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trulyumai · 2 months ago

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belittling the reign

synopsis: the people began to doubt Geta, and in return, so did members of the senate. The emperor began to act wildly, his temper just a reach away. It all came crashing down when a man of the senate brought the empress up and how she would fall with the emperor.

pairing: Emperor geta / empress! reader

Warnings: Violence, anger, choking, death. Protectiveness/Possessive.

The room was dim, save for the flicker of torchlight dancing across the stone walls. Geta sat at the long table, his goblet half-full, eyes fixed on the dull gleam of his dagger. He had been deep in thought, tired from the endless political maneuvering of the Senate, when the sound of approaching footsteps interrupted his silence.

The door creaked open, and a figure entered—Marcus, a senator known for his sharp tongue and sharper ambitions. Geta didn’t look up as the man approached, choosing instead to swirl the dark wine in his cup.

“Geta,” Marcus began, his voice oozing with false politeness. “I trust you’re well this evening.”

Geta grunted in response, not bothering to hide his disdain. He knew this man all too well—his visits were never without some form of scheming. Marcus circled the room slowly, his fingers tracing the edge of the table as he moved closer.

“You know, it’s funny,” Marcus continued, his tone casual, though laced with something more sinister. “There’s been a lot of talk in the streets lately. The citizens are starting to wonder how much longer Rome will have to bear the burden of a violent ruler.” The man let out a chuckle, it reverberated through the room and Geta swore his fingers shook with an emitting anger.

The emperor’s eyes flicked upward for the first time, meeting Marcus’s gaze with a steely intensity. The senator smiled, a smirk dancing on his lips as he leaned against the table, arms crossed.

“They say,” Marcus went on, “that there will soon be a new emperor. A man who leads not with blood, but with wisdom. One who doesn’t lose himself to rage every time a senator dares to speak out. The people... they’re excited, Geta. They’re waiting for the day Rome is free of your wrath… Maybe Caracalla would be a better fit?”

Geta’s grip tightened on the goblet, the muscles in his arm tensing as he fought to contain his growing anger. “You tread on dangerous ground, Marcus,” he warned, his voice low and cold.

Breath in. Breath out. Remember your wife, the sweet laugh, those little dimples that littered your face when he told a good story.

But Marcus was undeterred. He leaned in closer, his breath hot and smug as he whispered, “Perhaps you’re the one who should be careful. People don’t fear you anymore, Geta. They’re waiting for your death. And when it comes, oh how they’ll cheer. Finally, a ruler worthy of the Empire will take your place.”

A dark laugh escaped Marcus’s lips, but it was quickly cut off by Geta’s sudden movement. In a flash, the emperor had risen from his seat, standing tall over the senator. Marcus stiffened, but continued, confidence seemed to block the mans rational fears. “What will your pretty little wife do when you’re gone, I wonder? Maybe she’ll find solace in someone with real power.”

That was the last mistake.

Geta’s fury ignited like a wildfire, burning through every shred of control he had left. Before Marcus could react, Geta’s hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around the man’s throat. The senator’s eyes widened in shock as he gasped for breath, his hands clawing uselessly at Geta’s iron grip.

“You dare threaten my wife?” Geta growled, his voice trembling with rage. His face was twisted in a snarl, the veins in his neck bulging as he squeezed tighter. “You think you can speak to me of death? Speak to me of weakness?” He spat the words with venom, his grip tightening as Marcus’s face turned pale, then purple.

The senator’s eyes bulged, and his mouth opened and closed in silent pleas for mercy, but Geta’s rage was far beyond words now. He lifted Marcus off the ground, the senator’s feet dangling as he struggled weakly. The torchlight flickered, casting eerie shadows on the walls as Geta’s expression darkened with each passing second.

“You thought you could replace me? With my own brother?!” Geta whispered, leaning in close to the dying man’s ear. “There will be no one else, dear Marcus. I am Rome, hm? I. Am. Rome.”

Marcus’s body jerked one last time, and then he went still. Geta held him there for a moment longer, the senator’s lifeless eyes staring into nothingness, before finally letting the body fall to the ground with a heavy thud.

The room was silent, save for the sound of Geta’s ragged breathing. He stood over Marcus’s corpse, his chest rising and falling with the aftershocks of his rage. Slowly, he lowered his hand, twisting and turning the jeweled rings around his fingers while wiping the sweat from his brow. His gaze dropped to the dead man at his feet, his heart still pounding in his chest, though calmer now.

A twisted calm, one born of violence.

“Threatening my liege. My Wife,” Geta muttered to himself, stepping over Marcus’s body as he made his way toward the door. “They will all burn before I leave the throne.”

The hallways were dimly lit, the flickering flames of the torches casting long, distorted shadows along the stone walls. Geta’s breathing was still ragged, his pulse pounding in his ears as he moved through the empty corridors. His hands, still tingling with the memory of squeezing the life out of Marcus, twitched at his sides. Sweat clung to his brow, slicking his skin and making his tunic stick to his chest.

He could feel the weight of what he had done. The senator’s limp body, the satisfaction that had come when his struggles ceased. It was a different kind of battle—one where no soldier could see him, and no one could speak of it.

Yet, the thrill of victory felt different this time. It wasn’t the fight he was used to. He wasn’t on the battlefield, brandishing his sword, earning the respect of his men. This victory had been personal, quiet... but more satisfying than he could have imagined. Marcus had been wrong—there would be no new ruler. Not while Geta breathed.

He thought of the senators who whispered behind closed doors, plotting to strip him of his power. He thought of the citizens who questioned his rule, who had dared to entertain the idea of another emperor, a more peaceful one. And now he thought of those who might still move against him. They had made one fatal error—they underestimated his resolve, his willingness to do whatever was necessary to protect what was his. He had been lenient for too long.

His footsteps echoed in the silence as he neared the door to his chambers. The weight of his actions, the violence he was still capable of, burned beneath his skin, but as he pushed open the heavy wooden door, the tension seemed to soften.

There, lying in the massive bed, was his wife—your form draped in blankets, the soft rise and fall of your chest showing the example of a peaceful slumber. You were so.. completely unaware of what he had just done, unaware of the thoughts that now consumed him.

Geta stood in the doorway for a moment, simply watching. His wife had been the one constant in his life, the anchor to his rage. You had calmed him when no one else could.

His breath still came in short bursts, his chest tight with the remnants of his fury. Slowly, he approached the bed, his legs heavy beneath him as if the weight of the world had finally caught up with him. He collapsed beside you, the bed creaking under his weight. He was slick with sweat, the heat of the earlier confrontation still radiating from his body. He exhaled deeply, his muscles sagging as he sunk into the mattress.

His wife stirred slightly, your hand brushing against his arm as she mumbled something incoherent in sleep. Your touch was soft, gentle—so unlike the violence that had consumed him only moments before. For a moment, Geta considered waking you, telling just what had transpired, but no. You didn’t need to know about the bloodshed, the threat to their life. You didn’t need to carry the burden of his thoughts.

But in the stillness of the night, with his wife sleeping so peacefully beside him, his mind churned with plans. He would not be overthrown. He would not be replaced by anyone who dared to dream of ruling Rome in his stead. Geta would seek out the usurpers, one by one. He would find every senator, every noble, every conspirator who dared question his rule, and he would deal with them the same way he dealt with Marcus. There would be no mercy.

His wife shifted again, pressing closer to him, your hand now resting on his chest, and for a brief moment, the thoughts of violence faded. He closed his eyes, savoring the feel of her warmth, the way your perfect body curved against his.

But even as his breath steadied and exhaustion began to pull him into sleep, one thought remained clear in his mind: no one would threaten his reign. No one would ever threaten you again.

And when the time came to deal with the rest of them, Geta knew, deep down, he would not hesitate. Rome was his. And he would destroy anyone who thought otherwise.

#x reader #fanfiction #gladiator x reader #gladiator ii #gladiator #gladiator 2 #emperor geta x you #emperor geta x reader #geta #geta x you #geta x reader #joseph quinn x reader #joseph quinn #joe quinn #movie

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florencemtrash · 11 months ago

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The Artificer: Part II - Azriel x Reader

Warnings: Torture, violence, death

✨Based on this ask ✨

Masterlist of Masterlists

“She is my mate.” The male’s eyes flashed with horror and understanding, and that feeling chased him towards his death, “And your High Lord will burn for what he’s done.”

Five months later…

“Where is she?” The Shadowsinger stalked forward, silent as the dead and just as unfeeling.

The Autumn Court warrior at least had the sense to tremble when The Shadowsinger came near. But he kept his red-cracked lips shut, golden eyes shining with hatred.

“Bastard.” He sneered, spitting on Azriel’s polished boot.

“I said.” A shadow darted out from his side, grabbing a fistful of matted tawny hair and wrenching it back. His skin was thin, so translucent that Azriel traced the flow of his blood in his purple veins with dead eyes. “Where. Is. She?” Every word was emphasized with a violent jerk.

He’d gone to visit you last week, carrying your favorite chocolates from Velaris and hoping for a far sweeter kiss in return. Instead your workshop had been in ruins. Swords shattered and the fire burnt out. For the first time, the room had been cold and unlit.

Azriel had only found the pathetic male in front of him, kneeling on the ground and uselessly tugging at the sword which refused to move - Sunseeker.

Azriel held it now in his hands, the pale, yellow glow sharpening the shadows beneath his eyes and the elegantly cruel cut of his jaw.

It had been a risk trying to pick up the sword, but the weapon had sung to him and his shadows, calling out for him to wield it instead of the unworthy Autumn Court male. Azriel was no replacement for its real master - he was no replacement for you - but Sunseeker willed it and he obeyed.

“Is there truly no one else capable of wielding it?” Azriel asked, sitting so close to you that your knees and elbows brushed against one another. He didn’t have the courage to kiss you just yet, but gods did he want to. And with the hours he’d spent looking at and dreaming about your lips, he was certain he had a good idea what you tasted like.

“Her.” You corrected, holding the sword up to the steady stream of sunlight that spilled through the slats in the ceiling. Pressed against the light, the sword appeared almost transparent - as if made of glass.

Azriel smiled. You liked to name and personify every tool, weapon, and piece of equipment you owned, as if you had a secret third eye that allowed you to see into the lives of inanimate objects. He wanted to believe it was true - it was the only way he could explain the wonders you produced with your bare hands.

“There is one other person capable of such a thing,” You hesitated to tell him, but ultimately finished. “My mate.”

All at once Azriel’s heart fell into free fall, prepared to crash through the cradle of his bones and into the floor. His face, marvelously, betrayed nothing.

“Your mate.” He stole his gaze away, focusing on a very interesting speck of dust on the counter, “They’re lucky.” He murmured, drawing away.

You snorted, shaking your head. “Not lucky enough.” You sheathed the blade, returning it to its new place on the wall, “They haven’t found me yet.”

“Oh.” A flicker of hope filled his chest - dangerous and unwieldy. “Is that… is that something you want? A mate? ” Azriel wondered aloud before his mind could trap the words. He cringed, shaking his head in self-disappointment.

What a stupid question. Everyone wanted to find their mate. Everyone. He himself had been obsessed with the concept for hundreds of years. He had thought he’d find his mate in Mor, and then Elain, he had even thought he felt something more than friendship for Gwyn.

But more recently the idea had faded into the recesses of his mind. More recently the worst of his thoughts had fallen silent, and it was all thanks to you.

“Maybe,” You considered it, “Maybe not.” You sighed, sinking back into your seat. You rubbed at a metal coin on the benchtop, feeling the oil gather on its surface and taint your fingers grey, “My parents were mates. They didn’t love each other though. Not really.”

“I’m sorry, Y/n.”

You shook your head and shook off his sympathy.

“I don’t know if I want a mate…”

You pulled your chair closer and reached out, delicately beginning to drag your fingertips over the ridges and valleys of Azriel’s scars. His heart stopped when you picked up his hands and gently kissed them, your calloused fingertips rolling over his ruined skin.

“But there is something I definitely want.” You revealed, looking at him with more feeling than you ever had before.

You’d been scraping by on lingering touches and reserved smiles and momentary glances that spoke of more than friendship. But it wasn’t enough. It had never been enough, not since the moment he’d walked into your workroom. You felt like a woman starved, deprived of something that you hadn’t even tasted yet. It was a terrible pain to want something you didn’t even understand the nature of.

Azriel wasn’t everything. He wasn’t the air you needed to breathe. He wasn’t every piece of joy that life could bring. But he was the bright touch of color in the world that made everything that came before seem dull. And you didn’t want to live in greyscale anymore.

Azriel swallowed thickly, his hands instinctively falling to your waist and pulling you into his lap. “Whatever it is you want, Y/n - anything at all - I’ll give it to you.” He whispered reverently, closing his eyes when you pressed your forehead against his, “I swear it on my life.”

It was such sweet torture feeling you pressed against him with your hands caressing his throat. You smelled like woodsmoke and citrus. Heady, sweet, and clean all at the same time.

“Just you, Az. I just want you.”

He couldn’t handle it anymore. He tightened his grip on you, swallowing your little gasp of surprise with his lips.

Time was molten metal. Cooling, slowing, and warping around your hands as you molded it to your liking, so you could savor this moment for as long as possible.

Little did you know, your mate had found you. And he would find you again. Nothing but the crashing of the stars and the splitting of the earth would keep him from fulfilling this promise.

Azriel’s eyes darkened.

“Three of you were sent to take Y/n.” Azriel stalked around the male, slipping in and out of eyesight without warning. The male pulled at his chains and the ring of his futile efforts echoed throughout the dungeon.

“She put up a fight.” Azriel emerged from the male’s left, shooting out an arm so quickly that the pain followed after the fall of blood down his freckled cheeks.

Azriel cleaned Truth-Teller on his forearm nonchalantly, continuing his ambiguous path. If it weren’t for the hard cruelty in his eyes and the knife in his hands, he would look… normal. As if he were doing the grocery instead of slowly butchering a fae alive. He’d already taken three fingers and four toes.

The male began to shake.

“I saw the blood in the shop. It wasn’t yours, and it wasn’t hers.”

Another arm shot out, followed by a scream. The male grappled for an ear that was no longer there, feeling the blood drip down his arms from the stump.

“I DON��T KNOW!” The male cried out, curling in on himself, “I don’t know.” He repeated miserably.

“What don’t you know?” Azriel asked. His countenance said he was bored, but inside he was barely holding on by a thread. His shadows begged to be released and scattered across all of Prythian until you were returned home. They wanted chaos and pain - anything to distract from your aching absence.

Let us handle this. They hissed. We can take him. We’ll get the information. We’ll get everything. Let us-

Azriel shushed them, and they obeyed, falling to the edges of his consciousness and the edges of his body.

“What don’t you know?” Azriel leaned forward, some sick, twisted part of him relishing in the way the male flinched.

“I-I don’t know where she is. I don’t even know why he wanted her. Just some no-name artificer from-”

“Who wanted her?”

The male paled further until his skin was as pallid as moonlight on lakewater.

“WHO?!”

“THE HIGH LORD!” He whimpered, shuffling away from Azriel’s encroaching footsteps. The chains scuffed the ground and then clanged when he reached the end of his length, trailing blood. “Ber-Beron wanted her.”

Azriel stilled, his insides turning cold.

There were dozens of reasons why Beron might want you as his prisoner. Your talents alone made you worth a thousand men. But if Beron had any awareness of what you meant to him?

Azriel gritted his teeth. “For what purpose?” He growled.

The male’s dull eyes closed in defeat. He was as good as dead. He could only hope the rumours were true and that the Night Court were not the devils they pretended to be. Then, and only then, might he be offered the option of a violently quick end.

“He heard rumours of an artificer - a female artificer - capable of crafting weapons that could be bonded to a single wielder. He’s been searching for years now.” He shook his bloodied locks, “We thought…We thought it would be another dead end. Another body to bury. We didn’t think-” He choked on his words, trailing off into silence.

Azriel crouched down, dragging the Truth-Teller down the male’s face like a sculptor ready to carve a piece of marble down.

One wrong breath, one flinch, and he’d draw blood.

“Finish what you were going to say.” His hazel eyes cut deep.

He swallowed, “We didn’t think… we didn’t think she was anyone important.”

Azriel’s eyes were swallowed up by shadows until they hardened into two marble stones.

The male held his breath, feeling an oppressive power start to press down on him. Suffocating. Cold. Lethal. Darkness shoved him to the floor, crushing his ribs until they splintered and snapped.

“That was your mistake,” Azriel growled, “She is someone important. More important than you will ever be.” With a flash of blue and black, he buried Truth-Teller into the male’s chest all the way down to the hilt.

A shock of surprise and pain flooded the male’s face, and before the expression could dissipate, Azriel leaned in close enough to smell the blood pooling on his tongue and dripping down his chin.

“She is my mate.” The male’s eyes flashed with horror and understanding, and that feeling chased him towards his death, “And your High Lord will burn for what he’s done.”

___________

His shadows roiled in frustration, climbing up his legs and arms like fire greedily chasing after oxygen. They weren’t happy about being denied a kill, and every moment Azriel kept them on a leash, the more irritable they became. Their devotion to you was second only to Azriel. Even then, they would hesitate to disappoint you, even if it meant going against their master.

Soon. He promised them. Soon.

Azriel’s silhouette was carved out of the fabric of the night sky, shadows curling around his arms and wings as he stayed low, pooling his power to keep them all hidden. Cassian and Eris lay on the ground beside him, arms and wings tucked in close.

Autumn lay like a sleeping giant all around them, sighing with a breath that had mist floating up from slick, damp earth covered in leaves. Azriel was grateful for the weather, the rain disguised the curling of their breath in the air and masked their footsteps when they crossed over from Spring. Night and mist were a Shadowsinger’s dream.

The ground rose steadily in front of them, trees only daring to inch halfway up the hill as if they too could taste the magic in the air. All the trees - save for the godstree that marked the crest of the hill and snaked its thundering hand towards the sky in a knobby, clenched fist.

Icaryon Hill was one of Autumn’s most highly guarded secrets, and like the Forest House, it hid all its treasures and prisoners underground.

Azriel leaned down, pressing his ear to the ground and straining his ears for anything. Anything at all.

Eris smirked at him, reveling in the way Azriel bristled and bared his teeth. He would never let the Shadowsinger forget how he’d become desperate enough to swallow his pride and ask him for help.

Cassian looked equally displeased at the Lordling’s presence. “I hope your information isn’t as useless as the rest of you.”

“Careful who you call useless, Bastard,” Eris drawled, choosing his words very carefully, “Or else I might have to leave you and your pretty little artificer for the dogs.”

Cassian had to stop himself from wringing his pale, slender neck, but Azriel - for once in his life - didn’t have that much self control.

He shot forward, wrapping one scarred hand around Eris’s throat and slamming his head back into the ground, pushing down until he sank six inches into the damp soil.

Eris’s eyes flashed with something like triumph and curiosity. Nevermind that the Shadowsinger was currently crushing his ribs with his knee, or that Truth Teller was starting to leave a thin line of blood on his neck.

Azriel hated him, and the piece he hated most was that even when Eris was down, he had a way of making himself out to be the biggest person in the room.

“Az, that’s enough,” Cassian hissed. His eyes kept swiveling back up to the hill, “Let him go.”

Eris had warned them there would be a narrow window of time between the changing of the guards. The belly of Icaryon Hill was so expertly warded that no one - not even the High Lord - was capable of winnowing in. At some unknown time three guards would slip out and three guards would slip in, all winnowing to the gate hidden in the base of the godstree. One - and only one - of the males would have the key necessary to enter and exit and they’d have to unlock the gate in twenty seconds or risk triggering an alarm. If any blood was spilled on the earth, internal alarms within the Forest House would trigger the arrival of a squadron of gorgons capable of turning flesh to rock with a single touch.

That meant in order to evade the wards they’d have to winnow up the hill, kill six highly-trained males without bloodshed, and find the key in less than twenty seconds if they wanted even the smallest chance of getting you out.

Cassian knew this and it made his stomach turn.

Eris knew this and it made him cocky.

“Interesting.” Eris said, tilting his head with a smug smile on his face, “The Artificer, huh? Was that doe-eyed seer not enough for you?”

Azriel began to heave with rage, eyes turning pure black. It was enough to scare even Cas. Azriel had been on edge for weeks since you’d gone missing, but Cass had never seen him so… so unhinged.

Azriel had traded in his icy rage for a darker, more visceral variety capable of driving him to madness.

And Eris was not making things better.

He continued to goad him, “Maybe she ran away? I wouldn’t blame her.”

“Eris, shut the fuck up.” Cassian growled, “When are the guards changing?”

Eris ignored him, concentrating on the Shadowsinger. Azriel may have been the one to approach him for help, but that didn’t mean he was going to waste an opportunity to advance his own agenda.

It was funny. Everyone said The Shadowsinger was near unreadable - cold as a statue and as unfeeling as steel. But deep down, Eris knew he was still the same little Illyrian bastard that had been shoved into a cellar and convinced he didn’t matter. And more than making him insecure or thoughtful, it had made him angry.

Eris switched tactics, focusing on you instead, “Maybe, when this is all said and done, your precious whore will run away too.” Azriel stilled, shadows pouring off of him to the ground where they turned into claws and sank in deep, “And just maybe, I’ll be there to fuck her the way she likes. I’d pay her good money too.”

“Eris!” Cassian’s warning came too late. Azriel raised his arm, Truth Teller glinting in the darkness.

Something in the earth shifted, thin rays of light spilling out of the gate atop the hill.

Eris smiled.

Just on time.

The guards were changing.

“Fuck!” Cassian groaned, grabbing at his swords but not daring to unsheath them.

Azriel was roiling with panic and rage, every muscle in his body feeling ready to split in two. And Eris… Eris was smiling.

“Go on Shadowsinger.” He said, pointing to the hill, “Tick tock.”

Azriel clawed the front of his shirt, hauling him to his feet at the same time he clutched Cassian’s arm hard enough to bruise. They winnowed up to the gate in a whirlwind of death and shadow.

Six guards. 15 seconds.

Eris slammed his fist into two of the males’ throats, cutting off their roars of alarm. Two swift kicks to their knees and they exploded out with a sickening snap. Sharp cracks followed and they fell to the ground, their necks sticking out at a harsh angle.

Four.

Eris dropped to his knees, ripping at amour in search of the key.

Cassian rolled to the ground, narrowly missing the downward swing of a sword that buried itself in the ground. He bounced onto his feet, as lithe and limber as a fae a quarter of his size. He grabbed a fistful of blood-red hair, swiftly bringing the other elbow down. He made perfect contact at the base of the skull, severing the connection between the spinal cord and the brain.

Three.

This was taking too long. They would never make it in time.

But… but how was it still so quiet? Cassian dared to look up from his search for the key and his blood ran cold.

Azriel…

Azriel was death and decay given form. The moment they reached the gate, for the first time in his life, he relinquished full control of his shadows.

They swarmed around him until he was nothing more than a dark, blurry cloud of destruction. He grabbed the male closest to him, digging his hands into his throat and registering the horror in his eyes before shadows poured into his eyes, mouth, nose, ears. They flooded every sense, screaming in Azriel’s ears of a power that he had never been desperate or angry enough to unleash… until now.

The shadows filled the male’s body, wrecking bones and ripping apart tendons with a force that transformed them into razor sharp talons. The male gurgled, body jerking around in pain. Azriel finished him off by snapping his neck with a clean, sharp jerk. The body fell to the ground with a hollow thud.

Two.

The remaining guards similarly dropped to their knees, empty eyes and hands left to ghost over their throats before they fell forward. Dead.

Shadows leaked out of their eyes and mouth, slipping over their cooling bodies like the rain that pitter pattered against their backs. But no blood. Not even a drop.

One tendril of night slid up Azriel’s leg and washed over his hands, depositing a glittering bronze key that burned with warmth.

He should have felt more. More surprise and some semblance of disgust at what he’d just done. What he’d been capable of. But those feelings remained hidden, sullen and silent behind walls of obsidian willpower and adamant.

Cassian and Eris stared at him, wasting a few precious seconds to gape at the littering of bodies around them, raindrops pattering onto their backs and slowly absorbing into leather and skin.

Cassian swallowed, daring to break the silence, “I never knew you could do that.” He admitted blandly. Cassian wasn’t afraid of his brother - he never could be. He’d survived too many battles by his side to ever fear being on the wrong end of his blade… but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be unnerved by the powers that thrived within him, and how little anyone knew about them.

“Neither did I,” Azriel said without emotion, closing his fist around the key. “Let’s go.”

He stalked to the gate where it hummed in the ground like a dropped coin, fluttering with life, beckoning him to enter.

Just a little longer, Y/n. I’m coming.

He used the key and the gate opened.

You crouched in the darkness, cradling your ruined hands and trying not to cry.

The first few weeks Beron had let you out of your cell during the day, bringing you to the forge hidden beneath the hill so you could set about building him a weapon of his own. You’d leaned into his desires, working the metal until it sang a song of promise to the cruel High Lord.

He wanted power, and you’d promised it to him, proving your worth long enough for Azriel to come find you. But it had been almost two months, Azriel was nowhere to be found, and Beron was losing patience.

He traded empty compliments for threats, and when those failed to do anything, he turned to outright cruelty. Just this morning, he’d had one of his men whip your hands until they bled. Then, as a personal touch, he’d torn your shirt to pieces and trailed his fingers down your back. His touch had been light. You could’ve mistaken them for the kisses of a lover if it weren’t for the fact that he’d set the tips of his fingers on fire so they burned the whole way down.

They smarted and burned, the pain seeping in now that the shock was ebbing away.

“He’s coming. He’s coming.” You murmured to yourself, curling in on yourself with your arms pressed close to your exposed chest. “Just stay strong. Stay strong.”

“He’s not coming for you, dear.” A phantom hand, cold and bony as death, caressed your back. You looked up, eyes shining like two shards of glass in the darkness.

The High Lord was as handsome as he was deadly, the smooth and elegant planes of his face and his honey-sweet voice in stark contrast to the light of his eyes - or rather lack thereof.

They held no warmth, no pity, no fear.

“He’s not coming for you.” He repeated.

“Liar.”

He clicked his tongue in disappointment, shaking his head. His blood-red robes trailed along the grate of your prison cell, blocking out the meager light that trickled down. The gold-trim embroidery winked deceptively, flashing sultry looks of wealth and opulence in your direction.

Your stomach growled painfully and you wrapped yourself up as best you could. You’d spent most of your life time by the forge. Cold was not a familiar experience.

“I don’t know what that Illyrian bastard, Azriel, promised you. Wealth. Prestige. Love.”

You growled, kicking the wall hard enough for a shower of dirt to rain down on your head. You tried not to flinch when debris landed on sensitive skin, “Keep his name out of your mouth.”

Beron smirked, amused, “So much anger. So much defensiveness for a male who won’t care about you the next time a pretty female with doe eyes wanders into his path.”

You bared your teeth at him.

“Ahhhhh,” he clicked his tongue happily, “So perhaps you’re already aware he holds a certain reputation. Pity.” There was another swoosh of his velvet robes, “I’m promising you safety, enough gold and silks to make an empress jealous, and in return I just ask for you to do what you’ve always done.” He held up his hands, “I don’t understand where the difficulty lies”

“In return you’d want to make me your bitch.” You spit out, “To give you the tools to kill whomever you pleased.”

“I already have the tools to kill whomever I please.”

“No. No you don’t.” He narrowed his eyes in displeasure. You limped forward, holding your hands close to your chest. Your body may have been weak, but your heart and your mind were still strong. Not even Beron was capable of taking that from you. You looked up at the High Lord unflinchingly, “When Azriel comes for me - and he will - I’ll ask him for your head on a pike.”

Beron sneered, “If he and his half-breed Lord decide you’re worth the trouble, I’ll kill your little Shadowsinger first and reduce him to ash.”

You set your jaw, refusing to look away as the High Lord turned on his heels and left the room. Only then did you sink to your knees exhausted and breathed in the scent of damp, rotting earth.

<- Previous Chapter Next Chapter ->

__________________

Taglist: @dr4g0ngirl @glitterypirateduck @i-am-infinite @brujitafantomatico @woodland-mist @coureurs-de-bois9 @aetherl0l @gorlillaglue25 @onlyangellh

#the artificer #azriel x y/n #azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel shadowsinger #the shadowsinger #shadowsinger #shadowsinger x reader #acotar fanfiction #acotar

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daisykihannie · 9 months ago

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𝚂𝙺𝚉 𝙲𝚘𝚌𝚔 𝚃𝚊𝚕𝚔

CHAN

His cock is definitely pale on the length and has very prominent veins running along the length.

His cock curves upward in a soft arch perfect for hitting the best spots inside someone.

The head is a soft pink color. The prettiest cock. The pale length matching the pink head perfectly.

The head doesn't protrude off the length much but just a little, perfect crevice to run your tongue along.

He keeps himself shaven or with stubble.

I think he'd be about 8 inches in length and a bit girthy but nothing too thick.

If you can picture the prettiest pink cock, soft and defined, length and girth the perfect size, that's Chan's cock.

MINHO

His length is tan and honey colored with one prominent vein running up the underside of his cock.

It curves slightly to the left but nothing extreme.

It's heavy and about 7 inches long and not as girthy as Chan's.

It's almost delicate looking, as delicate as a cock can look.

The head stands off the length, a deeper crevice between the head and length.

The tip is a pretty mauve color. Pinkish Purple in color, contrasting the tan skin beautifully.

He doesn't like being completely clean shaven so he always has perfectly trimmed stubble.

CHANGBIN

Heavy and girthy. Tan length as well.

He's about 6.5 inches long but what he lacks in length he makes up for in girth.

VEINY. Multiple obvious veins decorate his length.

The head is a soft brown and pink color.

Again, his cock is heavy in the best of ways. If you can imagine a muscular cock, it'd be the best way to describe Changbin's cock.

It Curves downward because of the weight. His balls on the larger side as well

Stubble is the most pubes he'd have but never completely bare and clean shaven. Man scaping is very important to him.

HYUNJIN

Pretty pretty pretty soft and delicate

Another pale and pink cock. The head a deep pink color bordering on red.

The veins in his cock are visible but not protruding. Keeping it looking so soft.

Clean shaven 24/7. Adding to the feminine and delicate look.

I wanna tie a pretty pink bow around it.

His cock doesn't really have any curve to it, mostly straight but with the tiniest barely visible upward curve.

I think he'd have a long and skinny-ish cock. Maybe 8-8.5 inches and the length the same girth as the head.

Uncut and pretty, the soft pink head poking out of the foreskin but in the prettiest of ways.

He'd have a mole/beauty mark on his pubic bone, right above his cock and slightly to the right. Perfect spot to kiss.

JISUNG

A pretty deep honey color with a red head.

A couple of veins travel the top and sides of the length that poke out more towards the base of his cock.

Either clean shaved or with a tiny bit of stubble. Mostly keeps a small amount of stubble tho but his balls are always clean shaven.

7ish inches long, maybe a tiny bit less. Not particularly girthy but just enough to stretch his partner open for him.

Curves slightly up and to the right. With heavy and pretty balls. His balls don't hang far from his cock.

Picture a pretty, tan, soft, leaky cock and that's Jisung's cock.

His cock is like a mix of soft boy and fuck boy and God does he know how to use it.

FELIX

Pale with a red mushroom head.

Also uncut and pretty.

His cock is on the smaller side at 6-6.5 inches, not very girthy but he knows how to use it.

Curves upward a bit with soft veins going up the length. 2 veins standing out the most

He also stays clean shaven with pink swollen balls.

Another very soft and delicate cock. But very leaky as well.

Resembles Hyunjin's cock the most but shorter with a bright red tip.

SEUNGMIN

His cock is about the same size as Felix's but a bit more girth to it. Heavy cock.

Tanner than Felix's and Chan's cocks but not as tan as Minho and Jisung's.

He'd have longer pubes. Not a jungle or even a bush but long enough to be softer than stubble but short enough to lay mostly flat to his skin.

I also can't see him being circumcized. the foreskin a soft pink color to match the darker pink color of his head.

His veins aren't very visible but can definitely be felt inside his partner.

Soft downward curve. Not as heavy as any of the others cocks.

Light, delicate, pretty, tan cock. His balls are smaller and don't hang very low.

JEONGIN

Long and pale. Porcelain skin covers the length and a dark purple/pink mushroom tip.

Not girthy at all, his girth is about average but he'd be the longest at 9-9.5 inches.

Not the biggest fan of manscaping but he keeps himself trimmed and pretty.

Smaller but heavy balls that hang a bit lower from his cock.

Beauty marks paint the skin around his cock. Some on his pubic bone, on the inside of his thighs, traveling up to his hips.

Veiny as well but still softer looking. The veins visible but not standing out too much.

He'd have a slight curve to the left and his head would definitely be the leakiest.

Very very sensitive on the tip and the underside of his cock where the most obvious veins is. The vein his partner would love to follow with their tongue.

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danosrosegarden · 3 months ago

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Thinking about dressing Edward up in a collar and leash, dragging him around his shitty apartment while he crawls behind you. Making him hump a pillow or your leg just so you can giggle and make fun of him for cumming like that. Shoving his nose in the mess he made and calling him a very bad dog, only giving him the praise he so desperately craves once he licks it up.

don't you wanna be nobody every once in awhile - edward nashton x gn!reader headcanons (NSFW) ౨ৎ ˙⋆.˚♡

{contents ♡ very minor angst, choker wearing, pillow humping, praise/degradation mix}

{word count ♡ ~800}

{author's note ♡ i took a sort of softer approach with this one because that's what i as the author needed atm, but rest assured that freaky and mean requests are always welcome.}

♡ every night was like a scratched, skipping record, looping the same little riff until you were sure it had driven you hysterical. why was edward so insistent on seeing the skin he was in as distorted and alien when you saw it as a warm safe haven? why was he so dead set on ripping his body limb from limb when in your eyes, each splatter of freckle, each wisp of hair, each pale purple vein, each and every piece of him was just...perfect?

♡ it plucked and pulled at the strings of your heart, the way he treated himself in moments like these. it only happened in the dark. it only happened under the covers. he'd mumble stop or don't if your eyes lingered on his bare skin for too long as he stripped. for the love of god, he was about to be inside of you! this should feel fun, this should feel safe, this should feel nothing short of completely and entirely comfortable. nothing slit the mood's throat faster than sensing that edward was only doing this because you wanted it. that he was gritting his teeth and fighting back against the bitter taste of insecurity coating his tongue the whole time.

♡ so something needs to be done. that much is crystalline.

♡ it starts off slow, gently spoon-fed, made easy to digest. pretty boy. edward seems to quite like that one. you have a small, crackling fire of hope stoking in your heart that maybe he's starting to believe it. that he's so beautiful, edward. so sweet. such a good little angel.

♡ the response is instantaneous. his fingers dig into your hips. his shallow thrusts become deeper, sloppier, hungrier, starved. he bites his lips and tries to conceal his breathy whimpers, but most of them burst through and come spilling out into the warm, heavy air.

♡ and an idea begins to hatch, more and more pieces of the shell popping off and crumbling apart in your brain as edward's whines become more desperate and frenzied. maybe what he needs is a transformation. something real, something tangible to show him just how much of a pretty boy he really is.

♡ and a transformation it truly is when you wrap the soft, velvety choker around his neck. the way his doughy eyes sparkle and stare up at you as you hook the clasp is deliciously delicate. such a flawless picture it is, and you drink it in with passionate thirst.

♡ this is really what he needed the whole time, it was stupidly clear--he needed somebody to grab hold of the reins. if he wasn't going to believe that he was perfect, somebody else was just going to have to do it for him. that was the goal: an opportunity to be your pristine blank slate.

♡ it's adorably pathetic how jumpy and reactive he is to every light, grazing brush of your fingers around his neck or each squeeze on the plush of his thighs. yet still, you're cautious not to push him too far. he wants to feel good on his own terms, yes? then he can just show you. you can be his attentive, captured audience, waiting with wide eyes and bated breath for every next move.

♡ he rolls in shaky, jagged circles against the pillow. he's already slicked with sweat, and the silver heart pendant on his choker makes metallic rings with each desperate thrust forward.

♡ you're watching as his hands grip the sides of the pillow and splotches of the case darken from the thick precum he's dribbling. you're listening to his moans reach higher in pitch with every back and forth sway of his hips. he wants. god, he needs. needs to feel your soft touch, needs to feel the wet warmth of you squeezing around him, needs you to tug on his hair and force him to look at you dead in the beady eyes; i'm your good boy. i'm your needy bitch.

♡ yeah, that's my pretty slut, isn't it? you'd purr to him. his cheeks would be stained with the reddened rivers of overstimulated tears as you held his face in your hands. gonna cum all over yourself? yeah, gonna make a mess for me? dirty, filthy. i didn't even have to touch you. come on, then. let go for me, sweetheart. c'mon, be a good puppy.

♡ it was almost as if the world had lost a slice of film; he came to, panting, heaving, round cheeks an angry, ragged red. and he needs to hear it right away: you were so, so good, eddie. my sweet boy.

♡ he's grinning, a dazed, euphoria-fueled smile slapped across his face as he pulls the pillow away. you'd have to keep this little game in mind the next time he decided to pick apart the pieces of himself again.

#eli's writing #danonation #paul dano #edward nashton #the riddler #the batman #edward nashton x reader #the riddler x reader #edward nashton x you #the riddler x you #edward nashton x y/n #the riddler x y/n

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a-killer-obsession · 5 months ago

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It's a SMUT Blog so I'm not shy to ask 😋.. Kid and Killers dicks..how do they differ from eachother? Length and Girth? Piercings? Hair? Circumsized with thick veins? 🤤

I saw this right before going to sleep but I was too eepy to answer, so instead I just kept thinking about it which means now it's gonna be a whole thing *flexes fingers*

I won't talk on circumcised tho cos its not really a thing in my country so I don't know much about it, in all my years of slutting around I never met a circumcised dick, but I'll include some other saucy details

Anway, now presenting:

☠️ Kid Pirates ☠️

Equipment headcannons 🍆

🔞 Minors DNI 🔞

Kid

Smallest of the gang in length at barely 7" but built like a fucking monster energy can with a girth that'll split you right in fucking half

No piercings, thick prominent veins. Hes pale as hell and that extends to his dick, with skin that translucent its practically red when it's engorged

I think since he never even has stubble after being in prison that he can't actually grow a beard, so by that thinking I reckon he doesn't actually have much hair on the rest of his body other than a thin ginger scattering. So his bush is bright fucking red and untrimmed but there's not that much to begin with

The biggest balls you'll ever see on a man, he's built for breeding

Decently big loads when he comes, but they're super thick so they don't go far

Absolutely rancid dick tho tbh, it'll have you gagging for all the wrong reasons. Someone get this man in a bath fr

Grower

Killer

Second longest after Wire at 8", slender and fairly smooth, the prettiest dick you'll ever see with a slight curve (like his scythes, ha)

One piercing at the end that Kid convinced him to get, he'll use his devil fruit to vibrate it if he wants Killer's ✨️attention✨️

Slightly darker than his tan skin, pretty in pink at the head

Thick blonde pubes that stand out against his tanned skin, with a lovely happy trail, but he keeps it tidy and clean 👌

Cums a shit ton, long thin spurts that'll cover your whole torso and maybe even get your face if he's pent up. Masturbating is a whole fucking ordeal for him cos of the cleanup

Grower, but impressive flacid anyway

Heat

7.5", somewhere between Kid and Killer's girth, slightly more bulbous towards the end.

Strange colour considering his strange grey-brown skin. His dick is almost purple brown, more purple at the head.

Set of three piercings like a ladder up the underside. Veiny but not as prominent as Kid.

Full bush baby, and its WILD down there. Thick blue pubes to match his hairy legs and happy trail, he's never even considered trimming.

The most average cumshots of the crew, a pretty regular amount, generic consistency, short spurts, maybe long enough to hit your tits if he's pent up. Absolutely drips precum though

Shower (I realise now that word has two meanings. I mean show-er. Obviously)

Wire

An absolute fucking monster to match his height. 10" and THICK. Got into BDSM purely because it takes so fucking long to prep someone to take him that he needed something to spice up the long foreplay. There's no possibility for a quickie with this man, its a whole ordeal (please ask me about my Kid Pirate kinks please please please 🙏 edit: here they are)

Dark brown, almost chocolate at the tip. Veiny as hell. So big and heavy that it can't support it's own weight so its always dropping even full mast

Clean shaved, Wire is a man who takes the upmost pride and care when it comes to his dick. No piercings because his dick is already so massive he's scared the pressure would rip them clean out when he fucks

Hes like a endless fucking volcano when he cums and it's THICK. He prefers to finish inside but it's always so much that combined with his size it simply won't all fit. You'll be dripping for hours afterwards

Shower, I don't know where this man is keeping it in those shorts, tucked for sure

#ask kil headcannon #killer one piece #massacre soldier killer #one piece smut #kid pirates #heat one piece #wire one piece #kid one piece #eustass kid #one piece headcanons

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m1ckeyb3rry · 5 months ago

Text

Series Synopsis: The story of how you, the bastard daughter of the Hiiragi clan, gain power in a country at constant war — and how, just as quickly, you lose it, too.

Chapter Synopsis: An introduction to you, Y/N L/N, the unwanted daughter of a serving maid and a daimyo.

Series Masterlist

Pairing(s): Otoya x Reader

Chapter Word Count: 6.2k

Content Warnings: sengoku period au, character death, angst, sad ending, implied abuse, lots of political content, violence and war, the characters will probably be ooc a bit (as is to be expected when you put a bunch of soccer freaks into the warring states period), they are all morally questionable AT BEST, i promise i don’t hate your fav if they act heinous it’s just that someone has to, the prose here is so purple you might confuse it for reo mikage, i may or may not include original characters, i do try and do a bit of research but this is a bllk reader insert fanfic so please keep your expectations for historical accuracy and whatnot at a minimum, possibly a bit suggestive eventually

A/N: erm…hey guys…this one’s for the three otoya stans out there 🤞🏻 listen i don’t even like him that much (prefer his bff tbh) but for some reason i can’t stop thinking about him and i had this idea for a fic that just wouldn’t let me go so uhh here we are!! but this is one i really don’t know how i feel about so lmk if you liked it/think i should continue

On the day you were born, a star died. It was like a great gash in the sky, supposedly, a bloody smear of fire against the blue of the afternoon, which flickered to the rise and fall of your wails and only vanished once you had been taken to your mother’s breast. The story was told to you so often that you could picture it as vividly as if you had been there, though of course your recall of the event was non-existent. But your half-brother, who had barely been more than a child at your birth, took a particular pleasure in reminding you that you were the star-killer, the ill-portended bastard who was a curse on his family.

He was relentless like a hornet, that half-brother of yours. A better man would’ve ignored you completely, would’ve taken satisfaction in his own supremacy and left you, who were no threat to his position nor his ego, alone. Yet it remained that it was your half-brother’s favorite pastime to follow you around and whisper things in your ears, striking you swiftly if you dared to respond.

“You’re a monster,” he’d murmur when he wanted to amuse himself. “Little witch-thing. You were just a babe when you murdered your surrogate…I wonder, is it truly the same blood which runs in both our veins? No, I am sure that you are just a demon who has taken the place of my sweet half-sister. Did you kill her, too? May she rest in peace. Greedy child. Devil child. A star and a woman and a little girl — how many more until you are satisfied?”

Though you had learnt long ago the value of your silence, there were still occasions when you would tell him no, that it was not the case. It was a meaningless form of retribution. He knew the truth, knew it as well as you did or maybe better, but he did not care. It was a little play of yours, this argument and its various other forms, and if you were to deviate from your script, you’d be met with the consequences of displeasing your audience of one.

“You killed her,” he would say, your cheek stinging where he had slapped it, his pale irises gleaming at the tremble of your lower lip, which even after so many years you could not quell completely. “You killed them both, didn’t you? Apologize for it. Repent for the sin.”

The relationship between you and your half-brother was of little consequence to your father. If he hurt you or if he loved you — what did it matter to the man whose adoption of you was so reluctantly done as to be all but forced? Your half-brother was the one who shared his name, who was his perfect heir, who had twin moons for eyes and was born at the stroke of midnight. You were the one who had killed a star and a surrogate alike, whose name was common and plain, as was fitting for the daughter of a dead serving girl. Certainly, the sacrifice was easy to make, and likely it was not even a sacrifice in the first place. The closest he ever got to reprimanding your half-brother was letting out a heavy sigh when he walked past your frozen form, reminding him that ought to keep better company.

You could not say the same about yourself. You lived in the Hiiragi manor only on account of your father’s charity, and so you were expected to conduct yourself in a manner that invited the highest praise — though you never received this praise, naturally. If you were behaving in an exemplary way, then you were only doing as you ought to, and anything lesser was met with cold correction.

According to your father, you were an embarrassment, but one he had to display as if he were proud. He was a daimyo, the lord of your province, and so he was meant to be the perfect example of an honorable man. Nobody batted an eye when he lay with his own servants — it was typical, anyways, especially since his own wife had died in the service of his first and only son — but when the stomach of the maid who swept the kitchens began to swell, the whispers abounded. What would happen to the child, who was undoubtedly of the Hiiragi line? Would he acknowledge her, or would he throw her to her death in the streets?

Well, it would’ve been worse if he cast her away, so reluctantly, your father watched over your mother, caring for her until you were born. That day, he snatched you away, your lips still wet from milk, your thin hair plastered to your tiny brow, and he handed you to the waiting surrogate. After that, he had your mother killed, taken to the back and burnt alive when she was too weak to fight back.

It was easy for him to disguise the murder by claiming that she, too, had faced the same fate as his beloved wife. Hiiragi blood claws at the womb. Though of course you were no Hiiragi — you were Y/N L/N, undeserving of a nobler address — it was true that, despite your circumstances, you were still half a lady, a daimyo’s daughter as much as you were a maid’s. So your father blamed her death on you, and only a select few knew the truth, all of whom shared blood and two of whom shared a name.

Though it was impossible for him to remember it, your half-brother would describe the gray of the smoke to you, the way your mother’s ashes had swirled into the air and her screams had faded into the crackling of embers. Only when your eyes welled with tears would he snicker and leave you to your own devices, ruffling your hair fraternally, though the gesture was anything but.

“What cause do you have to cry?” he’d call out over his shoulder. “You hardly knew the woman. At least her death at Father’s hand was quick; were she left to you, she would’ve suffered for longer and longer. It was a mercy, though I am sure you know not what that word means.”

Once you had grown older, you began to understand, in pieces and then all in a rush, what purpose you served for your father, why he had kept you at his side so many years after propriety demanded. Your father, who had never had any other children bar your half-brother…if he wanted to secure an alliance with one or another of the neighboring daimyos, who were ever clamoring for more territory, more land, more wealth, more more more, what was the best option? It was you.

Mere days after you turned of age, the men began to arrive at the Hiiragi manor. These conversations were like dancing with snakes for your father and half-brother, each word a baring of their fangs, each sly remark a biting challenge, each exchanged glance a seeping of their poison. You were relegated to pouring tea and keeping your gaze lowered, a showpiece more than a participant.

The more foolish of the supplicants, in their earnest desires to appease the serpent-kin Hiiragis, would seek to compliment you, claiming that no more beautiful woman existed in all the world, insisting to your father that, were they given your hand and thus the support of the Hiiragis, they would build a palace grand enough to contain even one such as yourself.

This was when your half-brother would make himself known, his expression coy and playful, his voice a smooth hiss as he reminded the suitor that you were a bastard. The daughter of a maid, he’d say with a laugh, the sound jarring and devoid of mirth. You find her so lovely? You must not have very high standards, then.

Their faces would go white, and the corners of your father’s lips would twitch as he commanded them to leave at once. The Hiiragi would not ally themselves with those who had such lofty but baseless aspirations, not when they themselves had their own goals which they pursued so staunchly — only an equal or greater would receive the honor of their support, of their only daughter, who was barely classified as such but nevertheless had attained at least that much in her lifetime.

“There’s a suitor coming to see you,” your half-brother said, the painted screen door pushed aside, his arms crossed as he peered into your room. “Hey. Shitty Y/N. Get dressed; Father seems to think this one might have some merit to him.”

“Might you send a maid to assist me?” you said, your voice catching in the back of your throat when he raised his eyebrows. “Reiji, you must realize that it is difficult for me to ready myself to that extent.”

Reiji’s lip curled as he regarded you, but finally, to your relief, he nodded at you. “Very well, though only because this meeting is of import and it would not do for you to have a shoddy appearance.“

“Thank you,” you said, pressing your forehead to the floor until you heard the whoosh of the door as it slid shut. Curling your fists, you pushed yourself up until you were kneeling in front of your dressing table, staring into the mirror and wincing when you noticed that there were dark hollows under your eyes.

“Miss L/N,” a soft voice called from the other side of the screen. “Shall I enter?”

“You may,” you said. You recognized her gentle intonations; she was, after all, the only maid in the manor who treated you as if you were a true-born Hiiragi and not some other, accursed thing.

The door opened once again, but she stood alone, her tiny figure such a contrast to Reiji’s boasting frame. Her bright hair was tied back, her eyelids lowering in disappointment when she glanced at you.

“Ah, Miss L/N, you must endeavor to sleep earlier,” she said, crouching behind you, her clever fingers beginning to weave through your hair. “Are those terrors plaguing you anew?”

“Is it so obvious?” you said.

“Rather, it is that I know you so well,” she said. “So, that is the reason?”

“It is,” you said, pursing your lips. “But that is enough questioning on the matter, Anri. I should not like to speak of it.”

“Perhaps it would be helpful if you did,” she suggested. “Do you not agree? Recounting them could ward them away.”

“It has never worked in the past, so why should it work now? I think that you are disguising your curiosity as concern,” you said.

“I—I—I would do no such thing! Miss L/N, how could you even suggest it?” she sputtered.

“It was only a jest,” you said, fighting back a smile. “Anyways, I suppose that this terror is of a different nature, so it may yet vanish if I speak it aloud.”

For as long as you could remember, you had had fitful episodes, lasting a week but never longer, in which you dreamt of terrible things that haunted you even in your waking hours. None of these visions ever had much coherence, but there was a sense of doom interspersed throughout, a personal doom, as if they held a sort of significance to you that you were too naive to understand.

“This time, there was a man,” you said. “I saw him vividly, though I cannot recall him any longer.”

“A man!” Anri said.

“Yes, and I believe a comely one, to answer what I know you will not speak aloud. His face has been lost to me, but I was frightened of him, or perhaps for him,” you said. “It is the first time I have watched someone other than my mother die in the fire. He embraced her as it happened, but despite their familiarity, I am certain it was not my father.”

Every single nightmare ended in the same way: a woman’s immolation, flames licking up her dress and lashing against her face, which resembled yours so greatly that you knew she could be no one else but your mother. Her expression was stony and set, though her eyes danced with a wild sort of panic as she burned, her jaw twitching from the efforts of silencing the screams that Reiji had claimed he had heard.

This was the first time that she had not been alone, her taut muscles releasing as the man appeared. Though your mother’s face never left your mind — you could not escape it when a facsimile stared back at you whenever you gazed at your reflection — the man was out of your grasp, a slippery sort of person who you wanted very badly to remember but simply could not.

He had had his back to you, facing your mother at her end, and then he had gathered her in his arms, clutching her tightly and allowing the fire to take them both. And though tears had dripped from her eyes, though she had shivered from the pain of their shared death, you had noticed that for the first time, your mother had seemed happy, as if her impending doom meant nothing in face of what you got the sense was a long-anticipated reunion.

“Did your mother have another lover?” Anri said.

“How should I know?” you said, harsher than you had intended. Anri flinched from surprise, and you frowned. “I apologize.”

“No, the error is mine, Miss L/N,” she said. “Please forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to be forgiven. You were merely expressing your interest in the subject, and I had the gall to snap at you for it. To tell you the truth, he did hold her in the way a lover might, but I have never heard much if anything about my mother’s past, so that does nothing to solve the mystery of his identity. Anyways, if ever he did exist, he’s likely long dead, so it does not warrant further investigation,” you said.

“Of course not,” she said, pressing a cake of powder against your face, blowing the excess away. “Do you think that this discussion has assuaged you?”

“That’s a question I can only answer after tonight, you know,” you said.

“Oh, I have spoken hastily,” she said. “Forgive me.”

“You needn’t apologize,” you said. “I am not Reiji nor my father. It isn’t possible for you to wrong me. For if you could, then I would not be Y/N L/N but Y/N Hiiragi, and as I am not, you ought to worry less.”

“You are still Lord Hiiragi’s daughter, and as such, I will give you the respect that that position demands,” she said.

“Am I?” you said. “What if I am that man’s daughter?”

“Were there even a hint of uncertainty as to your parentage, I do not doubt that Lord Hiiragi would’ve long ago sent you away,” Anri said. “Without question, you are his. A name cannot change that.”

“It is a reminder better given to my half-brother,” you said. “Reiji believes me to be a devil, one of the star-killing variety.”

“Well, that half-brother of yours—” Anri began before silencing herself. “Regardless. Not even the Shogun himself could take your inheritance from you.”

“Thank you, Anri,” you said, recognizing that she had put herself into danger just for the sake of your reassurance. It wasn’t fair of you to demand, so you mustered a grin in the hope that she did not continue to worry. “Am I ready, then? Reiji said that Father believes this suitor to be a genuine prospect, so I do not wish to tarry.”

“You are as lovely as ever,” she said. “The hollyhock of the Hiiragi.”

You could not see that supposed beauty, not in yourself, but if Anri said it, then it was definitely there. Clasping your hands, you nodded at her, your face warm at the comparison to your family’s flower.

“Thank you,” you said. “You may go fetch Reiji now. I am sure that he wishes to escort me, as is proper.”

“I will return at once,” she said.

You inhaled and exhaled, counting the seconds in between to calm your nerves. Your father had never once spoken favorably of a candidate for your hand until now — did that mean this was it, then? Had he finally found the family that he wished to align himself with? Which would it be, and would their son be cruel? You did not mind running the household, but if your husband were unkind or overly interested in your affairs, then you were unsure of whether you could handle it. And children, what of children? Would you be expected to have many? Would it be a demon which you carried, a star-killer like yourself or a Hiiragi which clawed at your womb as it left? All of these things and more you considered, the endless loop playing as you waited for Reiji and Anri to return.

“You look acceptable, sister,” Reiji said, his charade well-perfected at this point. If your marriage was meant to unite two clans, then you could not be referred to with the usual indignity. Of course, you could not be a Hiiragi, but you had to be considered the sister of one, or else your father’s efforts would be for naught, and given the instability of the country at the moment, that would be a fatal mistake.

“Thank you, Reiji — brother,” you said, correcting yourself when you stumbled over his name and he shot you a dark glare. The iciness of his eyes, which might’ve entranced anyone else, seemed sinister and dull to you, and you did everything you could to ensure that they were not settled upon you for too long.

Your father sat across from a boy with dark, wavy hair, who turned to look at you when you entered. He had wide eyes that were the burnished color of a gourd, and his face was appealingly structured, his shoulders broad and a sword strapped at his waist. When he noticed that it was only you and Reiji, he dipped his chin in acknowledgement.

“Mister Reiji Hiiragi,” he said. “It is a pleasure to meet you. Your father has spoken highly of you.”

“The pleasure is mine, sir…?” Reiji said.

“Kenyu Yukimiya,” the boy said. On closer inspection, he was nearing the cusp of manhood; several years your elder and likely even wiser than Reiji, he was hardly a boy at all anymore. “My father is daimyo of the neighboring province, and I am his heir. Am I to assume that that woman is your sister?”

“Y/N L/N,” Reiji said, maneuvering you in front of him so that your charms could be on display for Yukimiya. “Greet him, sister.”

“Welcome, Mister Yukimiya. It is an honor. Would you like some tea?” you said.

“I should not say no, I think,” he said. “In the face of such generous hospitality, who could refuse?”

As was traditional, all three of them quieted, contemplating and meditating on their woven mats as you prepared the tea, pressing your whisk against the powdered leaves and boiling the water. It was a soothing ritual, the billowing steam clearing your head of the migraine which threatened to build behind your temples, the easy motions of the preparation allowing your hands to work mindlessly and simply at the task.

After the tea was prepared, you bowed before Yukimiya. He raised his cup for you, and you filled it carefully, ensuring that you did not spill even a drop. Holding the pot steady until the liquid reached the rim, you bowed again and then repeated the actions for your father, after which came your half-brother. Then, you stowed the pot and the tea-making materials away; it would be improper if you, as the official host of this meeting despite contributing almost nothing to it, partook as well.

“That was elegantly done,” Yukimiya said as you returned to your place at Reiji’s side. “I’m impressed. For only being half-highborn, you have taken to the customs quite well, Miss L/N.”

He said it bluntly. Half-highborn. This was, after all, a person who did not have to fear your father’s rage, not when his own family was of a comparable status. The Hiiragis could not raise a hand against him, not if they wished to avoid a war with the Yukimiyas, and as that would be costly, your father could not respond to an insult even when it was so plainly given.

“She is a quick learner,” your father said, and instead of offense, there was interest twinkling in his mien. Yukimiya took a sip from his cup, mulling over the taste and your father’s response alike.

“Might I inquire why she has the name L/N, and not Hiiragi? If she is your daughter, then surely the latter is her birthright,” he said.

“She is a bastard,” your father said. “You know that already.”

“I was aware,” Yukimiya affirmed.

“Her mother died upon her birth; my daughter chose to take her name instead, as a way to keep her memory alive,” your father said.

“I see,” Yukimiya said. Whether or not he saw through the obvious lie was irrelevant; your father had given him a weapon with which he could defend himself to those who might question his future wife’s parentage, should he choose to take you. That was all that he needed. “She must be of a more sensitive temperament.”

“As a lady, it’s to be expected,” your father said genially.

“I confess I grew up without a sister, so I am not used to the inclinations of young women,” Yukimiya said. “I shall take you at your word, Lord Hiiragi.”

“I thank you for your trust,” your father said. He might’ve seemed indifferent, but in truth there was a great joy to the heaviness of his forehead and the set of his cheeks, which only you and Reiji could detect.

“If you are not opposed to me asking for your trust in return, and if the lady agrees to it, then I would like it if she might show me around your gardens,” Yukimiya said. “It’d allay any misgivings of mine if I could speak to her in private before I make a decision one way or another.”

“Neither my daughter nor I would deny such a gently given request, especially not coming from a guest,” your father said. “Y/N, please see Mister Yukimiya to the gardens at once.”

“Yes, Father. Please follow me, sir,” you said, standing and bowing at Yukimiya once more. He stood as well, walking purposefully after you. He was careful to pace his longer strides with yours, so that you were not gasping and racing to keep up with him, as you often were with Reiji. The casual tact warmed you to him, and as the two of you entered the gardens, you took a moment to sneak a glance at him.

“Your innocence is fascinating,” Yukimiya said when he caught you peering at him. “At first, I was convinced that it was an act you put on in front of your father, but it seems to be genuine.”

You cringed. “Forgive me, sir. I meant no disrespect by it.”

“It’s really interesting,” he said. “Do you think I mean to hurt you?”

“If you did, I could not stop you,” you said. “Our families are not on the best of terms, are they?”

“Who told you that?” he said in alarm.

“It is commonly known that the daimyos do not get along,” you said. “Why should your father and mine be any different?”

“The relationship is awkward, but it is not as bad as it could be, or as some are,” Yukimiya said, relaxing. “Were it any worse, I’d be a fool to come here alone in the pursuit of a mere girl.”

“A mere girl?” you said. “But is the alliance not what you are truly after? If so, then it would have been in pursuit of that which you rode, not of me, and so it would’ve been far less foolish and more pacifistic in nature.”

“True,” he admitted freely. “You are only an additional benefit, but one I am not opposed to. I would have accepted your father’s proposal regardless, but I must confess I am pleased to find you so agreeable.”

He meant to win you over with his kindness, as surely as he had won over your father with his stoic maturity. Reiji had instructed you in these things, told you to be wary of men who treated you well, but you could not help the fluttering in your stomach at the unprecedented tenderness Yukimiya was showing you.

“I find you agreeable as well,” you said. He let out a laugh, full-bodied and musical, suiting him exactly.

“Take me to your favorite place in these gardens. You must wander them often, yes?” he said.

“When I am given the opportunity,” you said, leading him down the path, past a copse of camphor trees and towards a low wall where hollyhocks burst from the ground, profusely flowering in shades of red and pink. They were towering, some arching above even Yukimiya, and a few bees darted around their blooms, paying you both no mind as you admired their work.

You preferred this location above all others, for the curve of the route and the height of the hollyhocks meant that you could, for a moment or two, be hidden away from Reiji and the rest of the Hiiragi household.

“And which flower do you find the loveliest?” Yukimiya said. You cocked your head before pointing at one so pale it was almost white, its petals reaching towards the sun and a butterfly resting at its center. Abruptly, Yukimiya drew his sword, and before you could cry out from shock, he brought it down on the stem of the blossom. The butterfly fluttered away, and the flower fell into his waiting palm, which he then extended to you.

“For you,” he said.

“Thank you,” you said, though your heart was still pounding from how quickly it had all been done. He tucked the flower behind your ear and stroked your cheek.

“We should return before your father grows worried about how long we are taking,” he said.

“Father wouldn’t worry,” you said, with only a tinge of rebelliousness.

“Oh?” Yukimiya said. “Is that so?”

“Er, I mean, well, it’s only that I’m in good company, and he is likely delighted by our camaraderie, so, ah…” you stammered when you realized how dangerous that simple misinterpretation could be. Thankfully, he only smiled at you.

“Of course, but fathers get protective over their daughters, and I would not like to fall from his favor when that very favor is so important to our success,” he said.

“It is sound reasoning,” you said. “Let us be off at once.”

You were dismissed to your chambers as the terms of the marriage were set, and this time Reiji did not come with you, so you allowed yourself to feel giddy. How you had been so frightened! If only you had known that Yukimiya would turn out in the way that he had, you would not have feared so greatly.

Anri came to help you undress that evening, and though she did not inquire, you knew she could tell from your uncharacteristic jumpiness that you were thrilled at the course of events. Being wedded to Yukimiya was not only a livable fate, it was one you could genuinely look forward to — if you were his wife, then you’d command a far greater respect than you ever had in the Hiiragi manor. You would no longer be the bastard-born Y/N L/N; instead, you’d be the next Lady Yukimiya, whose ancestry did not matter nearly as much as her progeny did.

As you settled down on your mat to sleep, pulling the duvet up around your shoulders and facing the window so your face could be bathed in the light of the moon, you hoped that you’d have a peaceful night. Whether your conversation with Anri or your joy at the engagement with Yukimiya…one or another of these things, you prayed, would have been enough to chase off your nightmares until the next week of fits came about.

To your eternal gratitude, it was a dreamless sleep you fell into, and indeed when you awoke to darkness, you could not discern what had caused you to stir. Sitting up and rubbing your eyes, your duvet falling in a puddle around your lap, you yawned, contemplating the notion of going to fetch a glass of water before attempting to return to your earlier state.

Before you could make up your mind either way, you became horrifyingly aware of a firm presence against your back. An arm wrapped around the side of your face, a gloved hand covering your mouth and a kunai pressing against the skin of your neck, angled so that it could pierce your throat if you moved even a centimeter. You did not even scream for fear of its wicked tip, and your breath came in harsh, short pants, the taste of linen washing over your tongue as you shuddered in the deadly embrace.

“Shh,” your invisible assailant murmured. “I’m good at this. It’ll be quick, young Hiiragi. You won’t even know it happened.”

Young Hiiragi. Not once in your life had you ever been called that, and before you could stop yourself, you were shaking your head, pulling back from the kunai, though he did not let you get very far.

“Plead all you want,” he said. “Go on, then. It’s late, so no one else will hear us. I don’t mind if you want to try; maybe if you offer to pay me more than my current employer, I’ll consider sparing you. Don’t think about calling for help, though. I’ll kill you before you can make a sound.”

He parted his fingers, though he still held you in place, staring ahead at the wall. You squeezed your eyes shut. This wasn’t real. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t, it wasn’t, you just had to go along with it and then you’d actually wake up and things would be fine.

“I’m not a Hiiragi,” you said. “I’m Y/N L/N. The bastard — the bastard girl. What good comes of you killing me? No one will care.”

He stiffened, you felt it against your body, though he tried to disguise it the moment that it happened. His voice was low and cold when he spoke next, as if you were the one who had wronged him and not the other way around.

“You’re the fucking girl,” he said. “That incompetent piece of shit. He told me he knew exactly which room the Hiiragi heir slept in before sending me, and you’re telling me he got it wrong?”

“Who?” you ventured to say. “Who wants to kill Reiji — my half-brother?”

“As if I’d tell you,” he said, and then the hand holding the kunai was balling into a fist and knocking against the top of your head lightly, almost teasingly. “Maybe if you think about it hard enough, though, you’ll figure it out.”

“I don’t know,” you said. “I don’t — I don’t — are you going to kill me?”

You wished that in these last moments, you could’ve kept some kind of composure, could’ve held your head high the way your mother had, but you were nowhere near as strong as the woman in your dreams. You were a bumbling mess, tripping over your words, clinging desperately to a life you had never cared for in the first place.

“What to do, indeed?” he mused. “If I kill you, it’ll be ten times as difficult for me to come back to this place, but then again, you know of a plot against your half-brother, so how can I let you live? It’ll be a real weight on my conscience.”

“What conscience?” you said. “If you are a murderer-for-hire, then how can you claim to have anything resembling that?”

“I prefer being called a ninja, though as you please, lady,” he said. “By the way, this is generally when you would beg for me to spare you.”

“Will it matter? Will the course of your deliberations change if I beg?” you said.

“Give me something,” he said. “Something that makes letting you live worth it.”

“I have nothing of the sort. Only my own life, and even that is not so precious. I want to live, I cannot deny it; I want to live more than anything. It is a miserable life, yet it is mine, and I cannot bear to let go of it quite yet, so if begging is enough, then I shall fall to my knees gladly, but that is all I have to offer,” you said.

“Hm,” he said.

“They won’t believe me,” you tried. “Even if I tell them. Everyone knows I’ve been having nightmares this week. This is just another one of those terrors, isn’t it? If you think Reiji or my father would take me seriously in the best of days, then I’d call you delusional, but at a time when I am prisoner to my own visions, they are more likely to seek counsel from a quail.”

“How sorry,” he said. “To think that they would ignore their own daughter’s warnings. It’s only that kind of clan that could be killed by its own neighbors.”

“Yukimiya,” you breathed, the realization like a bucket of ice water over your head. This earned you an amused exhale.

“Smart girl,” he said.

“They sent you? But what about—”

“An excuse,” he said, before you could complete the inquiry. “For the son to come to the manor and grow familiar with its layout, so that he could direct me to Reiji Hiiragi’s quarters. It was a plan not without risk, but in this world, isn’t that the only way to succeed? Ah, I really should get rid of you now. I cannot believe that incompetent dimwit has put me in this kind of situation. I hate killing women.”

The kunai was back at your throat, this time the breadth of it resting against your pulse. You swallowed.

“Then don’t kill me,” you said. “Hurt me or take me hostage, but let me live.”

“A hostage?” he said. “Hostages are generally people who are wanted, Miss L/N. Taking you as one would bring me far more trouble than anything.”

“I don’t want to die,” you said. “What do you want from me? You said if I could give you something that makes letting me live worth it, you’d spare me.”

“There’s nothing,” he said. “That doesn’t exist. I was being cruel to you, lady, for no other reason than my personal entertainment. It’s like how a child might pry off the wings of a butterfly, causing it to suffer just because they can.”

“I won’t betray you,” you said. “Please, sir, I won’t. I really won’t.”

“Sir? I’ll admit I’ve never been called that before,” he said. “Would your opinion of me be lower if I said that I liked it? On second thoughts, don’t answer that. It’ll only hurt my feelings.”

“Have you no empathy?” you said. “You are joking around as if my life is not in your hands.”

“Empathy? For you and your kind, I feel none,” he said. “Hiiragi or not, you have spent your entire life in a walled off manor. We are so different as to be entirely separate species. Asking me to feel empathy for you is akin to asking me to move the sun a degree to the right. I cannot do it, I am not capable, and furthermore I think of you as grossly ignorant just for making the request.”

“Please,” you said, long ago having run out of anything else to say. He scoffed.

“That’s enough,” he said. “Let’s get on with it. I’ve wasted enough time here.”

“I’ll take you to my half-brother!” you said, the delicate flesh of your neck smarting from the shallow cut he had torn into it. “Reiji’s quarters. I will show you where they are.”

“You would trade his life for your own?” he said, pulling his kunai back, voice lilting with interest.

“Yes,” you said. He was silent for so long that, were it not for the crush of his chest against your spine, you would’ve thought he had vanished. Then, suddenly, he chuckled.

“Well, that’s unexpected,” he said. “Here I was, thinking you’d be the self-sacrificing type.”

“Kill him if you must,” you said. “But release me.”

Live. Live. Live. It was an imperative in your mind — you had to live. You could not die yet. You could not die here. If that meant latching onto your half-brother and draining him of his own existence, then you would do just that. If it meant you could survive, then you’d do it again and again, as many times as you had to.

“Close your eyes,” he said. You did so promptly, and your obedience was met with a condescending pat on the head. “Do not open them again until dawn. I shall let you live on the assumption that you are true to your word — but mind you, I will come to collect. Not today, but someday, I will kill Reiji Hiiragi, and you will be the one who gives me leave to do it.”

#otoya x reader #otoya x y/n #otoya x you #otoya eita #bllk x reader #bllk #blue lock #reader insert #historical au #hollyhock #m1ckeyb3rry writes

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highonmarvel · 1 year ago

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Can’t even trust yourself

Loki: Strange nights affect your days.

An entry for Day 6 of the exciting @sintember challenge!

Warnings: NON-CON, nightmares, severe anxiety and paranoia, possible psychosis, 18+!

Prompt: Cant’t even trust yourself, ft Loki of the Marvel Cinematic Universe.

For the 11th night in a row you startle awake with a gasp, heart hammering, body sweating so much you can’t go back to sleep without taking a shower. You had been having these strange dreams for nearly a year now, but the last month or two they had been so vivid they felt more real than life itself.

You drag yourself out of bed, trying to slow your breathing as you make your way to the bathroom. The worst part is you don’t even really remember these dreams, just that they leave you panicked and weak and sore all over, but particularly your breasts, between your thighs, and your neck; blame it on your lack of sex.

You flick on the light in the bathroom and turn to the mirror. You shriek and nearly jump back in shock at your reflection. Where your neck feels tender, there’s a purple bruise spreading across your skin. You try to smudge it off, hoping it was fucking paint or something, who cares, you were just hoping it wasn’t really a bruise… not a bruise like that. No matter how hard you wipe it, it doesn’t come off. It’s just a random bruise, you tell yourself, some people bruise easily, maybe you hurt yourself and didn’t notice. Yeah. Though, still, as you stand under the flow of boiling water, so hot you wonder how it hasn’t burnt your skin off, you scrub violently at the mark. It’s still there when you take another look in the mirror.

After barely getting any sleep last night, you’re exhausted in the morning as you made your way to the office. Whether or not you usually get coffee, you know you’d physically need it today, and so you take a quick detour to the café across the street. You’re happy to see the cheerful blue-eyed barista is working this morning, and happy the place is near empty; only a tall figure in front of you in the line and a pair of scattered young people bent over laptops with papers and highlighters cluttering the table. Finals, you think, noting the 10+ empty coffee cups littering their feet.

You wait patiently (though you’re exhausted) behind the man as he gives his order, and Roger the barista nods and hurries to make it. Was that even his name? You didn’t really know, he wasn’t in too often, you just spotted him by those bright blue eyes. Maybe it was Riley or Ringo or something.

The man in front of you is handed his drink, and when you turns around, your blood runs cold. You take a deep gasp and step backwards. You don’t even get a good look at him before his back is towards you and all you can do is stare at his disappearing silhouette. You’re shaking, and you don’t know why; you can’t at all recall his appearance besides pale skin and long, black hair, but still it’s like he flipped some kind of switch and adrenaline started pumping through every vein in your body.

“Ma’am?”

You turn at the voice back to the counter. It’s not the blue-eyed barista you’re met with: you see the same face, but with eyes pure black.

You stumble out of the coffee shop without getting the caffeine you need, because you can not stay in there a second longer. Maybe you don’t need the coffee; now you feel fully alert. You jump as strangers passes by as you make your way across the street and up to your desk, trembling so much you wonder if you’ll ever stop. Once you’re at your desk, though, you do feel a little better; you’re no longer shaking, but still, anyone that comes up to you scares the fuck out of you, you have many close calls with an entire fucking heart attack, you can swear it. A few people ask you throughout the day if you’re okay, if you need to go home, but you assure them you’re fine, and when you finally get off, you feel kind of good about yourself for sticking it through the day, but that feeling fades as the sun does.

It’s dark out when you hop out of your car and make your way up to your apartment, and it doesn’t help your anxiety that the lights have been flickering in the corridor of your floor for about a week now, and no one had bothered to fix it.

The lift opens and you step out into the passage with the lights having a seizure of their own, it seems. Dark, light, dark, light, you’re at least glad it’s consistent, but while on any other day this would have been an annoyance, today, it’s panic-inducing.

Your place is near the end of the corridor, quite far down, and while you want to run, something tells you your body can’t take having to increase your heart rate any further or you’ll drop dead in the middle of your sprint. And why should you run? You’re a little angry with yourself—it was just a weird dream, and it had you fucked up all day. Pathetic. Your irritation does little to drown out your fear, however. On and off the lights flick at rhythm, like they’re singing a song on a steady beat.

You’re a few steps in when the lights go out for one, two seconds too long, barely enough time for feat to build, but it does; you know you can’t trust yourself to discern reality from fiction, but you do. You start walking faster. You throw a look over your shoulder; in front of the elevator stands a tall silhouette, but breathing; an alive shadow. You gasp and spin around to face it. There’s nothing there. You turn back, walking faster and faster now, but still trying to refrain from running.

The lights flick off, flick on, there’s a shadow. Flick off, flick on, there’s a shadow. What can you do except run straight towards it? Your door is in that direction, you just need to get inside. Maybe it would have seemed insane to anyone on the outside—it felt insane to you—but you start running, full speed towards what you’re trying to escape. On and off the lights flick and the silhouette comes in and out of sight, unmoving, and deeply unsettling.

You don’t know how you get your door open so fast, but you do, not fumbling once with your keys despite your wrecked state. You slam the door closed behind you and lock it, firmly pressing your back against it as you begin to hyperventilate.

What the fuck.

Tears are streaming down your face and you swear your chest is caving in on itself. You grasp at the kitchen counter and heave yourself forwards, breaths coming in and out at lightning speed, yet you still don’t feel you’re getting enough oxygen, you don’t feel you’re getting any oxygen, for that matter. It feels like a hand is wrapped around your throat, asphyxiating you as you stumble around your living area.

A hand? And pulling?

You’re being led towards your bedroom by your neck, and though you want to say it’s the miracle of getting your feet to move again, no, there’s definitely something pulling, dragging you towards your room.

You claw at the doorway and dig your heels into the ground, but that barely deters whatever is acting upon you. You’re flung onto the bed, and hit the mattress with a force that feels way too familiar, though obviously this has never happened before; you’d never had a ghost drag you through your home, or maybe it was psychosis, but you’d never had a psychotic episode like this.

You prop yourself up onto your forearms and scan the room for a sign of anything. At this point, you’re hoping someone will pop out, to confirm you haven’t completely lost it. And you immediately regret that hope.

Out of seemingly thin air, a figure steps forward. You know it. Tall, every tall, and long black hair, pale skin, you saw him at the café, but that’s not where you know him from, you know him from something much more personal, something deeper; you barely know him in your conscious mind, but your subconscious recognises it all.

This is a dream! it strikes you, and you slightly calm down, knowing you’re going to wake up at any second now. Why aren’t you waking up? A man you’ve never seen before is still stalking towards you.

You scream and kick your feet as he reaches the foot of the bed, even though he hasn’t touched you yet. In a literal flash he grips your ankles and twists, prying your legs apart and pinning your feet on the bed. Still, you struggle against him. He removes his hands, and now in their place are glowing virescent ropes tying you down, your hands have been restrained too, each limb reaching towards a corner of the bed. You writhe, twisting and thrusting your hips, crying the whole time. Why aren’t you waking up? What the fuck is even happening?

But you know exactly what it is happening.

The dark-haired man snaps his fingers and you’re naked and exposed. Maintaining direct eye contact with you, calmly, despite your conniption, he slowly pushes two long fingers into his mouth and drags them out with a pop.

Wake up, wake up, wake up, you will yourself, wishing more than anything ever, and more than anyone ever could to just wake up!

He unbuckles his belt, still quiet (why hasn’t he said anything?) and staring you down. And suddenly, he pounces on you, diving to harshly suck on your neck, the spot that had been sore. You try to bring your hand down to push him away but are met with the unfriendly reminder you’re restrained. You cry out at the assault, his sucking and biting is near animalistic.

And someone, you call out a name, his name, “Loki!”

४

#sintember 2023 #dark!loki #dark!loki x reader #dark loki #dark loki x reader #yandere loki #yandere!loki #dark avengers #dark!avengers

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ehlnofay · 3 months ago

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Summerfest Day 1 - BREATH

The Dragonborn knows how to hold her sword, but Lydia insists on showing her, anyway.

She’s finicky about the placement of her fingers, hands laid parallel on the long hilt, and when she lifts it she grunts, shifting her shoulders. “It’s been a while since I’ve used one of these,” she says, and holds it up, pointing at nothing. “I never liked two-handers.”

She talks more, since their first fruitless attempt at climbing the mountain, and since the Dragonborn came back from the second; she tells her when she should talk, too. When she wants an answer she says so. It’s helpful. She makes more suggestions, which is also helpful; especially now, navigating slowly up to Hjaalmarch through a web of roads as tangled and difficult to track as veins; Lydia marks out the paths, keeps them moving, stops them when it’s time to stop so they don’t forget to sleep. The Dragonborn would forget. She likes walking, the simple repetitive rhythm of it, but it gets her stuck, sometimes; it always takes someone else pointing it out to remember that her legs are aching.

There are wagons, Lydia says, that they could buy seats on, to take them at least part of the way. They saw some in Ivarstead. But she says they are expensive, and the Dragonborn is still a little sceptical of wagons. (It would feel strange, she thinks, to move without moving, to be moved – it’s hard to remember if it did feel strange, at the beginning, because everything before the cool, damp press of the block and the burning eyes of the dragon is ill-defined. Fuzzy, like the fabric of her cloak. And how would they know where it was moving them to?) So, mostly, they walk. They make tents every afternoon. They build a fire. The Dragonborn bruised her thumb red-purple when she tried to strike the spark-steel, but she likes collecting sticks. And sometimes, when there’s time and light, Lydia says they should practise swords. They have fought together almost twice; running from the troll with snow-white hands, and another dragon. The second dragon. They killed that dragon, together, so the practise feels superfluous. But they do it.

(First Lydia suggested they practise fighting, but the Dragonborn doesn’t know any way to hit someone with a blade without hurting them, so they stopped doing that quickly.)

The Dragonborn tips her head so it’s level with the slant of the blade in Lydia’s hands, and she remembers to ask, “Why?”

“They’re heavy,” Lydia says simply; she sketches out a few smooth cutting motions through empty air and shifts how she holds her shoulders again. “Feels – I don’t know, unwieldy. I like having more precision. Irileth always uses a side-sword.” She twists her arms, neat and fast, so she’s holding the sword above her head, steady-straight, parallel with the ground. There is sweat on her neck. Also on her clothes, but they’ve been wearing armour for most of the day, and they always sweat in their armour. She asks, “Why do you like it?”

Lydia’s sword is a self-contained thing; the length only of her arm, shiny, keen. The Dragonborn has never even tried to use a blade like that; even in the blurry beginning, she remembers – the little boy with his bin of pale-wood weaponry, warned away from her bedside. He let her have first pick. She chose the biggest one. She knocked him down.

It felt only sensible, to choose the biggest one. The sword she has now was taken from the tomb, with the stone; the stone was what she was there for, and she had to take something, because she’d won. The sword was long and dark and heavy, blunted with time, rimed with frost at the places where the metal joined. It was big. It would make her big. The weight of it, strapped into the frog on her back, presses her into the earth. It makes it easier to walk.

“It’s strong,” the Dragonborn says, after a moment’s pause.

“Maybe one of the better close-range weapons,” Lydia agrees, “if you’re fighting dragons.” She brings it down, careful, and offers the end of the hilt in the Dragonborn’s vague direction. “But I think it would be better if you knew how to hold it.”

The Dragonborn knows how to hold it. She takes the sword from Lydia’s hands, the grip gritty and grounding against her bare palms. In the very edge of their clearing’s pocket of sky, the sun is setting; it winks a line down the blade.

“Turn your foot out,” Lydia says, businesslike. “Your right foot. And keep your back straight – you’re bearing all the weight with your arms, and your shoulders are locking.”

The Dragonborn says, sunset-slow, “I know how to hold it.”

“But you were sore,” Lydia says, “after –” the dragon. She still talks about the dragon as if she is surprised by it. “It will be easier on your muscles, this way, and you’ll be less likely to do yourself an injury. The sword is strong – which means it’s strong enough to pull your elbows out of place.” She pauses. “Or something. I’m not a medic.”

“You’re a housecarl,” the Dragonborn agrees, pulling her back up straight, and Lydia smiles with small, straight teeth.

After she shows the Dragonborn how to stand – carefully nudging her limbs into the right angles and adjusting the slant of her white-knuckled fingers on the hilt – she starts talking about stances. This is harder, because there’s nothing to aim at. It feels strange, readying a sword at empty air. “You don’t want to do this for too long,” Lydia says, after talking for some time about things like longpoint and plough guard, “it will tire your arms. But it’s good to have some basic forms to fall back on.” The Dragonborn keeps the tip of the sword pointed at empty air; Lydia says, “Remember to breathe, Thane. You’re getting stiff.”

The Dragonborn breathes, and lowers the sword, and says, “They told me that on the mountain.”

“To breathe?” Lydia asks, wiping a hand across her cheek. “That makes sense. Maybe Shouting and swordplay have something in common.”

(They have, the Dragonborn thinks, quite a lot in common.)

(Talking is hard. She doesn’t often remember to do it, and when she does it comes sluggish, formulating slowly in her head and taking several seconds to get out through her mouth. But Speaking feels different. It isn’t any easier. The words don’t come any faster. But when they do, they slot into place; they feel right, where ordinary words only ever feel like an approximation. When she Speaks she is inevitable.)

(When she fights, she is inevitable. She is clumsy; she forgets to pay attention to where her feet are going; she overbalances or moves too forcefully or forgets the rhythm of it halfway through a motion, and all of this is true in battle, too, but she feels steadier all the same. Anchored somewhere at the base of her throat. Anchored in the weight of her arms. It doesn’t matter if she moves too forcefully because she is trying to break things anyway; it doesn’t matter if she missteps because she can catch herself, or get back up again when she falls. She only has to keep going until it’s done, and that is the easiest thing in the world.)

“Yes,” the Dragonborn echoes, “maybe,” and she breathes again, air dew-damp and orange-lit in her lungs.

#tesfest24 #the elder scrolls #tesblr #skyrim #oc tag #the dragonborn #dovahkiin #fay writes #my writing #microfic

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swansong-if · 11 months ago

Note

I have a bias Towards achillean Odile x MC, so maybe them talking about books together? Or them playing in the snow? Or just them being cute with each other.

not strictly achillean because i prefer keeping my requests general but here's some quick winter fluff with Odile that lowkey got me in my feels about xem...

❄

Laughter bubbles in your chest as another snowflake falls to rest on Odile’s jaw. It stays there for a while, unperturbed by the unnaturally cool skin, and for one exhilarating moment you think it will never dissolve. But then it does, its crystals melting into a single tear. You watch with a sigh as it trickles down Odile’s neck, and xe shivers a bit.

More snowflakes follow. They settle on xyr hair, on the tip of xyr nose, on xyr pale lips, or they add to the faint freckles on xyr cheekbones like a flurry of butterfly kisses, and they linger there as if time is freezing just to allow the encounter. And then they vanish again. The whole time, Odile doesn’t move. It’s as if xe’s trying not to spook them, transfixed by the show. Xyr dark eyes gleam silver, and it dawns on you: xe’s been trying to make the snowflakes last longer, probably focusing xyr magic to slow the rush of xyr blood. Quite the reckless move, for something so trivial. Your brows furrow.

“Is this your first time seeing snow?” You know, as you speak, that your guess must be right.

Odile blinks a few times, almost reluctantly, to shake more snow from xyr lashes. Xe looks like xe’s been caught doing something mischievous– if xe could blush, you suspect xe would.

“Mhm,” is all xe offers, and you have to purse your lips to keep them from curving into a grin.

You’re a child of snow, raised in a land where winter is king among the seasons. All of this, the blinding white of the landscape, the puffs of air leaving your lips at every breath, or the sting of cold on your fingertips and how it gnaws at your skin, it’s familiar to you. But Odile has lived all xyr life hidden in an enchanted forest and has never known ice and frost.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” You make sure to school your smile into something softer, knowing rather than teasing. Xe regards you for a second and then smiles back faintly.

“Very.”

When you reach out to slot closer to xem and cup xyr face in your hands, xe lets you without a complaint, wrapping xyr arms around you almost out of reflex. “Are you cold?” You ask a bit worriedly, because while xe still looks as pristine as a marble statue there is a faint vein of purple to xyr complexion that’s almost ghoulish.

“We should go back inside,” you try, but you don’t make it past the first step because xe stays firmly rooted in place. What– Xyr face suddenly buries in your chest, the curve of xyr nose against your collarbone, and this time you do laugh.

“No.” The answer is barely audible, squished against the thick pelt of your clothes.

“You don’t want to go?”

Another hum. “No.”

“We can warm up next to the fire, together.”

Your voice comes out dripping with honey, as if trying to coax a child. Odile’s reply, however, is as stubborn and petulant as the previous ones; and an equally definitive ‘no’. Xe raises xyr head to meet your gaze and your heart almost skips a beat at the sight of xem, eyes glossy from the frosty winds and a small frown softening the angles of xyr face.

Childish has never been a word you used to describe Odile, but as you watch the vaguely pouty curl of xyr lips, it is the only one you can think of.

“Just a while longer,” xe pleads, and no power in the world could ever help you deny xem. You nod, and xe smiles. More dazzling than the winter light. Xyr hands find yours and manoeuvre them until they rest on xyr cheeks again, almost as if to say ‘warm me up’, and you shake your head fondly, letting your thumbs rub circles across xyr jawline.

Odile sighs, xyr eyes briefly shutting in contentment. Then xe opens them again and tilts xyr head questioningly; you know what xe’s asking without having to hear it. Your lips find xyrs barely a second later. If it’s warmth xe needs, you will gladly share yours.

Neither of you notices the snowflakes quickly melting on your faces as you kiss slowly.

#asks #anonymous #odile faerydae #ss: scenarios #ss: official

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sleepboysummer · 3 months ago

Text

excerpt from my penny lamb fic i started a year and a half ago and never finished or revised

"penny lamb" i recited to myself. i tried to think of my family, friends, anyone saying it to me- but all i could hear was my own voice; quiet, monotone. empty. in the mirror, under harsh fluorescent lights, i could see my reflection, but it didnt feel real. i imagined i was someone else, looking into a painted portrait instead of a mirror.

i touched my face. big black bug eyes, dark hair that looked halfway burnt off, like i had been partly through chopping it short before changing my mind and leaving the rest. i had bangs, sort of, but they were uneven and frizzy and sticking in all directions. my skin was ghost white- so pale and transluscent that my veins shone through, purple bags under my eyes nearly as dark and deep as the bruises that littered my face.

my face. it wasn't registering. that was me that i saw, not some strange zombie girl from a movie.

amnesia, they had told me. a concussion.

i would be fine, apparently; out of some miracle, i hadn't been hurt. i didnt feel fine. i hated this place. the smell of bleach and the flickering lights made me nauseous, the air so still and cold it felt like death. i felt like i was waiting for something that would never come.

but someone had to- maybe my mom, or my best friend, or a boyfriend if i'd had one. soon they'd see me and hold me until i was myself again. maybe they'd tell me penny, i'm so sorry i let this happen, i love you i love you and i would say it back and mean it.

i tried to smile but it made my head hurt.

i stared in the mirror and combed through my hair with my fingers best i could. it didn't look right- it was too tangled, knots making it stick out in all the weirdest places. as if it were habit, i felt my hands part my hair and start to braid, before i even realized i knew how to. i had nothing to tie them off with, but i decided that was okay. i just wanted to look pretty.

penny lamb, i reminded myself. i'm seventeen. brown hair, brown eyes, fair skin, gender F. that's what it had said on my files. i had comitted it to memory even as i was half asleep.

a knock.

"penny?"

i smoothed my hair down once more, took a really deep breath, and turned back towards the door.

#im posting this on tumblr and a03.. not something serious i just wanting to send this out into the world #rtc #ride the cyclone #legoland play #penny legoland #penny rtc #penny lamb #legoland penny

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asumofwords · 1 year ago

Note

Ok lets talk about the important thing here:

How do you think Aemond, Aegon, Daemon and Cole dicks are?

🤔

Okay this is a really important question that I must answer.

And since my brain only ever thinks and imagines these things, and in my experience I have a fairly good eye for guessing (hands give it allll awayyyyy), let me begin 😈

Aemond’s cock would be long and have a nice thickness to it, I wouldn’t say he would be massively girthy, but I feel like your hand couldn’t wrap around it completely 😈.

His tip would be a blush pink, the same colour as his lips. He would occasionally trim the hair around the base, and that man is definitely veiny 🤤 I feel like he would be a good 6-7 inches long and very clean 🤤

There’s just something about skinny men, they always have a horse cock.

He has the perfect size dick (although to be fair, I actually hate long cocks because they hurt my cervix lmao) and he knows what to do with it. It has a slight upwards curve, a gift from the gods truly.

His cum would be salty, and quite nice to swallow down. It wouldn’t be gross or foul tasting, this man has a strict diet, and exercises often !

Aemond is clean and makes sure to take good care of his cleanliness and appearance, prim and proper like his attire.

Where Aemond has length, Aegon has girth.

He would sit around 5-6 inches long and super fucking girthy, not a chode, but quite thick. It would stretch you uncomfortably or painfully if you didn’t prep first. His tip would be the same colour as his lips but would get a deeper shade of pink and look angry when he’s horny.

I feel that he wouldn’t be too veiny, though would have some very soft foreskin to nibble on and I feel a bit extra tbh💀

Aegon is one of those fuckers who can cum and keep going, must run in the family. Absolute menace too, despite his cruelty, man knows how to make you squeal. He’s a whore, he fucks whoever, whenever, and has learnt tricks along the way.

Man definitely has a dick that smells like a dick. Not exactly the cleanest of cocks, musky as fuck, salty too, and his cum would be rancid because his diet consists of just alcohol and scraps of food lmao.

Definitely used one of his many dildo toys on himself or will use it on you instead, or make you use it on yourself and have him watch 😮‍💨

Aegon could dissolve your insides with his spunk. Acidic as fuck, a one way highway to thrush or BV. Hits good tho….

Daddy Daemon has a monster cock.

I’m not joking. Look at the size of this man. And his hands ? Huge. HUGE. I’m not joking. I’ve seen it. Anyway, back to his cock.

Daemon has a dick around 8-9 inches long and fat as fuck, he’s got a meaty cock.

A third leg. A tripod if you will.

Poor Rhaenyra is getting her guts rearranged every time he fucks her. She needs 3-5 business days to recover from the sheer force of the thing.

Pale and veiny, when hard his foreskin pulls back to reveal a gentle pink tip (same as his lips). Clean and well kept, Daddy Daemon’s cum tastes like when the heavens have opened and you have been offered retribution. Sometimes sweet, depending on what he has eaten.

Would absolutely be open to the idea of being pegged and anal play. Loves having his ass eaten ngl. This man is a freaky queer daddy 😈

Shoots fucking ropes though, you’ll be leaking for days!

Ser Criston Cole deserves no praise, but I would be lying if I said he didn’t have a pretty cock.

Tan, and a bit on the longer side like Aemond, this man would not know what to do with it. A sin really, to have such a pretty cock, and not use it.

A slightly more tanned knob, leaning to a soft purple colour, average thickness and the occasional vein, upwardly curved for your pleasure.

Ser Cole’s cock would be as clean as a whistle. I feel like Cole would definitely let you put a finger inside his ring, maybe too, and he would blush so pretty about it.

His bush would be soft as fuck too, have you seen this man’s hair ? Lush as fuck, looks like it should be in a hair commercial ad, and velvety smooth. I wouldn’t mind getting some of those hairs tangled up in my nose 🤪💀

His cum would be musky, yet not repugnant like Aegon. He eats well and is always moving so it wouldn’t be marinating inside of him, though I wonder if he empties the tank often or not, or if he actually is fermenting his seed 🤪

#i need a lobotomy

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seonne · 7 months ago

Text

Stuck With Her. Ch1 (Request)

Trader!Bakugou x Indian!Princess!Reader

Lols here it finally is T-T

Very sorry about the huge delay, I was travelling a lot as soon as my exams were over but HERE WE ARE!

Will have to make this into a series because it's quite long.

Summary: Due to a villain's quirk, Bakugou gets transported into the body of another version of him as a trader, in 15th century India. Little did he know, that the pretty princess of the kingdom he was in was actually his lover.

Word Count: 1765

"Fuck!" He grunted as he got up from where he had been thrown into the wall. The villain he was fighting chuckled, as he hounded his hunched over form.

"Not so strong now, are you, Hero Dynamight?" He shoved a boot in his stomach, causing Bakugou to reel from the pain. His carmine red eyes shot a disgusted look to the villain standing over him.

"You'll pay for this, you damn shithead!"

The villain laughed as he wrapped his hand around Bakugou's neck.

"I'd love to see you try. Good night Dynamight~"

He heard the voices of Kirishima and his sidekick calling out to him before the villain's eyes glowed a deep purple and everything went black.

Bakugou woke up with a cold sweat, gasping as he pressed his hand to his neck. He was fine, he was awake. He was fine. He looked around trying to see where he was. Maybe the others found him and brought him to the hospital. Only it didn't look like he was in a high rise hospital building in the middle of the city. He found himself in a small but tidy hut. The cot he was on was rigid and hurt his back as he sat up slowly, taking in his surroundings in confusion.

He was inside a hut that had red and orange bedsheets as were the curtains that were drawn apart to let in the sun. A small wooden table covered by a red embroidered table cloth stood beside his cot, with a clay pot of water and some other things he couldn't identify. There seemed to be a small makeshift stove in a far corner of the room that contained several clay pots and vessels. As he was racking his brain trying to figure out where he was, a familiar but unfamiliar face walked in.

It was Kirishima. But his hair wasn't red, it was black. And it wasn't its usual spiky up on his head, instead his slightly long black hair touched down to his shoulders. Kirishima walked in with a concerned face as he held a clay cup in his hand, filling it with the water from the pot next to Bakugou and handing it to him. Bakugou took the cup and looked at it suspiciously before looking back at Kirishima and gulping down the water. He wiped his face and looked back at Kirishima who looked like he was bursting with questions and worry. Bakugou sighed and before Kirishima could open his mouth, he beat him to it.

"Oi shitty hair, what's going on? Where are we?" He grumbled curses under his breath as he tried untangling himself from the blanket between his legs.

Meanwhile, Kirishima looked at him like Bakugou just asked to marry him.

"Bakugou… are you feeling okay? Should I call that apothecary again..?"

"Shitty hair, answer the damn question! What happened and where are we?"

Kirishima put down the clay mug and looked back at Bakugou with concern.

"We're in our hut in Agra. You collapsed on your way here in the caravan. We had an apothecary come check you. He said you had a high temperature and that you must've fainted from the sudden climate change. I told you it would be hot here in India but noooooo you wanted to see your princess" Kirishima rolled his eyes as he hid his soft smile.

"Hah? Are you out of your mind? Agra? India? Princess? What are you talking about?"

Kirishima paled where he stood. "Don't tell me… did you lose your memory?"

A vein popped out of Bakugou's forehead as his head throbbed with an impending stress headache. "The fuck you mean memory loss?! I remember just fine! I was fighting that damned villain and he used his stupid quirk on me!"

Kirishima looked way more puzzled than concerned. " Villain? Quirk? What are YOU talking about?"

As Bakugou opened his mouth to bite off Kirishima's stupid head he froze.

"The villain's quirk apparently transports people into the body of someone else. Basically a soul-swapping quirk. It's very rare, and the distances between the bodies who get their souls swapped is unidentified. Please be wary and do not make physical contact with him."

Fuck, he completely forgot All Might had said that. So, he's now basically inside another body? He brought up his hand to test out if he still had his quirk and sure enough, there were no explosions. Bakugou cursed under his breath as he lowered his palm and Kirishima stood there staring at him, bewildered.

"D-did you hit your head or something, Bakugou?"

The aforementioned blonde exhaled sharply and shook his head. "No there's nothing. I remember now. Now leave me alone, I need to sleep."

Bakugou rolled around in his uncomfortable cot and covered himself with the blanket, turning away from the prying eyes of a confused Kirishima. He shrugged and decided to leave Bakugou be for now and left the hut.

The blonde huffed as he brought his hands up to his face. He didn't have his quirk. He was in a world without quirks, if Kirishima's reaction was anything to go by from. Even Kirishima looked different. He was in a strange world, where everyone was a stranger, but all familiar faces. He didn't even know when the villain's quirk would wear out; or even if it would. He sighed. He was properly, utterly, miserably, stuck.

Bakugou grumbled all the way as he followed a tired Kirishima as the red-head (now a complete ravenette, which is going to take some time to get used to) dragged Bakugou kicking and screaming to the palace.

"We came all the way here to trade, and you're here complaining? I thought you'd atleast want to see your princess-" which procured him an iron grip to the face.

So here Bakugou was now, speaking with the prince about the copper coins and silver jewellery they brought in exchange for the textiles, food products and precious gems from the Indian traders. As their trade was set up in the kingdom, it was mandatory for them to talk out their business deals and goals with the monarch before their week started.

Of course Bakugou didn't know any of this until a very bewildered Kirishima explained it to him.

And of course Bakugou was smart enough to pull off a literal business meeting he previously had no idea about.

Even if the villain's quirk was going to fuck him over, he wouldn't let himself be the reason he lives in bankruptcy. As him, Kirishima and the prince arose from their seats after the meeting, he caught another glimpse of a blue shawl flowing next to the window and scowled.

The princess.

He had been relentlessly teased by the maids and attendants the moment he stepped foot into the palace and also by his companions on his caravan on his way here. Even Kirishima joined in on it until Bakugou told everyone to kindly shove their remarks up their own asses. He didn't understand what the hell was going on until he saw her with her maids loitering around in the gardens next to the window of their meeting room. Bakugou may be dense but he's not dumb and his observational skills are what helped him be the No.2 hero that he is today- well, in the future.

There was a little something going on with this princess and the him of this timeline.

And EVERYONE knew about it.

"See? I told you there's nothing wrong with him, he looks the same!"

"No, there's something off about him. He's scowling a bit too much."

"He's always scowling and he looks just the same. A simple heatstroke can't change him that much-"

"Quiet."

The maids all scrambled and shut their mouths as the cool voice of their princess cut through the room. You had been sat by your window, silent, as you stared out the window, wondering about your lover. He had seen you, but refused to acknowledge you.

Actually, no, he did acknowledge you.

But he seemed angry. Very angry. Almost like he was annoyed with you.

But that's impossible, what could've happened? Just a week ago, he had sent you a beautiful handwritten letter scented with your favourite perfume. He had written such heartfelt words that had you smiling into your pillow as you re-read it multiple times, etching the words into your brain before focusing on his promise of coming to meet you soon and put away the letter amongst the numerous others that he had sent.

So, according to you, nothing out of the ordinary had happened. He had kept his word and come to see you again, but he… he didn't seem to want to see you?

'I'm probably thinking too much. There's no reason for him to be mad at me or something.'

You shook your head and smiled at your maids.

"I appreciate your concerns and your efforts in brainstorming with me as a means to console me. However, I must clarify that the topic of discussion here is my relationship; one that you shouldn't concern yourselves with. Do I make myself clear?"

The maids gulped and slowly shook their heads.

"Yes, princess."

"Thank you." You smiled once again and looked out the window. Bakugou's caravan had been parked a few metres away from your window in the open space beside your garden and you watched with a frown as he walked out of the meeting room, still speaking with your brother. Your intense stare, though far away, did not miss Bakugou's periphery, but he decided to ignore it until he couldn't anymore. You huffed to yourself, realising that he was ignoring you on purpose (because there's no way he would refuse to look at you even after Kirishima pointed you out to him). So you, as the headstrong princess you are known to be, decided to face him and ask him yourself what his damn problem was. You summoned a guard into your room.

"Let the merchant named Bakugou Katsuki know that I await his presence in the ballroom."

Firm. Demanding. It was an order.

The guard nodded and bowed, before scurrying off to fetch Bakugou. You stood up from your seat next to the window, smoothening down your skirt as you watched the guard rushing towards Bakugou who stood dumbstruck next to your snickering brother, and made your way down the halls to the ballroom. Any maid who tried to follow you stayed back at your ice cold glare. They looked to each other with a knowing look. You were….quite angry.

There we have it folks, finally after three weeks I think T-T

Again, apologies for the delay but I hope you liked it and I'll try to get the next part done with as quickly as I can too. So until then;

Toodaloo~

tagging @maple-syrup-with-strawbewwies cuz they reblogged the answer to the request <3

#bakugou x reader #bakugou katsuki #bakugou x indian!reader #bakugou x princess!reader #mha bakugou #bakugou

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sherwees · 11 months ago

Text

everything-is-fine-maybe-not-but-whatever (sequel to cflwasd)

cw : major character death, NONCON, violence, detailed-ish murder(s), kidnapping, torture, usage of drugs to knock out reader, descriptions of inflictions (bruises and scars) and just overall fucked shit.

side note : that one clip of Hendery saying “So pretty.” got me through this and I'll link it in the fic.

extra side note : ty for @ne0pearl and @imeunseoksbby for giving me this whole idea!! I tried not to disappoint.

Your mind maybe processed the rushing footsteps coming towards you along with the warmth of Hendery's cock leaving you but you definitely heard a strangled grunt from Hendery with a thud to the wall.

You fixed yourself or at least tempted to but seeing the scene of Hendery's face turning pale with Eunseok's unrelenting grasp on his neck from your peripherals irked you to do something. You were used to not interfering with Eunseok's usual quarrels with whomever.

Swinging your purse on your shoulder, you're met with Eunseok's dead stare with tears brimming, he seemed mad but actually upset for once. Hendery's veins protruded out of his hand as he slid up the wall, teeth clenched in hopes to control his breathing; his other hand fixing his crooked waistband to his underwear.

“Please go outside..” Eunseok says, tilting on one foot to grab his beanie from the ground.

You still and stare.

“Go. Outside.” His head was now turned to you and his voice cracked on the last word, he now shut his eyes with seething anger.

“But Kunhang–”

He slams the side of his fist to a wall, leaving a dent. “I DON'T GIVE A FLYING FUCK ABOUT– Just go outside.” He then smoothes his beanie out, huffing. Only then, you rush out the door; the summer heat causing your shirt to cling onto your body once more.

This was the only moment you could appreciate your house only being a block away, you could make it home fast and prepare for what he was going to do in a few.

You could only lay under your gray blanket, looking dejectedly at the scars on your thighs; lifting your thigh to observe the crimson heart from only a few minutes before. Hearing the door slam, you scrambled to run to the bathroom with an ache in your chest.

You grasped the oval pendant on your neck with a wince, sliding down the door with a sob until you heard calmer footsteps from the living room. The pendant now laid in your hand, the same pendant you honed on the marble basement floors when you were so fed up from the arguing, you wanted to kill the man.

You wanted to check but it might've been a trick just waiting to hit so you didn't even bother to peek outside until curiosity hit when you heard Eunseok's footsteps and a creak to the bed.

What?

Eunseok's gaze met your scared own immediately.

“Eunnie?” You mumbled.

“My sweet girl.” He rasped from the edge of the bed, arms wrapping around you once you came over with a weak crooked smile from his bleeding lip. The purple and blue splotches blooming amongst his neck and the slight tear at his shirt's neckline, your eyes widened in concern whilst you hugged his neck; smelling his strong cologne from his grey shirt whilst smoothing your hand to his torso.

He sighed, “Now what am I going to do with you..”

There was a sudden steel grasp to the base of your neck; Eunseok's veins leading from his shoulder to his forearm strained against the thin shield of tan skin. The spit accumulating in your narrowed esophagus caused you to kick and scratch at his back. Eunseok's eye twitched, his tense expression falling at once.

You felt something warm on your shirt... sticky.. He coughed concerningly enough to finally make you stare at the maroon emerging and painting his ribs. A profound narrow wound seemed to be stretching from his back to his center; It couldn't be?

Horror and concern jumped at your nerves, “No, no, no.” you murmured as Eunseok's eyes went dull, pupils expanded once he laid beside you. His eyes flickering from your frantic hands grabbing and gripping his shirt to the snot lining your upper lip, lips contorted as spit flew from the power of your strained cords.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck” You straddled him into a hug, rocking his soon lifeless body as the blood spread on the sheets below you. His exposed rib knicked and scratched at your own, his heartbeat slowing at the rhythm of your curses.

It was now silent.

You couldn't even call the cops.

Feeling a sharp sensation poke into your palm, opening it there laid, your oval pendant, stained with blood.

You tossed and turned, what the fuck were you doing with a body only a few meters away, your significant other. You needed somewhere to go, he started to decay and every moment you checked on him; his skin got paler.

You couldn't take it. You then scowl and jump up to yank Eunseok's coat off the rack, his warm scent shooting up your nose; something to remember for some time. Where were you walking actually? was the only thing you thought whilst mindlessly walking through the quiet roads. The cold air brushed your exposed and torn knees, the street lights seemed a blur until you stopped at the same wooden door coincidentally.

Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang.

Your fist felt sore.

You bit your lip, enough for blood to draw. Your finger tips feathered the cold knob in hesitation, taking a shaken breath, you swung it open; the wind aiding it creepily.

One step.

Two steps.

Three–

“I've been waiting for you.” The grave voice scared you to the core, causing you to stop on your heel comically with a jagged breath. Stilling with a sigh, shoulders hunched as the door shut behind you with your coat sliding off slightly.

Hendery let out an exasperated grunt as his slender fingers trailed around your now-trembling shoulders. His pads rubbing smooth circles into your shoulders to soothe you, you felt like a statue within his presence once he turned you slowly. His eyes focused on your dismal ones as you attempted to look away at the sight of the red outline of Eunseok's fingers.

“There's no need to be ashamed baby, it's just a little boo-boo.” He coaxed in your ear, using his backhand of his navy sleeve to move your strands from your pretty face.

“You need to calm down, come with me.” In a trance, you did. You were mesmerized by his sweet voice down the hallway, the darkness didn't concern you until you felt a smooth, comfortable surface that laid behind you. Your eyes darting around the room until a cool air of wind hit your sweaty forehead, the moonlight then alluded through Hendery's window; illuminating half of his face. His eyes low and gazing deep into your own, his lips parted and plump.

You then felt something poke at your neck and a force, the substance causing you to go limp, your peripherals went black and you could only focus at Hendery's smirk tug at the corner of his lips. He waved his hand in your face, wincing at the pain forming in your retina; it was now that every time you would blink, it would hurt.

“So pretty~” was the only thing you heard until you fell into the abyss.

“How long has it been?” You mumbled as you scratched at your knees. You could barely remember what you've done in the past 24 hours, he hasn't been down here for about 3 days. The insanity nearly consumed your soul into nothingness, you started seeing figures run across the dimly lit room and noises from the corner. You only spoke back once and now he was overdoing it.

Did he want you to suffer? You now raised your knees to your chest but the shock of pain and exhaustion from the scabs and scars and days of starving just made you go limp. Raising your attention to something else, you stared at the jeans, jackets, stuffed animals, sweatshirts that Hendery considered “gifts” and lied saying that they were brand new. They were all Eunseok's but when you questioned him, he left for a few weeks but then brought a decaying finger in a bag just to leave you in hysterics.

Leading you to go into straight havoc; shredding clothes, ripping the stuffed animals and doing anything to get his attention but you eventually regretted it once he screamed at you for an hour about your ungratefulness and that you were going to be buried and forgotten right alongside your scum of a boyfriend.

The thought of being forgotten still itched the crevices of your mind till this day.

You wriggled your skirt off with scathed digits, the same one stained with the blood of your dead lover to examine your blemishes, fading and new. The bile raised at your throat and the tears overflowed your waterline as you copied Hendery's trail that he made on that same fateful day. You regained the feeling of your legs fully because of the pain that he inflicted on your lower region in general. Just being stubborn got you here and now you couldn't even escape, the times your punishments got worse just for “disobeying” him.

The times that you were paralyzed as he pounded his anger into you as his gruff voice would just spit all types of curses in your ear with his nails leaving prints in your plush thighs, when he would shove some type of pill down your throat just to wake up to an ache in your abdomen just to raise your shirt; met with scars and engravings of profanity, he even hyper extended your arm to make sure you were defenseless against him.

Footsteps came from above.

Locks twisted from the door that your eyes were glued on since the beginning of your stay, something warm flowed through your stomach. The excitement shooting an unexpected grin to your face, he's treated you so well, what could go wrong?

The light peaking from the door for a quick second then fading away. You didn't even notice Hendery walking over until he placed a harsh kick to your side, your legs went numb again.

“What did I tell you about ignoring me–”

“But I'm not.” You interrupted sternly but immediately shooting your hands up in front of your face with a whimper once he raised a hand.

“Still flinching? You know I'm not him.. I'm your true love.” He lowered to your level in a squat, the scar on his eyebrow fading from a previous struggle. You never realized you were spaced out until he boomed a “Hey!”, your attention back on the fuming eyes of his; causing you to shrivel away a bit.

“I believe I have a gift for you, I know you'll love it~” Hendery singsonged the last part of his sentence with a hug as he was now on his knees. “Sometimes, I think about knocking you up.. S’ you could be mine forever ya’ know.” The color drained from your face, your teary orbs meeting Hendery's intimidating ones.

“Come on~” He whined like a kid, his willful expression meeting your sore eyes. The pads of his finger were cold once they made contact with your shoulders, trembling.

“Imagine a little you and me running around our happy little home! I mean just think about it..” His tone becomes as soft as his other hand trailing up and down your thigh, massaging it.

“But I don't think I can.” You blubbered, looking down in shame.

“But you will.” Hendery swiftly pulled out something from his slacks, you could barely react once the familiar stinging of a needle penetrated your skin. Only a hiss could emit from your mouth as your body laid slack, everytime you would move your head even a bit; shapes flooded your vision.

“Y’ think you could talk back?” He manhandled you to the floor, the force felt painfully numb to your hipbone. The sound of a zipper resounded off the walls, your cries felt stuck like a cork in your throat. This might've been the end, you were weak and you felt as brittle as lead.

“You must've been just waiting for me, honey?” His digit toyed with your pantie line then shoved it down, you let out a miniscule screech once his cock nudge at your impaired hole. His tip then exceeded slowly into your heat, his hand slowly trailed up to your jaw gripping it as he lowered his upper half to your back.

“So fuckin’ tight, just how I remembered.” He choked in your ear, his pace became feverish as your face rubbed on the ground. You felt the life leave your body moderately, mumbling a “Kunhang, please..” as your fists closed and clenched.

“Fuck, you're bleedin’ but you'll stay f’ me alright?” He teased in your ear but slapped one of your bruises, causing you to discharge more blood on his member.

You missed the fine breezes from when Eunseok would take you on a walk at a forest preserve as an apology after hurting you similarly but only this time; nobody could save you from the inevitable coming closer with every blink.

You missed him so much.. His topaz eyes that matched his pretty wisps of hair and that same basketball jersey with his name embroidered on it but you'll never see him again.. alive.

But now, the only memories you had of him were fading with your own life.

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