiropteran ( vampire breed ) genetics with particular buffs from the super soldier serum. Neither Haeseol or her parents have been aware of one another's existence up until a few weeks ago after the death of her grandmother.

ੈ𑁍༘  EXTRA STUFF

( important: these scenes and usually paired with journal entry posts & they are a better look at my muse, her thoughts, family, information, lore etc especially if you aren't sure how to approach her -- I'll do my best to keep them organized. )

muse centric:

[ 1 ] an unwelcome guest | journal one / journal two

muse lore:

marvel related:

[ 1 ] thoughts and papers | journal.

ੈ𑁍༘  UNIVERSE LIST

1. house of the dragon | the dragon's oracle -

2. wandavision |

3. agatha all along |

4. avengers aou / civil war |

5. Disney Princess AU |

6. Multiverse Of Madness |

[gatekeeper-watchman]

Daily Devotionals for October 14, 2024 

Proverbs: God's Wisdom for Daily Living

Devotional Scripture:

Proverbs 26:10-11 (KJV): 10 The great God that formed all things both rewardeth the fool and rewardeth transgressors. 11 As a dog returneth to his vomit, so a fool returneth to his folly. Proverbs 26:10-11 (YOUNG'S): 10 Great is the Former of all, And He is rewarding a fool, And is rewarding transgressors, 11 As a dog hath returned to its vomit, A fool is repeating his folly.

Thought for the Day

Verse 10 - This verse tells us that since God has formed all things, He will justly reward both the transgressors and the fools. Sometimes people are concerned about sinners who seemingly are not suffering for the wicked things they have done to others. This verse assures us that God will deal with them; and because He is a just God, it will be a just and fair punishment. Since He created the entire universe, and all mankind, He certainly is capable of dealing with the ones who rebel against Him. In fact, the Bible states that God is the Judge of the whole earth and He will deal with the righteous and the wicked in a just manner (Genesis 18:25; 2 Peter 3:10-11). Those who rebel against Him, shall not escape when He calls them to account. "Therefore, the ungodly shall not stand in the judgment, nor sinners in the congregation of the righteous. For the LORD knoweth the way of the righteous: but the way of the ungodly shall perish" (Psalm 1:5-6).

God earnestly desires all people to turn to Him and be saved. He expects His children to pray for the lost and reach out to them in love. As we do, we may be persecuted for His name's sake. After much long-suffering toward the wicked, God will finally allow the unrepentant to reap what they have sown and His judgment will come upon them. As Christians, we are not to try to take vengeance upon anyone who hurts us. We are to trust God, who will deal with all people. It is for God to administer vengeance, not us. "For we know him that hath said, Vengeance belongeth unto me, I will recompense, saith the Lord. And again, The Lord shall judge his people. It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God" (Hebrews 10:30-31).

Verse 11 - Rebellious fools will repeat the same sins repeatedly, just like a dog returning to its own vomit. 2 Peter 2:20-22 tells us the same thing, only this is a warning to those who have been cleansed by the Holy Spirit: "For if after they have escaped the pollutions of the world through the knowledge of the Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, they are again entangled therein, and overcome, the latter end is worse with them than the beginning. For it had been better for them not to have known the way of righteousness than to turn from the holy commandment delivered unto them after they have known it. But it is happened unto them according to the true proverb, The dog has turned to his own vomit again; and the sow that was washed to her wallowing in the mire."

The only way anyone who keeps returning to a filthy addiction can be completely redeemed is by turning to God and receiving deliverance. God will never turn away those with penitent hearts. He will deliver them from the addictions that keep them wallowing in filth. "All that the Father giveth me shall come to me; and him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out" (John 6:37).

Prayer Devotional for the Day

Dear Heavenly Father, I am thankful that You are a just and fair Judge of all of us. Help me not to judge others, but to pray for those who would sin against me or others. Lord, I trust You to care for those who persecute me and come against me. I ask You to forgive them and bring them into the knowledge of Your dear Son. I especially pray for those who are bound in addictions and ask that You set them free so that they may serve You and find peace in their souls. I ask this in the name of Jesus, my Lord. Amen.

[unohanabbygirl]

In response to your most recent ask, there’s also a third option where Luke and Aemond get together, get married and have a few kids but in this scenario Luke gets therapy and begins to work through his trauma and shame, and in doing so accepts that his relationship with Aemond is built upon sexual violence. His therapy allows him to understand different forms of sexual assault and violence so that when Aemond reads his diary and confronts him, Luke seeing his husband vehemently deny what happened was rape finally pushes Luke to divorce him. He won’t be gaslighted by Aegon into thinking he and Aemond are fated, nor will he allow Jace to erase the happiness and pleasure Luke found in his life with Aemond. It may take 15 years or 30 but he finally is able to accept the different shades of violence and trauma done to him, and he is strong enough to leave.

Never before did I stop to think of this outcome and I have to say its the most realistic/likely option of them all. So allow me to turn this into my usual mini fic/ramble 😈

While coming to accept himself as is through years of work both in and out of therapy isn’t a walk in the park, it’s worth it in the end. Luke no longer keeps things bottled up and instead has taken to journaling as well as long talks on the phone with both Cecil and the rest of his buddies he met while in juvenile about woes that only they could understand as men who experienced similar childhoods that managed to survive it all. He’s taken on a multitude of hobbies as a reminder to himself that he’s deserving of things that make him happy outside of his attachments to other people. And best of all? Comes to know himself as his own person. Not Rhaenyra’s son, Jaces brother or Aemond’s true love, but Luke Rivers.

Group therapy is one of those things that help him finally reach this epiphany he’s been on the road to touching for some years now. Taking with people of all ages from different backgrounds and identities about the abuse they’ve faced at the hands of both people they didn’t know as well as those they loved. It’s hard coming to terms with the fact that his love with Aemond was built off of none other than a lie. How his husband, the man he promised his life to, so easily fell into bed with him knowing he wouldn’t have wanted it if his memories had been intact. But even so, he accepts and forgives, not for Aemond but for himself and their children. The children who Luke did everything he could to protect from the horrors and abuse he faced throughout his life. Children who would’ve been left to rot in the system if he followed both their mothers suggestions and got a surrogate.

(Luke personally feels surrogacy is more often than not built on taking advantage of vulnerable woman in need of money while Aemond simply doesn’t like any of the candidates except for Helaena who offers happily but Luke denies her too. Mind set on helping an older child without a home.)

However, forgiveness doesn’t equate to forgetting. Luke forgives Aemond simply because hating him would only drain his spirit and send him into a state of regression. Once again that 17yr old kid who was failed by so many adults and felt that the world itself was out to get him. Luke can’t be that boy again, its unhealthy for him and his children to fall back into that dark place.

He and Aemond still have a happy marriage; they cook together, do date night three nights a week, watch movies, snuggle, frequent pillow talk, and have a very healthy sex life. Though Luke begins to pull away from certain activities in the bedroom (hair pulling, name calling) that his road to recovery has helped him realize he was doing not because he liked it, but because its what years of sexual abuse instilled in him. Though this isn’t to say he’s anti-kink because their little breeding kink is still going strong 20 years later, but I digress.

Their youngest child is getting ready to leave the nest for her first year of university when Aemond confronts him. Luke is scrolling through furniture catalogs on his laptop because his daughters decorating skills are severely lacking and he refuses to leave her all alone in Dorne with an ugly, nearly empty apartment to call home. When his husband walks in with the journal in hand and a heartbroken look on his face and Luke knows what their conversation is going to be about. He just wishes he had more time to prepare for it.

Luke would be lying if he said he wasn’t surprised that Aemond denied the sexual experiences they shared in their youth were rape. Though a better man than he once was, Aemond is incapable of seeing their relationship for what it truly is. A man who refused to let go to the point where he felt Luke’s own right to bodily autonomy was least important so long as he managed to “win” him, and a boy who remained at his side because Aemond was the first man to ever be gentle with him. Taking advantage of that fact and using it to lock him down. It’s disheartening, listening to his husband give every bullshit reason in the book as to how their relationship wasn’t built on deception. Even full-on ignoring Luke as he reads out the literal dictionary definition of rape by deception. Its the last straw for Luke to say the least. Sending Jayne Snow a text asking for the number of a good divorce lawyer because he refuses to let this relationship continue on if Aemond is going to deny his wrongdoing when all Luke has ever done is list his own.

To say the entire family (except lucemonds kids because they don’t even have a quarter of the trauma those fuck-ups do and are more mature when it comes down to it) are in shambles is an understatement. Its almost like the dance all over again, two sides divided as they all try to tell Luke what his future should look like. Aegon is doing everything in his power to remind Luke of the fairytale ending that he and his brother worked so hard for while Jace is going off about how he knew marrying and Aemond and starting a family wasn’t the right choice. Alicent is heartbroken and Egg is jumping for joy because it’s always been ‘fuck Aemond’ on his end, while Rhaenyra (who is very supportive because whatever her baby wants is the right choice) is nervous as hell because this will likely cause a break in the family.

Had Luke still be in his early twenties, newly married and in the process of adopting their first son, he may have crumbled and listened to Aegon about fairytale endings. Thankfully, Luke is in his forties now, all of his children are grown and he’s healed enough to know he deserves better than to remain in such a situation. He won’t let Aegon guilt him into going back to his little brother just as he wont let Jace convince him that creating his family was a mistake.

I can see Aemond refusing to sign the papers for well over a decade. Insisting that Luke is being irrational and begging for someone to talk sense into his husband so they can have their happy home back. Misses holding him at night and their silly back and forth with crude words that in their own unique way are declarations of love, but Luke refuses on the basis that he’s strong enough to know he deserves his peace.

It isn’t until their eldest grandchild who’s around eighteen (also adopted because there’s 400,000 children in the foster system who deserve a loving home) confronts his grandpa and tells him of his own encounter with an older guy who deceived him into a sexual relationship when he was 13. Helps him understand that rape isn’t always being held down by some disgusting stranger. It can seem like consent, especially to someone who’s only ever associated sex with bruised skin and blood, yet it’s still rape in spite of what soft words and pleasures they shared during.

This is the dam that sends in the flood.

A few weeks later Luke is unpacking in his new home. It’s nice, four bedrooms, three bathrooms with a small library and a nice pool but still very warm and cozy. He moved to Essos only weeks ago, Lys specifically, and this is the first time in his life that he’s been on his own. Free as a bird and ready to gain good experiences on his own. He may not be in his prime, teetering on retirement age, but he’s still young enough to meet new friends and create new memories. No romance though, despite all three of his daughters trying to hook him up. He wants to be alone, know himself without the pressures of another man’s happiness on his back. Luke just wants some alone time with Luke, and regardless of what his parents, children, siblings of grandchildren say, he’s going to get it.

He’s going to walk around in his underwear, start his garden that Aemond never really seemed to want to participate in, cook new meal’s he’s always been excited to try out, and buy some…adult toys now that he doesn’t have to worry about one of the kids opening his packages because they’re nosey as hell or Aegon’s over grown ass doing the same whilst using it as a means of cracking on him.

After he opens and puts away his last box Luke pours a nice glass of wine. Its more sparkling cider than anything but it relaxes him nonetheless. Luke is about to rent a movie when he gets a text from his layer about meeting tomorrow as Aemond Tully-Rivers, at the age of 57, has finally signed the divorce papers after years of court drama.

Luke doesn’t cry tears of joy or call everyone he knows is on his side to gloat. Instead, he sends Aemond a text telling him that despite it all Luke knows he’s a loving man. Thanking him with a promise to be back in Kings Landing for their youngest grandson’s first birthday next month.

Once Luke hangs up he goes out to his pool and puts his feet in the warm water, watching the sky turn colors as night falls.

For the first time in his life Luke can finally say he feels free.

[gojonanami]

Dear Sab,

Perhaps these feelings are spurred by my own personal journey, but what do you think about basing a story around a sorcerer unfamiliar with jujutsu way of life and lexicon being thrust into this world upon a sudden shift that occurred within the clans?

I was just thinking—there is something peculiar about being attached to a culture and being inundated with it, and having it be something that defines you to the people around you, and, when facing it face-on, realising how little you know of it, how out of touch you are, how much of a foreigner you are, and how the skin you don and the face you show to the rest of the world may be questioned and dissected when a realisation sets forth that the culture that you identify with and use to identify yourself may not be one with which you are intimately and innately familiar with.

This is a lot of jargon, I concede, but what I’m trying to say is this: as I was landing and as I was looking out of the window, the plane touching the ground, the wheels whirring and landing with a soundly whoosh, I found myself thinking how strange it would be if I were to place myself in the shoes of a sorcerer who led a life of normalcy only to be plunged not only into the lives of clans and a foreign country, but also into an arranged marriage.

There is something profoundly alienating about realising that the country and culture you identify with aren’t ones that you’re deeply familiar with. Having to answer at passport control in a foreign language, debating whether to speak in a broken tongue or practiced English, the feeling of being at one with oneself and in dissonance with oneself, and the feeling of the soil being one of your ancestors and the blood that runs through your veins while also being one that is moving and changing in ways that are unfamiliar and surprising to you.

I am getting awfully off-track here; forgive me. It’s nearly six a.m. where I am, and I haven’t slept the whole night. 

What I’m trying to say is this: I’m projecting, and in my projection, I found the idea of a sorcerer reader entering an arranged marriage and being forced to grapple with settling clan dynamics and leading a clan while being unfamiliar with the culture of jujutsu and the codes of value that come with it utterly fascinating.

And isn’t it fascinating, too, that Suguru, who doesn’t come from a sorcerer family, is more familiar with it? Because he breathes and lives in the air of Japan, moves in that country, encounters and practices jujutsu on a daily basis, and encounters curses large and small, the existence of which almost defines the way and the reason for jujutsu. 

Doesn’t that also open up a discussion of who owns a culture and whether a culture can be owned? Reader’s bloodline is filled with jujutsu spirit, but in their heart, they have none. For Suguru, perhaps, it’s the opposite.

And would Suguru scorn the fact that Reader lived a normal life, attending a prestigious university, having a good, stable job (perhaps, depending on Reader's age), while turning a blind eye to jujutsu, the horrors of life, and the pride of heritage? I do not know.

Just some food for thought!

this is so interesting and I love it so much — I will be keeping this as a reference because even if I don’t use the suguru x non sorcerer reader idea, I think this line of thought could be transposed to a lot of different ideas.

the other idea I’ve been toying with is a royalty au with suguru where jujutsu exists still — but where reader is thrust into this culture that she is not familiar with and has to navigate, with a husband who is not too pleased to be married to her but is with her for political reasons

…I just love the idea 👀

[guhamun]

@warmarshall said (inbox):

Were Jing Yuan to pay attention to every unusual traveler to visit the Xiānzhōu, he'd never leave his office for poring over all their documents. However, when the visitor is so outlandish that it rouses even the suspicion of his remaining family members in the Realm-keeping Commission, well. Then Jing Yuan has no real choice but to pay attention. What he finds is curious. The paperwork itself is legitimate, but there is a lack of telling information- birth date, home planet, full name- that is more than suspicious enough to warrant bringing the man into his office for a... discussion. So bring him in he does, peering over the scroll of intelligence he's had gathered in the interim. Still, his smile is serene as he fixes a golden gaze upon his 'guest', fingers interlocked. "You'll forgive the suddenness of the situation," he says, and it is by no means an apology, so much as a means to set the tone; the situation he's in may not be a favorable one. "A visitor such as yourself is... uncommon in the Alliance. For reasons I'm certain you can guess." After all, if the information in his hands is true, then this is a particularly long-lived individual, of the sort that may cause tensions. "Tell me- what brings you to the Xiānzhōu?" For all the pleasantries he offers, it's clear that they are conditional- and heavens only know what might happen when he gets an answer.

     NEUVILLETTE HAD KNOWN THIS would happen from the moment he came to the Xiānzhōu. Visitors were one thing, but he was…a bit hard to ignore. He, after all, had given the most barebones of information possible, which in itself, would automatically set off alarm bells. Even the most lax of checkpoints would have paused upon reading his documentation, eyes narrowed with suspicion and uncertainty as to how to proceed. It would have been wise to make up things to fill in the blanks if only to be allowed passage, however…if he had done that…then he would not be standing before the General, now would he? Despite how composed their features were; the smile upon those lips, the politeness of his speech, he was watching just as much as Neuvillette was watching him. ❝Forgive me. I did not mean to cause such issues for you,❞ he offered, his head bowed slightly in apology before sharp eyes once again met that melted gold. ❝I merely wished to see the extent of the damage done by the…commotion that had taken place.❞ There was no need to go into detail when his words would be understood all too well. Whether he was talking about the Elixir Seekers or something else, was to be decided.

     ❝You need not be suspicious of my intentions. I assure you, that I am not here for nefarious purposes.❞ As the only Sovereign to hold interest in the topic of the Legion itself, he had to convince them to be more alert, more mindful of the dangers that could come to them. It was their collective strength that kept Harbingers at bay…but that was just for the time being. As blind followers of Nanook and their path of Destruction, if the Legion were to see the universe empty and devoid of life, that meant eventually coming to head. Whether that be months from now, to a year, to several, they would come. ❝If it offers comfort to those in the Alliance, know that I will not be here long and will take my leave quietly.❞