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comfortless · 9 months ago

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Only Other

chapter one of three.

Goth soldier! König x fem, Roman! reader

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. historical au (set around 350BC); potential inaccuracies as i am no historian!, König speaks some German here (as opposed to Gothic), mutual pining & worship, mentions of an arranged marriage with a large age gap, slight sexism, descriptions of gore, groping, dubcon sword/knifeplay. additional warnings will be added to the next two chapters.

notes: for @writersdrug’s request. ^^

wc: 11k.

The barbarians are here.

The dream of river water lapping over your knees and songbirds in swaying trees fades out into a hazy fog as you begin to rise, dropping your legs from the mattress to spur yourself to move across the small room as quietly as your feet can carry you.

Heavy footfalls and staggering hoof beats from their horses weighed down by heavy sacks of supplies is what has pulled you from sleep.

The flames of their torches crackle, accompanied by the shrieks of clanging, well-polished metals singing out as if in the throes of war becomes a dull song; weapons, wicked and crudely crafted unlike the spears of the soldiers donned in red you were so accustomed to by now.

You had heard the whispers on the wind of the untamed beasts from Germania filtering in, settling down here; their arms and their blood for just a sliver of land to claim, soil to birth farmland, a semblance of peace from within the walls of the great empire.

Never, in these small words from gossiping tongues, did you suspect that these rugged men would be taking to camp so very close to your city. Not only that… they’ve been accepted into the walls, the door flung open for them with their gnashing teeth and thick, ugly weapons. These men of myth were usually set further out into the countryside, far from view of polite people to sow seed in soft fields, build the little shacks that seemed far too fragile for their rugged forms that could never compare to the villas built here.

Peering over the sill of the open window, stretching your upper half out into crisp night air to catch a glimpse of torches sailing along the breeze, flames just as ever-shifting as their darkened silhouettes, your breath seems to halt entirely. They look the trueness of harbingers like this: each somehow more imposing than the one they follow behind. You count only two horses split between the eight men of this small band.

Could any of them even speak in your tongue?

What stories could they tell?

Had any of them ventured as far as the sea or had they only bathed in waves of warm blood?

With eyes wide, you even dare to perch there to watch on, never bothering to conceal your underclothes with the faith that the darkness would hide away anything more than a illusory view of your shape.

Through the faint glow of the yellow-red flickering flames, your gaze drifts to something large, hulking and brutish, darker still against the backdrop of a sable horizon.

The shadow walks in line with the others, their proud and raucous foreign voices feathering through the otherwise quieted air… only he does not speak, does not make a single utterance of mirth or glee. He stares only forward as his feet tread on just paces behind the rest of the group.

Nine, then.

Like the tales you’ve heard of the Goths, you’ve also listened in on the children spinning wild stories of monsters, the legends of heroes of old slaying cruel beasts told by their elders. You had always believed them, even without the evidence currently striding through the sleeping streets, dark like a crypt, like the underworld itself. A true titan.

Just as your eyes track the brooding, silent form, he abruptly turns his head in your direction.

The glow of a nearby torch paints the shrouded face in the color of a dying sun, casts a glint on the thick seax strapped to his hip.

In that moment, it isn’t wonderment curling through your blood, but surprise, maybe even a tinge of fear.

Your heart hammers as you pull yourself from the window to whisper hurried, hushed prayers to Juno, protectress of women, as you reject your curious nature and climb back into your bed. You’ll bring your offerings to her altar just as any devout: incense and a sweet pastry so long as she keeps you safe, chaste.

Buried beneath cushions stuffed with straw and thin fabric sheets to tuck yourself away, you wish only to return to dreaming of the river’s silt beneath your feet and colorful birds parading past in the open air that smells only of violets and honey.

Instead, you dream of fire.

You dream of the city bathed in gold, molten and angry as the walls come down around you.

You watch as your neighbors, friends, all begin to writhe and shriek as their skin begins to blister, boil beneath until it melts layer by precious layer to puddle like oil where feet once stood until the mighty, wraithful scorch takes even that away too. What once was human becomes smoke: women, men, children, it made no difference. It all becomes a mighty roaring flame as the structures wail and crumble around you.

Yet, you remain untouched.

Dawn breaks with the puppets sewn in shadow all but entirely forgotten, washed away in the fearsome tides of your own dreaming.

You startle and bolt upright as you wipe cold sweat from your brow with the back of your hand.

You’re no oracle: it’s just a dream… Vulcan would never turn his fiery gaze to your people after you’ve all honored him so, the offerings paid at his altar had been plentiful this past year with the steady expansion of the empire and the need for well-smithed weapons.

There were no volcanoes here to sweep away your life with magma and sulfur… only the lemures that haunted old shacks with their wailing had paid a visit to you last night. You let them in with your fears, and you would ward them away next with your courage.

The sun’s warmth creeps its way in, sweeps up from your blanketed legs until it curls and caresses at your cheek. From its positioning, proud and impossibly high in the sky it’s almost as though Sol himself were staring down at you, radiant yet scolding.

You’ve overslept.

Hurriedly, you ready yourself for the day, cinching your waist, clasping the shoulder of the stola, and dutifully washing your face with still water held in a clay pot. There was little else to do than bide your time with tedium: the animals loitering about needed tending to, a neglected sewing project lay strewn across the floor that had long-awaited its completion, and as the questions began to stir in your mind again… perhaps, gods willing, you would safely be gifted the opportunity to peek at the barbarian camp. To see that peculiar titan that they kept tethered at their sides.

It was dangerous and unheard of for a maiden, of course, but with little else to do than work and practice stitching threads for a betrothed you held no true affection for, this was a significant reprieve from the humdrum of what was scrawled out into the stars.

You weren’t given the luxury of further studies and communing with the aristocrats at their hearty banquets, sipping wine and prattling onwards about politics and how to further Rome as a whole. A part of you preferred this simple life of taking to the street, to peruse the market with what little money you held clutched in your palm, to pet the horses and watch as bulls sparred out in the fields beyond. Returning home to an empty house was a comfort, too.

As always, the market is a lively place, full to bursting with people exchanging anything under the sun, either beneath painted wooden stalls or from the first floor of their very homes, all with very little regard for you.

The city was simply too full to take in every name and face, and only their chatter seemed to intrigue you anyhow. You didn’t need a scroll or a song about each individual, your people were easy enough to read: war, pride, and duty all embedded into their very blood. The only ones that drew your attention were the poets and bards, entertainers who spun their stories of lives vastly different from your own… but there were none awaiting coin on the streets today.

A man passes with his wife at his side, loudly bolstering onward about his progress on some expedition.

Women with flowers woven into the braids of their hair laugh softly behind their palms as they exchange their secrets in singsong whispers.

The children play and pocket with eager palms when salesmen are unaware, likely to be caught later on and have their hands whipped raw.

There’s no talk of the Goths.

With these foreign men, most of your people seemed unbothered, taking solace in the knowledge that the empire’s cavalry would ride to strike down any opposition. A tentative, arrogant sort of comfort that you knew very well not to trust entirely. Most were simply not as educated on the potential of what could be, hadn’t snuck around on quiet feet to listen in on the men discussing failed treaties and negotiations.

The Goths could find their own food, their own women and shelters after fighting for the empire for a time: likely what they were here to do… give up their lives in exchange for a sliver of a Roman dream. A band as small as the one you witnessed could never quite hope to topple an empire, anyhow.

That sense of safety brought forth disinterest and smug little grins with little else to say, whereas your mind only took to further conjuring curiosity.

The more you wander the more you question whether you saw them at all, or if they were mere specters, already slain and silenced on some field far off from here, long dead and forgotten by all but the sleep-addled mind of a maiden.

You’ve never felt so disheartened. Though the city remained constantly bustling and full of intrigue when you knew where to look, these days the ease of it all only seemed to further the boredom. If nothing were to come, it would be no surprise to find that Juno would serve her purpose, looking after all with her blessings. You almost regret calling for her safety last night.

If the barbarians were indeed real, had some plot to overthrow an empire with their small numbers, perhaps only a vulture would be pleased with your thoughts now: teetering on the cusp of anticipation and wonder. You would never think yourself treasonous, but to learn, to see more… Your appetite for something further than a life spent sewing and child-rearing after marrying a man that made your skin prickle with distaste in the coming winter was rational.

Maybe not to most, but to you.

The fruit stall pulls you from thought with its sappy, honey-sweet scent and brilliant colors littered in crates: reds, greens, even some soft and blue… You only then notice you’ve been standing entirely still here, lost in thought, as if expecting a bolt of lightning to split the world in two.

Two apricots were purchased, one for you and the other for the gray mare in the stable you had grown fond of. You give the merchant a smile and a few bronze coins and carry on your way, nibbling at one of the fruits on your walk.

There were usually servants tending to the horses just beyond the city's paved streets, but it seemed today they were busy with other affairs: Quinquatria would be upon the city soon, and there was much to prepare for such an important festival. The place was empty all apart from yourself and the horses, some off in the fields to gallop to their heart’s content, while others like your mare, secured by wooden gates and paddocks.

You feed her, cooing gently as she takes the pitted fruit from your hand and between her blunt teeth; then, allows you to lead her into the grass with your honeyed words and languid steps.

One day, you hoped to have the opportunity to ride her, perhaps far away to touch the waters of the ocean, to see the foreign trees in some great adventure that would leave you more fulfilled. Ideally, without being weighed down heavy with child.

Your hand strokes at her nose before she begins to tense, eyes wandering from your form to something just beyond, far off and nestled in tall, fluttering grass and small bushes. You track her gaze for a moment, finally turning to look over your shoulder.

The wind has the tops of the trees swaying along the hills, grass pushed down to kiss the earth with each flutter of air. It all smells and feels so gentle, carrying the scent of wildflowers and the soil and salt of the earth itself. Ceres would have found herself prideful at the sight; everything rich and lush with the spring… Harvests would be bountiful this year, and everyone would be well-fed and contented. It’s no surprise that after pilfering through old calendars and running his tests upon the soil, Gaius had declared that this was the year he would take you to be his wife.

Past the expanse of soft blossoms and a cavalcade of greenery, all sweeping and rolling, a beauty that would stifle anyone should they think to look hard enough… but amidst all of this sits a man that you recognize immediately. Though he remains utterly faceless, his stature is somehow enough to make a gladiator blush and turn tail in shame.

There, just where the hill dips down and gives way to the soft rush of the stream, sits your warrior. His head is lowered as he crouches by the water, hands tucked to his front as he busies himself with something in his lap. The bare expanse of his back presented to you is unfathomable even from such a distance.

The men from Germania were said to be huge, dwarfing those that you were accustomed to by lengths, tall and thick like the weapons that they carry. They were said to be handsome, too… and like some hazy dream you were already certain that he was, somehow, beneath the pelt tied round his waist to keep him warmed at night, the sable shroud hanging over his head as he works away at sharpening the blade laying over his lap.

Your legs feel weak like a freshly birthed lamb’s as you watch him; the muscles of his bare arms bulging and quivering, his nude back tensing with effort. The soft rays of the sun beaming down only seem to paint him golden, untouchable except by higherborn women and men who could pay well to have him dirty his blade or his cock. Radiant, cruel, maybe even a bastard son of Mars himself, because what better a place for a man so vast and laden with scar tissue to be than in the midst of some great war.

Someone like this, you know with a certainty, would have no time for fickle maidens with their heads filled with the fluff of fantasies, and in a way that only seems to solidify a plume of possessiveness stirred up within your head.

You wonder even, if he calls to Vulcan as he pauses to hold his blade up to the sun to marvel at his work, the sharpened silver glinting in the light. The weapon casts its rays to only further illuminate the paleness of his flesh, coupled with the gleam of the flowing water ebbing past it only serves to make him look the very picture of those old stories and myths. The older women in the city would have tapestries embroidered of this scene, no doubt, if they could see through your eyes now.

Your horse trots off, satisfied that there is no true threat here, and you feel yourself begin to creep forward.

The gods and goddesses must play their tricks, because you are no fool. The pull only feels undeniable, something that you could not fight with a stern will alone. You pacify your impromptu decision with the thought that you could turn away at any point in the meters it would take to reach him. Surely, if he turned to face you before then that same fear from the night before would come to surface and you would sprint, startled and wary.

Perhaps he would even give chase…

There’s no excitement to be held on him, either acutely unaware or ignoring your presence entirely as you draw ever-closer. The grass softens your footsteps, the breeze blanketing any sound from each shift of your legs beneath the linen stola. You’re near silent in your approach, only halting where the hill crests over the bank several paces away from where he remains seated.

Only then does he turn to look your way.

There’s no greeting, no display of friendliness. His body language remains closed off, distant, like that of a wolf in cautious preparation; deciding whether or not it would be necessary to bare his teeth, to snap and growl until your flesh rends beneath him.

So it’s left up to you and to Juno who remains harbored in your heart. The goddess would protect you most assuredly, you’ve left her offerings for as long as you could remember, prayed at her altars and devoted yourself entirely— perhaps not in the same way of the temple maidens, but certainly more so than most.

You take a breath, watching him with kind eyes and an air of unease about you that only seems sweet by comparison to the very danger that his presence proposes. He only returns your stare with something colder, detached and unamused beneath that ugly veil he wears: two holes for the eyes, dyed beneath with the red rimming yellow like the tissue a butcher may find in a plump calf.

“Can you understand me?”

There’s a long, tense silence that follows your frail question. The titan stares, looks you over from the crown of your head, briefly pauses midway- at your hips- then further. It’s both heated and cold, coaxing yet analytical.

Finally, the barbarian gives a curt nod in response, seeming no less frigid and closed off even as your voice feathers over the breeze. But he understands, can decipher your language, that’s a start.

“You are… one of the barbarians, yes?” Is that even what they preferred to be called? The word certainly sounded prettier on your tongue than the brutish pronunciation of ‘Goths’. There would certainly be some price to be paid if your blood was spilled over a mere insult…

Graciously, he only seems to overlook it as he sheaths his blade and rises to his full height, tall like the mountains you had only heard stories of, where gods and goddesses sit in council not meant for mortal ears.

Freed of any covering upon his upper body, you find yourself reluctantly mesmerized by the trail of light hair that runs from chest to abdomen and down further… until a little tuft peeks from the hem of the pelt tied around his narrow hips. The layer of fat over his midsection paves a way upward to reveal the muscles of his chest, wider and more prominent somehow than most breasts you’ve seen.

Unruly thoughts clutter that would have others questioning your status and devotion to your Gaius if they could hear them. It couldn’t be helped, you reason; you had never seen a man quite so vast, so meant for battle and breeding.

“That is what your people call me,” he huffs, bull preparing to charge. His words come out with a thick accent, northern. The trees and mountains would sound similar if they could speak at all.

He drinks you in with his eyes, fingers twitching at his sides as though itching to touch your most sensitive parts. Though he doesn’t move yet, you get the sense that all it would take is one false move, a skitter in your step that leaves you tumbling to the earth, and he would be upon you like the downpours of spring. You even wonder if he would roar like the thunder delivered from Jupiter’s weighty palms if he were to mount you.

Of course, what he sees before him is not a maiden of Rome. His people didn’t care for purity, for your religions and ideals: you’re a fertile little doe, wandering straight to a buck in his prime.

You swallow hard, a little bob from your fragile throat, to force those treasonous thoughts from your mind. Even talking to this man was a risk to your reputation… Your poor betrothed, nearing thrice your age and horribly delicate by comparison to this beast, would be up in arms if he were to find you here. More concerning, you couldn’t find it within yourself to care.

“What do you call yourself, then?” Your voice comes almost breathless, thighs pressed together beneath your stola as your own body sends its signs and omens to tell you that you’re precariously close to the underworld just by gracing him with your presence. Perhaps it would be that dark, too, if this giant decided to push you to the soil, hover over you as he plucked you apart like petals from a flower.

His eyes track that subtle shift of your legs, crinkling at the outer corners when they roam back upward to your face. The beast grins beneath his hood, you’re certain of it, and those eyes of pale blue seem to glitter like the sun's rays on the stream to your side. He shifts, crosses his arms over his chest and tilts his hips just slightly forward, some strange display undoubtedly meant to tempt and charm you.

You don’t budge from your perch, despite your body’s persistent singing for him. Enticing scents and views of flesh could do that… this man wasn’t special, you were just curious. That’s all that it was.

“König.” He answers things plainly in that lilted voice, as though he’s trying to seem more of a man to spite that boyish way of speaking. And gods help you- it’s cute.

“Does it have meaning?,” you settle to ask when he does not request your name in turn. A bit rude, though you do wonder if perhaps the bullish men in his settlements see delicate things like you more like pets anyhow. The thought of this warrior whisking you away and naming you one day… You swallow that lump in your throat again, teetering back on your heels as if to place more distance between you two.

“What do you think it means?”

That simple non-answer does finally allow your pulse to settle, only to rise immediately to find it insulting— as if this wild man with no proper education had the right to insult you at all.

He only smiles again beneath that veil when your face sours. Awful, wretched, gorgeous creature… You’re no threat to him and he knows it. He’s only playing with you, dodging your pretension with a bit of his own, and unfortunately… This is the most pleasant conversation that you’ve had with any man.

Your betrothed was only arrogant and dull, there’s no light in his eyes when he smiles at you- everything is duty. Not here. Not with König, and surely the goddess of marriage and love is frowning down at you from her lofty throne, because you’re almost certain you’re infatuated with the brute by now.

“You’re a bit rude.”

“King.” He grins, a grin that you can see when he frees the leather flask from his belt and shoves his mask upward to take a heavy gulp of what is undoubtedly Roman wine. The glimpse alone makes you weak again, honey drips from your thoughts to your cunt, and you know now that you were never simply curious.

No, this brute would be the end of your engagement and even you if you allowed it.

You watch him take his fill, catch the bitter scent in the air as a bit trickles down from his rough jaw to his throat, all covered in scars. He’s been in battle for a long time, likely why he wears the hood at all. The rest of that handsome face is undoubtedly a wreck just as what could be seen of his body, all covered in memories of where he’s had scrapes and dances with daggers only to fell his foes one by one with that long seax dangling from his hip.

After the hood and the flask are in their proper places once more, he gives you a nod, then speaks, “How many coins?”

It takes a moment for the question to register in full; he isn’t asking what you have on your person, but how much you’re worth. How much it would cost for you to spend a night in his bed, tolerating this giant between your legs…

Your attractions billow up in smoke immediately, just as you expression sours and your hands curl to fists at your side, crushing the half-eaten apricot in the process. You toss the ruined fruit to the ground, allowing the sweet juice to coat your fingers as it flows downward.

You wring your hand as you very nearly shout, “You are an animal. I’m not here to sell myself.”

Your voice falters to a meek, little whisper with your final words, the breath a weak gust through the first tiny blossoms of spring.

Of course he catches onto your body language, to the way your thighs rub and tense beneath your skirt, the way your nipples peak at the mere sight of him and all of the infatuation and curiosity in your eyes. Men knew things like this, offhandedly, it seemed; if the others were correct then this beast could surely smell you, too.

The bastard only stares, eyes narrowing as his brow pulls together beneath the hood in some strange confusion. The whores wore their togas, not the stolas of maidens and married women, even a barbarian should have known that: his men were certainly no strangers to the sweet women with their faces chalked in lead.

Then, his shoulders pull up to fall in a shrug.

“Run, then, little one.”

It’s almost as though he knows your thoughts in and out, a lemure himself as he presents the bulk of him that would strike fear into any man, taunts and goads. You don’t want another fire dream. You force your courage and mirror his stance: chin up, back straightened as you look down upon him like a goddess sent to deliver her fury with… a pitted apricot at your feet rather than bolts of famine and misfortunes.

His eyes become stars, twinkling in earnest when he sees you then. You’re no aristocrat, no empress, but you certainly feel the part when the giant’s gaze finally relaxes its pilferage and settles upon your face instead.

Your act is all for naught, because you realize that his men are approaching, opposite the stream. One of them was enough, but a hoard of others… You were not even certain that he could understand you properly, and the others could be even less patient. Your gaze travels over their forms, smaller than this ‘König’, but each equipped with their own weapons and their own scars from battle.

They look from their leader to you, eyes grazing over the plush flesh that your stola dutifully conceals like starved dogs. One of them mutters something in a foreign tongue, harsh and guttural, his eyes never leaving your shape in a display of brazen appraisal.

König responds in turn, voice taking on a lower octave as he all but barks his response: harsh, unyielding language that you couldn’t hope to interpret… but if you had to guess, you were nearly certain that his men were asking who would lift your skirts and have their way with you first.

You depart from them with tentative yet hurried feet, and you don’t look back as you cross across the lush field. There’s no stopping at the stable, not a thought in your head except that you would most assuredly not be returning. The barbarians could have the field, the stream, whatever the city’s officials had allowed them.

Just not you.

It’s Gaius that greets you when you arrive home, to the little villa he had secured for you; to the place that would become less of a home and more of a prison once the two of you were wed. You’re barely a foot in the door when the man’s gaunt face turns to you, his lips set in a stern line.

“Where were you?”

You knew that look, it’s the very same that he gives to his slaves when he’s about to bleat out his orders like an enraged goat, shove them or grab at them to feel less small than he truly is.

Your brow pinches, a shaky breath leaving your mouth as you try in earnest to look the part of an innocent lady who had not just crossed a field and fantasized endlessly of some rude, barbaric oaf.

“In the field. With the horses,” you deliver your half-truth with practiced ease. This wasn’t the first time you’ve lied to him, and it certainly would not be the last. If the protectress of Rome could overlook your stunts and recognize your discomfort in this wretch’s presence… then she might even side with you; save you from a future of sharing this man’s bed.

Gaius relents then— as much as a stoic, old man could. He reaches out to cup your face with one weathered hand and you have to force back to urge to shudder.

It’s not that you mean to be cold, not after all that he’s done to care for you… it just comes as naturally as the seasons and the wills of the gods. Something about him always made you feel ill.

You eventually, tentatively jut your chin forward just a bit to force yourself into leaning toward the touch of his cold hand.

His lips curl into an unsightly grin; then, he pats your cheek and draws away enough to bless you with fresher air to breathe without his withering presence alone contaminating it.

“I brought you a gift, meum corculum.”

“Oh…” Your words come in a little hiss, your heart stuttering in your chest as you teeter back on the heels of your sandals. The straps along your calves feel tighter now, your stola too… maybe even the room itself: everything seems to close in, and you could only silently hope he doesn’t request your affections for doing such. “… you didn’t have to-“

“Nonsense.” Gaius raises both of his hands, arcs them before stepping out of your path to reveal a new dress lying on the wooden table just beyond him, dyed a light blue.

It’s pretty, well-spun and soft-looking… yet you still hesitate a bit when you step closer to run your fingertips over the fabric. It yields beneath your touch, bunches when you move each digit along the pliant linen, and it’s the softest thing you’ve ever touched, maybe even softer than the lambs and kittens you’ve played with in the streets.

“I thought that you might like something nicer to wear during Quinquatria,” he adds from just behind you. You feel his hands trace along your arms, further, until they reach your shoulders and give a gentle, but almost demanding squeeze.

It’s meant to be affectionate and he is your husband-to-be… but he still manages to make you feel ill. It’s only a blessing that he’s never requested more from you than a peck for his offerings to you.

What a man in his late stage of life could see in you, you couldn’t hope to imagine. A fertile womb, likely, and you could only hope that that isn’t also what he saw in the women he kept as slaves in his own home further toward the city’s center. Nosy, dull man that he was, of course he needed to be closer to the housings of banquets and discussions to feel some level of importance while he kept you locked away toward the wall and the slums like some filthy little mystery.

“I’m tired, my love,” you manage, voice thin as you slowly pull yourself away, from both Gaius and the delicate blue thing you would be forced into wearing for the coming festival.

The man balks, but doesn’t push. A few seasons and he would have what he’s awaited for years, the confident gleam in his eyes tells you that he’s certain of it.

It’s difficult to believe that someone you had once considered a hero and a friend could make you feel so much disgust now. You were naïve, then, and now you only feel how those poor horses locked away in the stables must feel, burdened with a constant yearning for your own freedom.

“Then rest.”

When the door shuts behind him, you’re only then able to expel your relief. The weight of what you must do settles upon you, heavy and unyielding, the boulder of Terminus.

You can not marry Gaius. You can not continue to breathe in the stink of the city from its miasmic aqueducts, perfumed only by the crowded marketplace full of mortals so contented with their own tedium. The unknown calls and calls, howling like a mother wolf to guide you. Even with the stories told of what fiends and horrors lie outside of the city you could almost feel with a certainty that you were destined for it.

You light your incense with a lump of coal in the burner of a clay pot. Just cinnamon would have to do for now. You make your peace with that promising Juno whichever sweet, flaking pastry that appeals most during the festival of Minerva.

Though you were more than content with your wish for nothing more to do with the barbarians after meeting with König earlier… he comes rushing back into your mind, rolling and lapping like waves as you begin to prepare yourself for sleep. The polished tin of your hand mirror reflects your face as you twirl the handle in a curled palm and you stare. Did he see beauty or simply a womb…? Had you taken offense to nothing? The questions stir up remorse as you strip away your gown and take to the bed.

Just one more meeting with the foreigner, maybe. Just to say your farewells, wish him luck in future battles, bless his seax and his shield with a touch and a prayer (if he even had the sight to keep any form of defense on his person).

When Quinquatria comes, when the people are busy and satisfied with their food, fortune telling and the gladiator games, you will take your mare and ride off into a sea of stars. Each light will be a point of guidance until you reach the riverbed you’ve only ever dreamt of, until you scale the mountains that sang so sweetly from the goth’s tongue…

And perhaps he will chase you.

— — —

Quinquatria used to be one of your favorite festivals. The fortune tellers were your favorites, always seeming to know so very much with so little insight into your life. Then there were the revelers donning their colorful masks, barking out song with bitter wine painting their tongues.

You try to listen in on them as a woman traces over the patterns in your palm, the curved lines and straight, fine indentations. Palmistry, rather than any proper reading with sacrifices and proper seers stood before a temple. You reason that this is for fun, just like the wine-drinking and the gladiators fighting for their lives and the horrible stink of the city’s streets: natural, reasonable, and dreadfully normal.

The fortune teller hums as she reads you through your hand, laughs a bit when she seems to note a secret or… something. You were not entirely sure. The woman was young, her belly likely as full of fermented fruit as everyone else’s as they dance and crowd the street where you two are stood.

“You’re unhappy, girl,” the woman muses, giving you a sympathetic look before another laugh pulls from her lips.

You give her a nod but don’t say a word as she continues to stroke at your palm. Of course you were, anyone could tell just by the frail look upon your face, as if you were indeed bereft and ready to cry at any moment in this horrible, dainty dress with your betrothed fondling some lady mere paces from you.

“Yet, so lovely,” she continues, nimbly running her fingers to your wrist. She curls them around you, turns your hand over and gives it a soft pat to signify that your reading is done.

“You’re destined for a summer wedding.” Winter, you want to correct. “And your husband… strong and brave like the sacred wolf.” Weak and old, you force back with a clenched jaw.

She releases your wrist with one last assessment, “Juno favors you, sweet girl.”

You want to call her a fraud, but instead you merely part with the bronze you had promised to her. With Gaius preoccupied, his wrinkled hands already tucked beneath the skirt of the other woman’s stola, now would be the best time to wrench the door of your little cage wide open… not make a scene.

Your chest feels tight, and for the first time it isn’t from some unknown fear, it’s excitement. Your heart hammers as the blood stirs within your veins, belly tense and breathing shallow, taking a stiff pace to walk along the shadow untouched by silver paths of moonlight.

There’s a bellow, a wail as the gladiators fight some distance off. Soft words and whispers filtering past like eerie words from something ghastly, moans from a brothel, bells on the wind, the stink of rot and perfume all from all that you’ve known for so long as you leave it all behind.

Your mare is pacing restlessly in the field, her ears flicking and tail swaying behind her. You’ve no saddle, you hadn’t even thought to procure food or any supplies. You’re not even certain that she’s been ridden by anyone, but you coax her over to the wooden fence that your body rests over; hands find the velvety fur of her gray snout, fingers moving to gently caress her mane and ears.

“We are going to be free,” you whisper as your hands curl over her neck. The mare makes her displeasure known immediately, huffing and tensing immediately… and you realize that this isn’t going to work, not without her bucking you off and leaving you injured or dead. You’re not stupid or brazen enough to break a horse or anything, really. Not Gaius. Not…

You would find König. Perhaps you could even trade the Goth for a horse already accustomed to being ridden… he had already revealed his intentions, and he was easy enough on the eyes to entertain the thought.

You give the mare a kiss farewell, right on the softness of her cheek and detach yourself from the fence to wander past the silver field, the gently flowing stream. The water dampens your dress, embeds it’s cold into your very bone where the sandals fail to protect. Spring or not, it’s hardly warm at night, and there are only so many rocks lying in the water to keep you from sinking in.

The clothes are drenched by the time you crawl to the other side. On the opposite bank, it’s only then that you turn back to look over at the city, one final glimpse of a place bathed in gold; cinder and ash from torchlight, flowers and the creeping scent of decay carry on the breeze. Even from the distance you can hear the music, chimes of steel on steel, the laughter and cries of mirth and pleasure.

Begrudgingly, you feel the first seeds of regret plucking at your heartstrings. You’ve nothing to your name apart from a few coins in a pouch strapped to your hip, no weapons, no food. You could die, you verily would if you went at this alone. And still, you force your face forward and continue your steady waltz to look the unknown straight in its bloody maw.

You won’t panic, won’t fear. Whatever awaits would be better— it had to be.

The barbarian camp comes into view some time later. You couldn’t be certain how long you’ve been walking, as though some spirit had plucked the chords of your mind and left you in some confused daze. It couldn’t have been your own desperation. Something greater had to be at play, a proper destiny: one much better than the life of Gaius’s wife, owned like a hound, imprisoned and uninspired.

Though their torches burn, their tents stitched together amalgamations of old pelts and cloth, the air is fresher here. You expected the reek of death, heavy on their skin, bathed in blood and the rot like visions of Mors herself. Instead, you smell smoked meat and wine on the air: a boar and fermented grape, fruit from the surrounding orchards, the heavy scent of men. There’s no celebration here, a few men talking quietly as their eyes wander over what you can only assume to be some sort of map— tactical discussion for their next bloodbath.

You puff your chest and steel your gaze as you walk towards them, expression set not unlike the stern looks your betrothed would give.

Your attempt at intimidation only earns a flicker of hunger in the gazes of these men, and then a bout of grating laughter. They glance at one another, discussing you in hushed voices in their mother tongue before one finally looks to you and asks a simple, “Was?”

“König,” you answer simply. “Where might I find him?”

The question undoubtedly goes uninterpreted, but the name does spark a wave of interest that passes between their faces. Finally, one points toward the tent at the far side of the camp: ugly thing, vast and layered in dark tones of gray and maroon, the very structure is a bleeding animal.

You hear the laughter behind you, the lewd whispers and jeers and only a simpleton wouldn’t be able to interpret the meaning; the titan that heads their little group has a lovely woman seeking him out like a wayward dream, and with adrenaline already coursing through you the thought of spending your night here doesn’t even seem an insulting prospect.

The flap serving as the door of the tent parts as your hands move to lift it, and sure enough… the beast lies in wait in his den, seated on a mattress made up entirely of fur. His hood remains over his head as he traces the carvings on the handle of the seax, under flickering flame and the shadow of the tent König seems further unearthly, god walking amongst men as he toys with his weapon in some strange sort of ritual.

The ritual only seems to be one of boredom, because his eyes light up when they rest over you, standing like a dream as your dress billows with the breeze creeping in. You’re drenched and dirty and pitiful in his presence, but he only seems to soften when he beckons you toward him with a curl of his fingers meeting his palm.

You obey with tentative steps, stopping next to him as he waits on the bed. If it were possible for your heart to seize and halt entirely without you collapsing to sink beneath the earth, it surely would now, so close to him.

“I need a favor,” you explain in whispers. “A horse.”

“A horse,” he repeats as his weapon is set aside, “Warum?”

You don’t want to explain a thing. He’s working with the very men that could drag you back to the city after being paid heavily by Gaius… your trust is blind and foolish and you almost want to break apart right here. How stupid to believe that you could find some solace here, with a giant that walks along the cusp between men and beasts. Your shaking hands reach out to drag along his vast shoulders, lingering on the healed wounds that dent and give rise to his flesh.

“I’ll do what you want,” you offer quietly, earning a pleased rumble from his chest.

Though after a moment, he only sieges your wrists, pulls you down to the mattress at his side. He touches you no further, only stares down at you in a twist of amusement, reverence and confusion.

“Warum?,” he repeats, “Tell me.”

You wind over onto your side, staring up at him with a desperation that you’ve never known until this night, clawing down from your throat to bed it’s way into your roaring pulse, frightened and pleading. Just give in, ask no more, you want to wail to him as your vision begins to blur with tears.

Mercifully, he doesn’t ask again. König lies at your side, mimicking the way you curl onto your side and again… he smiles, though this one is unlike the way he looked upon you by the stream. It lacks that boyish twinkle, the intensity of the lines forming beneath his eyes: it’s more of a pleasantry than anything genuine.

“You are married?”

“What? No…” You swallow hard, toying with a thread that’s begun to pull free from your hip, twirling it between your fingers. “…not yet.”

“Ach… but you belong to another, ja?”

You want to howl out your frustrations up to every god and goddess above, burn through the Elysian with your misery alone. You wish, yearn for the courage to cast off that mask and lure him in with a kiss, erase any memory of Gaius with the kindling of a truer passion.

Your voice doesn’t come, and your fingers steadily pluck at that thread, feeling more unsure of yourself with each passing second.

Again, your bastard god grants his mercy as he raises a hand to cup your jaw, the warmth of him singing away the memory of the weathered hand that had touched you there before. His hand is so much larger, strong and riddled with calluses; you swear that you can feel his own fluttering pulse through his fingertips when they press against your bottom lip.

“Not after tonight,” he hums.

When the shroud is tugged up and his mouth meets your own, König’s kiss is exactly what you had expected: a sloppy, eager clash of teeth and tongue. He steadies you with a hand pressed to the back of your neck as his grunts filter past your own lips. Your eyelids flutter, then close as you allow your mind to finally relax, coaxed into the ethereal with each swipe of his tongue and pleasured sound drawn up from the well of his throat.

He pulls away with a gentle peck to the corner of your mouth, gazing down at you as though he’s been deprived of light for the entirety of his being and had only now met the sacred flame. It’s incomparable to how easily your betrothed would cast his scrutiny; though the hunger is similar, there’s something far more enticing here.

“Do you trust me?”

König’s voice holds no apprehension as he speaks; the question is just as blunt as each bulge of muscle and peek of teeth through the grin on his face, only set aglow by dim candlelight in the tent. You don’t nod, don’t even reply immediately as you stare at him a little dumbly, still intoxicated by the ferocity of his affections.

“… I don’t know.”

He moves a hand over your eyes then, gently presses his palm over you until you’re bathed in such darkness that you shudder. It’s a disconcerting feeling— not because you fear him so much anymore, but because if this were Gaius you would have already been squirming away, rushing to hide. You want to kiss his palm, revel in whatever piece of him he gives to you.

“Sehr schön,” König coos to you in a whisper. You settle further, allowing the tension to leave you almost entirely as you fall into the velvety embrace of all of this darkness and the pelts beneath your back.

He shifts at your side, and almost immediately there’s a cold chill at your collar, something sharp that he rakes over the softness of your flesh, then down, down to snag at the top of your dress. Your gasp is quieted by a kiss as you feel his weight shift over you, and just as you begin to melt into it… the fabric begins to tear, shreds as he guides his blade further, past your breasts and along your sternum, your belly, further.

“Don’t..,” you manage to hiss against his mouth, immediately taken over by the feeling of his tongue lapping at your teeth. Your nipples peak at the sudden chill as your dress lies ruined to either side of your body, thighs trembling as the blade hooks along the linen concealing your maidenhood.

One more generous, gentle cut and that comes away too.

You’re entirely bare when he retreats to your side again, one hand still clutching the blade as he moves his head to lay over your breast and… never, never had you heard of a man lapping and suckling at a woman like a pup, but that’s what he begins to do; his tongue circles over the bud, tugging it between his teeth until you feel the wetness between your legs beginning to drip to smear upon the mattress.

It’s caught, quick, as he turns the blade in his hand to slot its grip against your sex. It’s cold, but his mouth is warm, attentive as he licks between the valley of your breasts to capture your other nipple.

The noises that leave your mouth are filthy, rivaled only by the sounds you’ve heard in brothels… König only seems appreciative of them, muttering praises as he grinds the cold metal against your cunt, careful as the ridges of it graze your throbbing bud, gathering your slick to make the glide that much easier.

When he moves to dive for your breasts again, you cradle his jaw in your hands, peering up at those moonlight eyes in silent pleading as you capture him in another burning kiss.

The blade turns again, its sharpness directed down so as to not bring you any harm as you desperately roll your hips against its coldness. He groans into your mouth, panting softly just as you begin to whine.

You’ve never heard of a man making love to a woman with a weapon… or of one suckling at her as though she’s lactating when she is not, but… it has the desired result when your body tenses and all that can escape you is a frail whisper of his name.

The heat sweeps from your foggy head to your middle as your thighs squeeze around the damned thing and König presses his lips to your temple. You climax for him, chasing wave upon crashing wave of intensity with stilted bucks of your hips. He clicks his tongue in approval when you’ve finished, holds up the seax again, smeared wet with your essence and twinkling as though it had been bathed in the stream once more.

You know with a certainty you’ve lost Juno’s favor. If he chose you to carve you open with his come-stained blade the goddess would not make her descent to save you.

“Gut,” he whispers into your hair. To your horror, maybe even fascination, he raises the dirtied silver to his lips and licks your sweetness from it with another low groan.

“Wh… why would you do that..?” Your rapture feels almost shameful as you watch him lap at the weapon, the long tongue meeting silver only warmed by your heat.

He’s mad, certainly, and you only find yourself further infatuated: you reason that you must be too…

König doesn’t answer you as he sets the seax aside again, not in words. Instead, he cups your face and directs your lips to his own where he laps at your tongue, suckling it in the same way he did your tits. It’s slow and sensual, and you can taste yourself in his mouth, smell yourself on him as his hands find your waist and tug you closer until you’re lying almost entirely over him; one leg thrown over his thigh with your hands splayed over his chest.

The titan is hard beneath the pelt he wears, felt against the plushness of your thigh, the brown fur wrapped around his hips is pushed to rise where it’s harboring something akin to a pillar… but he doesn’t force you to settle over it, makes no attempt to tug it free, despite its throbbing against your leg,

“I needed your blessing,” he mutters, a hand settling over your naked hip, tracing small shapes with his thick fingers. The other finds your shoulder to pull you into a cuddle, pulled so tightly against him that you’re hardly able to discern where your warmth ends and his begins.

“A.. a blessing?” Your voice comes as a trembling croak, head pressed into the gap between a broad shoulder and the column of his throat.

“We are leaving in the morning.”

“Oh…”

“I will give you the horse when I return.”

Your head feels like a mess. You’re not even certain of what you’ve just done— did that count as sex? Would he tell the Roman soldiers he works alongside of how he had convinced some pompous aristocrat’s lovely bride to lustrate his blade with her essence? You could hit him, demand the horse now and bolt, but you only melt against him: eyelashes fluttering as exhaustion takes hold and the tension leaves you entirely.

“That’s all?”

König pets you, running a hand along your spine and back up to repeat. He presses his nose to the crown of your head, nuzzling against it until his hand is freed from your form and only then does it coax its way beneath the fur covering his groin.

He laughs at the weak sound of surprise you elicit when that beast is pulled free, another, thicker weapon curled in his hand. The thickness, the length of it that tapers off to a layer of skin, eager and pulled back from the tip, leaking beads of milky white: something that would surely tear you if he were not careful, and the thought brings you to squeeze your thighs together, concealing the leaking, thrumming thing between.

“I will fuck you when I return, too,” he huffs into your scalp, causing you to further bury your face against him, intent not to let him see the effect his derangement seems to have on you. You would let him bury himself into your chest, steal the breath from your very lungs, but you don’t breathe a word of it. Something tells you it’s a mutual thing, perhaps it was all spelled out for you when he asked for your favor rather than from any of his foreign gods.

You count your undeserved blessings. He seems sated only ruining you with his touch for the time being, you’re very comfortable here, and though you dare not speak it… you do find this brute charming. He speaks where you fail to, whispers of your beauty being like that from myths and dreams.

He doesn’t force you to leave, either, only paws at and squishes your breasts until you squeak and whine your protests, already sore from his teeth leaving their marks all over them. When he tires of his fun, you’re pulled into a crushing embrace where he rests his head against your own, blankets you in himself entirely. You were right… the shadow he casts over you blackens out the sun, moon, stars all of it; dulls the haze of carnality with something far more tender.

Your night becomes entirely made up of König: his scent like forest and sweat, the furs from beasts he’s chased down and slain, his soft breathing and gentle snores when he does fall asleep against you.

No dreams come to you, no lemures to haunt you with their wails and flames. Not even Juno descends to punish you. You’re warm and soft and contented like the kittens curled up in clusters along the streets on cold nights.

It’s the first night of peace you’ve had in some time.

When morning comes, the brightness of the sun peeking through the flaps of the tent, you wake to find König already out of bed. He stands at the far side of the tent, strapping on pelts and gear and the leather pouch filled with wine. His seax is held up in utter revelry, and mortifyingly enough… you immediately note that he hadn’t cleaned away the remnants of what occurred last night either.

When you bring yourself to sit upright, the giant only drops to his knees at your feet and curls his arms around your middle, pressing a kiss to the valley between your breasts through the thick fabric of the hood.

And… it almost hurts, to realize then that this is something you’ve longed for. You’re not arrogant enough to believe yourself worthy of some foreign worship, but he seems to liken you of some devout little acolyte, as if your come and kisses could grant him favor while he butchers poor souls all in favor of your empire: the people he had likely been communing and trading with only months before. Traitorous, mad, utterly enthralling man… You’re not certain whether you want to relieve yourself from him or guide him back into bed for more frenzied pleasures.

“You will stay?,” he murmurs into your skin as his kisses trail up to your neck.

You hadn’t even considered what you would do, it never came to mind, but staying in a shoddy tent in wait for him to return with the horse he’s promised was far from favorable. You’re out from the city, still without food or weapons, your dress and underclothes are a torn ruin on the floor, nothing but the wind and the stream and König’s stinking furs… The bathhouse seems to call to you now more than ever. Your lower lip trembles when you think of returning to that stale place, to be questioned endlessly about your affairs from your ‘doting’ husband-to-be…

Your head shakes solemnly. “I’ll wait for you at home.”

König drags you up onto your feet and closer as he savors in another embrace. You’re cloaked in a gray pelt, tied up and over your shoulders like the gaudiest tunic in the world, but you bur your nose into its shoulder, humming in contentment when you find that it smells just like him.

He’s more confident and proud than you’ve ever seen him now. The filthy blade remains strapped to his hip when he gathers you up to sit at his front on the back of his horse— a dark stallion with a pelt the same shade as the night sky. It doesn’t even seem to flinch at your combined weight, just canters along smoothly as König directs it through the sprawling field and past the stream to lead you back towards the city’s gates.

You’re not thinking of Juno or Gaius or traditions when König cinches your waist with a thick arm to draw you in closer; there’s nothing but fluffy warmth pooling in your chest sent by Venus when you feel his hips shift to press himself against your back. His head dips to kiss at your neck, your burning cheeks, shoulder, anyplace that he can.

When the horse comes to a halt with a sharp tug of its makeshift reigns, some length of rope and twine, his hand is at your rear.

Everything’s incensed and floral when you’re lowered to the ground, when he lifts the hood to grin down at you, not only with his eyes this time. It’s a sheepish, gluttonous grin, drunk off your very presence.

“I will come back for you, meine Göttin.”

And you know now, that the palm reading had been true— there’s your wolf in preparation for a hunt, the man who’s unwittingly aiding you in your pursuit of freedom painted with mountains and vast, blue skies. You will convince him to come away too, lay down the blade you’ve blessed with your pleasure. A summer wedding… far from wars of greed and smirking old men.

Your head swims when he bids you farewell, rides off on his massive horse back to his camp to gather his own men to march. You watch him go, breath caught up in your throat, a burning longing in your chest that you can not entirely dismiss.

The walk of shame only comes when you’ve crossed the threshold separating König’s world from your own.

The stink of the streets immediately washes away any lingering scent of him on your skin, on his pelt you now hide away with your arms curled around your waist.

You catch your reflection in stagnant water held in a pot, swaying and ebbing gently as others breeze past you.

You’re in a foreigner’s clothes that just barely crest your thighs, hair a mess and the carmine you had worn to bring a false blush to your cheeks is smeared over an eye and down to your jaw. You look the part of an adulteress, maybe, even as you dip your hand into the water to wash the makeup from your face.

There isn’t much to be done about the marks left over the hints of your chest revealed beneath the fur, but you make your way home without anyone even bothering to ask. If anything, the festivities from the night prior only seemed to subdue the standard bustle. You could only imagine how exhausted the hungover soldiers may have been as they undoubtedly prepare for the expedition König had mentioned.

That overrides your shame, sobers you from that sugary elation somewhat. You’re worried. It’s not just about König himself, not about the threat of fucking you when he returns left unfulfilled— though, those are enough to make your heart begin it’s hammering, rabbit in the throes of a chase. The horse, too. That proud stallion, your hope of a swift escape before winter comes and it’s all lost. If his drunken allies fail him in battle, if some other barbarian’s spear strikes true and fells your titan then the dream is dispelled into smoke, sunken down to river bed to be lashed away by frothing waters.

Whoever decided that the day after revelry would be the time to move was a fool indeed. The deities couldn’t look at you after last night, you know if they saw their noses would be turned up in disgust… perhaps not Jupiter’s, he’s more guilty than you could ever be, but your offerings had never been for him had they?

You fret and hiss below your breath as you wind your way back to the villa with its white walls and terracotta-tiled roof. The sun bears down on you like the flame of your dreaming. You’re afraid again, letting the lemures find their way in through the gaps in your shivering limbs to haunt your dreams.

Gaius is not there to greet you, likely still recovering from his own fevered night. You’re grateful for that.

The little altar to Juno still stands atop a table in your room, the burner still smells of cinnamon, dried flower petals and a dish of honey still sat there entirely untouched. She hasn’t split it in two, abandoned you, but it does feel that way when you peel away the fur.

Your fingers nudge at the bruises laden into your skin, the marks that look like teeth to either side of your breast. You press into them, gently, immediately feel that coil of heat, and you don’t want to sleep. That fire from your dream only seems to have become a part of you: you know it intimately now, it comes with pleasure and bite marks and a heavy weight harbored in your chest.

You cinch your waist and tie your stola at your shoulder, brush your hair out with a comb made of ivory. You rub your bruises with a salve made of honey, bandage up what you can and hide away what you can’t by tugging up your breast band.

The same as any other day, you take to the streets of the city and peruse the marketplace, take to the empty bathhouse to wash away all that’s consumed you over the past day. And you watch the soldiers go as they march through the streets, women and children waving away their fathers and brothers with prayers and sentimental words.

They don themselves in red, clutching their gladiuses, spears and heavy shields as they filter out and away where your very being longs to be. Their faces are giddy, almost: the prospect of pillaging and felling each enemy another delightful treat just like those found in the gladiator pits and amidst rolling with the whores in their brothel beds. You can not hope to understand their mirth, the happiness in any of the civilians either.

You watch them leave wistfully, lips pressed to a thin line, fingers digging into the waist of the stola. You down your fair share of the wine Gaius has left in your cellar. The day merely passes you by, the sewing left undone on the floor, altar bathed in cinnamon and saffron as you make your prayers and beg like any dog.

The mattress feels lonely and sad without the warmth of a body made for war curled against you, without his breath in your hair and his arms wrapped around you. It’s cold, too, and far harder than his, all straw and thin sheets. None of this feels like home.

Your eyes eventually close as the last of the sun’s rays begin to die, blotted out by the dark, untouched by torchlight.

You dream of fire.

#könig #könig x reader #könig x you #konig x reader #konig #konig x you #cod fanfiction #f: only other #tw: dubcon

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gojonanami · 1 year ago

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BIGGER THAN THE WHOLE SKY - SATORU GOJO

summary: before his fight, you and satoru have an honest conversation about the future. cw: spoilers for manga (pre-sukuna fight), angst, fluff, discussion of afterlife / rebirth, reader is pregnant, reader is satoru's wife, a/n: i saw the spoilers and i needed angsty fluff - it's more bittersweet than anything. word count: 613

It’s the question you didn’t want to ask.

“Will you make it back to me?” you murmur, your chin leaning on his shoulder. A question engineered with the perfect mixture of anxiety of the impending battle and the lateness of the night. You had barely gotten used to the warmth of his body gracing your bed, his long and thick limbs thrown haphazardly over your body, but you couldn’t imagine your sheets growing cold with his absence.

“A guy gets locked up in a box for a few days, and your wife loses all faith in you, hm?” Satoru noses at the nape of your neck, “I’ll always make it back you, baby — it’s you and me,”

“Toru,” you can’t bear to face him, your eyes squeezing shut and willing the tears burning at your eyelids to leave — but you can’t even manage that much, “this is serious, it isn’t hypothetical anymore — you could, you could—” your voice breaks off.

You always thought you’d be the one to go first. You were a grade 1 sorcerer — but what is a soldier compared to a god? The god that wielded unimaginable power, the god that caused the balance of the world to shift, the god who was meant to save the world — but more than that, he was your husband — the one who made you laugh without fail, the one who had been your best friend from day one, and the one who made you feel safe by just being him, Satoru Gojo, not the strongest, just your husband.

And the mirth leaves his voice, as he forces you to face him, his irises made of skies you couldn’t even imagine never seeing again — “If I don’t make it back, you know I’ll always be waiting for you, in the afterlife or the next one,” he kisses your lips softly, “but I will do everything I can to make it back, sweetheart — and that’s a promise I can make,” and his hand slides up to your stomach, “and if I don’t, at least I left you with the perfect parting gift,”

“Don’t,” and tears slip down your face, “I can’t do this without you,”

You wanted a family, but not a family without him, without him — what was the point? Was there even one if he wasn’t there to raise your child with you?

“Baby, there isn’t a thing you can’t do without me,” he chuckles quietly, “you’d lift the moon with your back and hang the stars for our child without a second thought — because you did the same for me,” his lips are ghosting over every inch of your face, “you saved me, the me that was me,” and his lips find yours, sliding over them, and you taste the cherry candy he was eating earlier, “and the me that loves you is here right now, so let’s focus on that,”

“Satoru Gojo, if you don’t make it back to me, I’m going to kick your ass,” and he laughs, your favorite sound in the absolute world, before he kisses you again, his hands cupping your face so gently — and you remembered the first time he did that, you wondered how someone so strong could be so gentle.

“Somehow, I’m more scared of that than the King of Curses” he teases, a wide grin on his lips, before rolling you over so he is on top of you, his thumb wiping away the evidence of your tears, “thank you,” he kisses your forehead.

“For what?” you smile up at your beautiful, goofy husband, and he only cups your chin, as he leans down to kiss you, his fingers ghosting over your stomach again.

“For everything.”

#jujutsu kaisen #satoru gojo #gojo satoru #jjk #satoru gojo x reader #satoru gojo fanfiction #gojo fanfiction #satoru gojo fluff #sab [mlist]

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kana-daydreams · 8 months ago

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𝐚 𝐬𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬𝐦𝐚𝐧'𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 || 𝐙𝐨𝐫𝐨

summary: zoro decides just for your sake and his, for once, to allow himself to express a feeling he’d long buried inside him after Kuina’s death—and a feeling he’s only ever had for you. genre: mild angst, fluff cw: none wc: 3.2k

I love you.

Settled atop the crow’s nest dome- shaped roof of the Thousand Sunny, Zoro’s dark-brown eyes dart open to meet splotches of fluffy white painted across a canvas of endless blue.

A gentle breeze rustles his clothes and threads through his mint-green hair as he lays with his back pressed flat against the roof’s surface, head cushioned by his arms, while his gaze continues to follow the clouds lazily gliding across the sky.

I love you.

Zoro clicks his tongue when he hears the words teasing melody continue to play in his head.

Words that had repeated its haunting every daylight, and every nightfall.

Words you’d confessed to him weeks ago—and words he had thought would be your last.

Why did you do it?

Zoro still relives the moment when he watched your body go limp in his arms, crimson red trailing its way down in gushing streams from the wound in your torso.

Why did you risk your life to save his?

A question that lingered along with your confession deep within his mind during the couple of weeks you’d remained a victim of sleep.

A furrow lines Zoro’s brows, deepening as he unwillingly recalls the urgent scream of your voice calling his name, followed by the sound of steel tearing through flesh and then the painful sight of your body collapsing, motionless, in a pool of red.

After the tragic occurrence, day after day, Zoro would visit you inside the sick bay. It was a difficult task at first, seeing your comatose state, but he made it part of his daily routine to check up on you. And assisted Chopper where he could, sometimes spending the entire day by your side and wishing that you would just open your damn eyes.

And during that time he spent with you and without you, he prayed.

Zoro never believed there was a god but yet, for you—he did.

Like a devout believer, day in and day out, he prayed and hoped for a miracle.

Hoped that some god— any god—would hear his prayer and that you would awake from your seemingly endless sleep.

Though when a couple of weeks had flitted past and you showed no signs of waking up, the little faith he’d mustered started to wane.

Waned until like a flame drawn down to a single spark of light left with nothing to fuel its burn, it extinguished.

But today Zoro’s flame reignites.

At the sound of Chopper's crying voice, Zoro’s body bolts upright, his eyes drawing wide when he hears him announce in between sniffles and hiccups, that you’re awake.

And in an instant, he’s on his feet.

And in an instant, his legs carry him with desperate steps towards the direction of the sick bay, Zoro thinking to himself, despite his once wavering belief—for the first time—a god really just might exist.

“Nami, Robin— you guys are going to hurt her!” Chopper’s worried voice warns the two women hugging the life out of you—literally, Chopper thinks.

“Okay, just one more hug.” Nami snivels, long tears rolling down her cheeks as she gives you one last squeeze before she and Robin unwrap their arms from around you, moving to stand amongst the rest of the crew huddled around your bed.

Your eyes scan each of their tear-stained faces like your own, at the same time searching for the perpetual stone-cold expression of Zoro’s, your heart sinking when there’s no sight of it.

“I’m so happy to see everyone.” You manage a weak smile, brushing off the disappointed feeling at the swordsman’s absence, and instead focus on the wide smiles, happy tears and collective expressed words of happiness and relief of your long-awaited recovery.

For the next hour or so, the sick bay’s room is permeated with mirthful chatter and laughter until Chopper starts kicking everyone out, informing them of your much needed rest.

“I don’t understand? Why would she need more sleep?” Luffy who sits cross-legged at the foot of your bed asks with a genuinely confused expression. “She’s been sleeping for we—” he’s interrupted when Nami grabs a hold of one of his ears and forcefully starts dragging him out of the room, the scene making a small laughter bubble up your chest.

Luffy’s painful groans and complaining voice drowns out when the door clicks close behind them, and with solitude now your only company, your mind is left to idle.

To idle on the memory of Zoro.

To idle on the memory of his mortified features as he held your form, drenched in blood, close to his chest. And the prominent picture of hurt mixed in with other indiscernible emotions that crossed his face when you confessed your years-long harboured love for him, just before your vision turned dark.

You can’t help but wonder exactly what he thought during that moment of your untimely confession, as you absent-mindedly reach your hands under the hem of your shirt, smoothing it along the rough scar that lines across your stomach. A reminder of the small price you had to pay in exchange for the life of the one you’d always cherished with your whole heart, and the one your eyes longed to see the moment you’d opened your eyes.

A sudden rap at the door pulls you out of your thoughts and you rasp out a “You can come in!” wondering if Chopper had returned to check up on you.

However, when the door cracks open, instead of the doctor, it reveals the familiar figure of the man you’ve yearned to see.

You watch as he steps into the room, your eyes catching his steely expression which immediately melts at the sight of you.

Zoro closes the door behind him and wordlessly approaches your bedside, neither of your gazes unyielding from the other. That is until his eyes flicker down to your hand still settled on your exposed stomach, the muscles in his jaw becoming visibly tense.

There’s a silence that settles between you both. One that is equally tense and you can’t help but attempt to lighten the mood.

“Fell asleep again or forgot I existed?” You quirk a brow, a teasing lilt carried in your tone. “I’m placing my bet on the first one.” You chuckle.

“It’s none.”

Your laughter simmers down when you look up to see that Zoro’s features are void of any hint of amusement.

“Oh? Then…”

“I wanted us alone.” He explains and your head tilts in curiosity at his words.

“Alone?”

“Yeah. We need to talk.”

You ponder on what he says. On what the topic of discussion might entail that he didn’t want the others around. And in a second or two, when an answer suddenly dawns on you—that it might be about your declaration of love— you feel a faint touch of warmth caress your cheeks.

Shyly, you pat a hand beside you on the mattress. A motion for him to have a seat.

Zoro takes you up on your offer, joining you on the small bed after removing his swords which he settled in a nearby corner of the room.

“So, what you wanna talk about?” You ask as you feel the bed sink under you from his added weight.

Zoro takes his time to form an answer as his eyes examine you for a bit: the healthy gleam of your skin, the vibrant light in your eyes, and the way your lips curl into that beautiful smile he’d longed missed.

And the longer he takes to respond, the more your heart races in anticipation.

“How do you feel?” He finally asks.

You pout. It isn’t what you expected, but his concern for your well-being at the same time isn’t a surprise.

“A little woozy and tired. But Chopper said I’ll feel better with a little more rest.”

“Right…rest.” Zoro murmurs to himself.

He had been more than determined to see you as soon as he watched the others leave your room that he didn’t consider the toll their long visit had probably taken on you.

“Then you should get some.” He stands to his full height, ready to make his departure, only to be stopped by a sudden and gentle tug on his shirt.

He peers over his shoulder, looking down to see your fingers gripping onto its hem, your face creased with worry.

“Please Zo, don’t leave.” You plead. “Talk to me. What’s wrong?”

You’d noticed it in his tense expression—that what he wanted to discuss carried a heavy weight on his shoulders, though you weren’t exactly sure what it might be if not your confession.

“You need to rest.” Zoro urges.

“I won’t be able to unless you tell me what’s bothering you.”

Your persistence and stubbornness is no surprise to Zoro. He knows all too well that your words are true, and stands there conflicted with your hand still glued to his shirt, before momentarily releasing a deep sigh as he relents to entertaining your request.

You watch as he seats himself near you once more. “Tell me Zo. What is it?” You prompt when a lull falls, lingering between you two.

Zoro’s eyes sweep down to where your hands lay before flitting up to meet your worried eyes. “Why…” He pauses for a beat as if gathering his thoughts, before he pieces together the rest of his words; finally asking the question, though not in full, that has been long weighing on his mind. “Why did you do it?”

Your brows wrinkle, confused. “Do what?”

When his gaze leaves your own and you notice it drops down to your stomach, you immediately come to comprehend the meaning behind his words.

“Because I wanted to.” A smile pulls at your lips.

A smile that makes Zoro’s hands, unnoticeably to you, ball into fists.

A couple of weeks ago, you were on the brink of death because of him and now you’re here, smiling warmly up at him, saying that you didn’t mind that you’d almost die!

Zoro’s fingers curl, digging deeper into the palm of his hands.

He’s happy—overjoyed, though his features mask the feeling—that you’re okay and that he gets the chance to see your smiling face again. But what if he had lost you?

What if he had lost you, just like he lost…

Zoro shoots up to his feet, your fingers hold on his shirt, ripping away.

“You’re leaving.”

His sudden burst of words leave you to stare dumbfoundedly at him as he walks over to the side of the room where his swords lay, propped up against the wall.

“What do you mean ‘you’re leaving’?”

Zoro faces your direction once he’s finished securing his swords to his hip. “As soon as we dock at the nearest town, you’re getting off.” The tone of his voice hints that there's no room for an argument.

You gape up at him. “You can’t be serious.”

This wasn’t the first time, the second nor the third, that Zoro had tried to get you to leave the ship—and to leave their crew.

He’d wanted you long gone since the day Luffy’d recruited you and tried his earnest to get the boy to throw you off the ship.

Figuratively of course.

“I thought we were past that phase. Aren’t you tired of trying to get rid of me?”

“Not, exactly.” Zoro says and you purse your lips, brows knitting into a frown at his curt and honest reply.

“Well like I’ve told you countless times, Roronoa. I'm not leaving.”

Zoro gives a subtle flinch when you refer to him by his family name instead of the nickname you’d called him since you were children. He then releases a deep sigh meeting your defiant gaze. “Being a pirate isn’t child’s play.” He ends with your name. “It’s dangerous.”

“And, what? You think I don’t know that.” You cross your arms, eyes narrowing.

You were aware that like the others, Zoro was worried about you. But you were here because of your own volition. Not his. A fact you verbally express.

“I’m not a little girl, Roronoa.” You say, voice stern. “I’m an adult. Meaning, I make my own choices.”

Zoro scoffs, almost mockingly at your words. “Yeah, choices that almost left you in a permanent coma, sleeping beauty.”

“I was only trying to protect you.” You feel yourself becoming more pissed, for lack of a better word, at his retort. “You could have died if I didn’t—”

“I ain’t no weakling. I could’ve taken it.” He argues back.

“You don't know that, you arrogant seaweed!”

Zoro was strong. Inhumanly strong. A verifiable truth you’d always known. But like any other human being, he was still mortal—and all mortals bleed. All mortals die.

Seaweed?! Zoro’s brows furrow, the muscles in his face twitching. He then heaves a frustrated sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Look…” he starts, voice much mellow than before. “You’re not a pirate. You’re not me and you’re not Luffy—you’re not like any of us.”

Zoro watches as your expression morphs into a reflection of hurt at his words—and it aches him. But his words are somewhat of the truth. You aren’t like any of them. You don’t have raw strength or devil fruit powers to protect yourself nor are you cautious when faced with life-threatening situations, choosing to tackle those situations head on without much of a drop of hesitation.

And that’s what scared him the most.

“It'd be best if you just go back home where it’s safe.” Zoro finishes, eyes meeting anywhere but your gaze.

“So that’s the real reason you don't want me around?” Your fingers clench around the sheet wrapped around you. “Because I’m weak?”

“That’s not what I mea–”

“Then what do you mean, huh! Zoro Roronoa.” Your eyes well with unshed tears and your voice cracks as you choke back a sob. “Why is it that you keep trying to get rid of me?”

Your question is only met with silence, as Zoro continues to keep his mouth sealed.

“Is it because I’m a burden?”

You weakly voice a thought that’d always remained rampant in your mind since the day Zoro vanished a few years later after Kuina’s death, leaving you only a single letter explaining his aspiration and his pursuit of becoming the world’s greatest swordsman along with a stern warning that you never attempt to search for him.

You’d adhere to his wishes which brought with it many sleepless nights, especially when you thought you would never see him again.

Fortunately, by a stroke of luck, you’d managed to cross paths when you stumbled upon him wandering around like a lost puppy back in one of the towns you usually frequented for selling your goods. And after your fateful reunion, spurred on by what’ve been years of friendship blossomed into unrequited love, you decided to join Zoro in his ambition—and the rest of the straw hats who’d unexpectedly and without a doubt become your home: your family.

“...It is. Isn’t it?” You say when you notice him tense at your assumption.

“No it is’n—”

“Then what is it!” Your voice consumed by a mixture of anger, sadness and disappointment bounces off the walls of the room. “At least tell me why?”

Zoro looks across at you and a pained expression shadows his face when he sees droplets of tears rain from your eyes, wetting your cheeks, falling and seeping into the white sheets clutched in your grasp.

“Why do you want me to leave?” You continue. “Why don't you want me to be a part of your life?” Some of your words get caught up in an uncontrollable storm of hiccups and sobs. “... and I promise Zoro. Tell me why and I promise I’ll leave.”

Zoro was never one to be emotionally transparent. You know that. But you wanted to know why…

Why is it that he was so determined—eager to make you leave?

Why is it that he was so eager to drive you away like you were never a part of his life? And him, never a part of yours.

Silence permeates the room as Zoro’s lips remain sealed shut like before, and as it prolongs so does your impatience.

“If you’re not gonna answer, then go.” You breathe out a weak sigh, feeling new tears starting to emerge. “I’ll leave just like you ask, so just get ou—.”

“‘Cause I love you.” Zoro mumbles out in a rush, that you barely register what he says.

You blink away the tears, directing your attention over at him, more precisely his back. “What…did you say?”

Zoro’s face contorts into a frown, heat burning at his cheeks. “I said…” He grits his teeth, finding it cruel that you were making him repeat such cloying words. “...I l-love you, you idiot.” He stammers out and you notice his ears tinge a dark red.

Your heart stutters at his unanticipated confession, words you’d been longing and hoping to hear for years—and words which render you speechless.

“S-say somethin’” Zoro practically begs, growing increasingly embarrassed by your lack of a reaction, still keeping his body pointed in the opposite direction.

You shake yourself out of your surprised state. “You love me?” You ask as heat fans across your face. “Then…why do you keep pushing me away?”

“..Because you’re reckless.”

Your face contorts into a slight grimace, feeling somewhat offended by his words. “I am not reckless.” You retort, regretting it when he starts to recount childhood memories and those of late, that bear witness to his claim.

Though those events couldn’t compare to the one that almost made him lose you.

The room descends into utter silence when Zoro finishes, leaving you with your head drooped down in embarrassment which had seeped in bit by bit during his narration of your every rash act.

“I can’t…”

You raise your head slowly to look across at Zoro whose voice punctuates the silence. And your heart sinks when you hear the subtle crack of his voice.

“I can’t...” He repeats, pausing for a moment before continuing. “I–we lost her. You—” Zoro grits his teeth, clenching his eyes tightly from the growing pain in his chest. “I don’t wanna lose you.”

To Zoro, you are his everything.

The woman who holds the entirety of his heart in the palm of her hands; all he has that reminds him of home—and a reason other than his promise with Kuina to become the world's greatest swordsman.

Zoro’s hands ball into fists as he feels a burning sensation settle behind his eyes. “I can’t lose you t—”

The words that pained to leave his lips are cut short, when Zoro feels arms wrap, snug around his torso, a soft and familiar body pressing against his back.

“I’m right here, Zo.” You reassure with tears and soft whimpers. “I’m here. And I’m alive.”

Zoro’s heart pounds violently against his chest when you hug him closer to your body, as if trying to prove to him you were real and not just a figment of his imagination.

To your surprise, Zoro turns around and captures you in a tight embrace. “I know…” He presses a light kiss to your hair, letting it linger for a second, before settling his chin atop the crown of your head. “And about what’ve said before. Forget about it.” He says, as your soft sobs continue to fill the room. “I…I don’t want you to leave.”

“You mean it?” You quiver out.

“Yeah.” He replies. “Just please, promise me you’ll be more careful.”

Your eyes flutter close as you snuggle closer into his warmth. “I will. I promise.” You say, both of you, unknown to the other, making a silent vow to become stronger.

Stronger for each other.

#𓇻 kana's op ddrms #zoro x reader #one piece x reader #op fluff #zoro x f!reader #zoro fluff #roronoa zoro x reader #op angst #one piece angst #one piece x you #zoro angst

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sinstae · 25 days ago

Text

French Kisses 💋

Pairings | L&DS!Rafayel x fem. reader

Genre | ☁️fluff, 💋smut

Word Count | 3.3k

Warnings | ⚠️ minors DNI ⚠️ established relationship, Dom!Rafayel. Sub!reader, nude painting, tipsy sex, nipple play, teasing, thigh riding, dry humping, vaginal fingering, bigdick!Rafayel, riding, use of Evol, squirting, creampie, fem. receiving oral, cum eating, aftercare 🤧, cute couple

🔖 m.list♡

a/n ; oml- idk why but like this has just been a scene replaying in my head so I had to share this with you guys! Thank you everyone who participated in the poll! Long awaited but 'tis here 💜 stay tuned for my Zylus series that I have planned, so excited 😆 hope you 'njoy! c;

"I want to paint you like my little French girl."

I blink up at Rafayel, my confused gaze meeting his of purple mirth.

“I’m- huh?”

Agreeing to come over to Rafayel’s I never know what to expect only that I’m definitely gonna have my hands full. Of all things, I didn’t expect my boyfriend to suggest nude painting.

“My pretty French-“

“Well, I heard you. I just mean- are you implying what I think?” He’s so close it’s hard to hide the heat rising to my cheeks. A beautiful smile graces his lips, showing off his perfect denture.

“I certainly don’t intend to draw you with a baguette-ow! Baby what was that for?” Rafayel rubs the side of his pec I’d pinched with a slight pout. A very cute pout.

“You freaky frog!”

“Am not!” I raise an eyebrow at him. “It truly is for artistic purposes but-“ He leans back down over me, caging me against the soft orange leather.

The bluish purple hue of the night makes his pretty, pale skin all the more ethereal. His eyes shine even more so when he looks at me; something I noticed from countless failed “studying” attempts which ends in me gazing at him as he paints.

“-I do also think you’d look absolutely stunning on my canvas.” He’s close enough for our noses to touch now. My breath comes up short as I’m stuck staring once again. The moonlight must be a paid actor along with the wind brushing his soft locks across our foreheads.

His breath smells fruity thanks to the amazing fresh assortment we'd gotten earlier in the day- that and the wine.

"You're drunk." I try to deflect, unsure about posing nude yet excited to be admired by Rafayel. A part of me is also curious as to what he sees, what he thinks is beautiful. What about me is so beautiful?

"You wish." He leans back into his position with his leg tucked beneath him as the other brushes the floor.

"I am." I'm not entirely but it's definitely enough to have me consider this. Seeing him in his element from time to time, Rafayel is a beast and a true creator at heart. Most pieces he's passionate about he takes the most time with. Others he could pump out by the dozen.

"Ah-ha! I knew this was a great buy. The guy in the market was on his game but I was skeptical."

"Raf, you always give in to the market sellers." I snort.

"Always? I don't- okay maaaaybe I do but in good faith! I believe they should keep at it, we all have to start somewhere." Rafayel crosses his arms dramatically and I hug my knees tighter, grinning like an idiot. "What's so funny?"

"Hm? Oh- nothing's funny just. . ."

"Just?"

"I'll do it." His eyes widen and he's analyzing for a moment, bracing himself for my fit of giggles and a "gotcha!" but that doesn't come. Instead I stare right into his deep ocean eyes and slowly his face relaxes and the corner of his lips tilt upwards.

"Truly? Ahh.. This makes me so happy. You're my perfect muse, baby." Rafayel leans forward onto his knees again to press a kiss to my lips so abruptly I have no chance to reciprocate. "Let me get everything prepared, yeah? I want you in the sunroom."

The sunroom.

Rafayel's most favorite place to paint. He has beautiful floor to ceiling windows that stretch around the dome shaped room that extends to the roof. Everything is visible there, the beautiful sunrise and sunset that bleeds into the starry night. I'm sure his reasoning is for the sake of lighting because he has a selection of colors or perhaps it's the full moon he wants to take advantage of. Part of me hopes it's because I'm just as precious as his work he keeps locked away there.

He emerges from the hallway after a while and he looks so excited that a fresh wave of anxiety and thrill envelops me.

“Come, Darling. It’s time.” I stand and walk into his open palm.

“Y/N look at me.”

I tear my gaze away from the beautiful set Rafayel clearly took his time planning. Instead of the glass windows as a backdrop against the red plush sofa, Rafayel has set up velvet curtains in a deep blue shade. Pretty jewels hang from the top creating a glittering effect with the help of the moon shining down.

I meet his eyes and he smiles, reaching a hand up to brush his thumb below my right eye. “Hi beautiful. You’re looking nervous.”

“Don’t tease. I’m super nervous.”

“Don’t be. It’s me. I’ve seen you in all your beauty already.”

“I know, I know but not like this. You’ll be staring at me for hours.”

“I also already do that.”

“Raf-“

“Baby, please. Don’t overthink this. I promise I won’t just have you pose there in that pretty head of yours. I’m here with you, yeah?” I release a shaky breath.

“Yeah, okay. Okay, let’s do this.” Rafayel’s smile reaches his eyes and he presses a gentle kiss to my forehead before stepping back a foot.

“Now, allow me to unwrap my canvas.” He tucks his finger under my black muscle tank and his chilly finger leaves goosebumps in its wake. As he removes it over my head, revealing my bare breast, he presses kisses to my face then along my arms then across the top of my breast as the cloth drops to the floor.

“Raf don’t-ah~” He ignores me and latches onto a nipple, sucking softly, as both his large hands perk them up. Once he’s satisfied he frees them and stands to his full height over me, tucking a finger into the waistband of my leggings.

“I believe you can handle this, right?” His lips are blushed and slick from his saliva, a beautiful sight paired with the look in his eyes.

I nod, not trusting my voice to stabilize itself while I remove both my leggings and cotton panties to meet my tank. I should thank the Moon and stars above that I decided to randomly shave this morning.

Under Rafayel's gaze I can't help a bit of shyness but his words will always lift me into security. "The most beautiful human I've ever laid eyes on." What a way to single me out.

"Thank you." He holds out his arms and I step into his embrace. His soft fingertips start at my shoulders, massaging gently, then he moves them down the sides of my breast to my waist. He digs into my love handles with a small groan while he leans down into my neck.

"Wow, wow, wow. . .I'm the luckiest fishie ever."

"Mmhm, my fishie."

"Glub glub." He playfully nibbles under my ear making me squeal into the fabric on his shoulder. "All yours, cutie."

He provides me much needed space to breathe and get my bearings before jumping his bones by leading me at the hand to the love seat. I take a seat, blinking up at him awaiting instruction.

"Lie down on your side for me. Mhm, perfect- now relax onto your left palm- no other way, yes good girl. Stop biting your lip, freaky frog. Now let the other hand rest over your tummy just above your hip, yesss yes. Okay now stay still."

Rafayel is true to his word and through the whole process of finding his colors and creating a sketch he entertains me with countless stories and small talk. He allows me a break every so often as he obsesses over an area to avoid my limbs from going numb.

Although I wouldn't mind going numb in another sense.

"I lost you." His words halt my thoughts before they could venture further but he doesn't seem upset or in a rush to continue as he sets aside his brush. "Am I starting to bore you?"

"No, of course not my love. I get easily distracted, you know this. I'm sorry, what did you say?" I feel slightly guilty but he just seems amused.

"Being under my watchful eyes doing things to you?"

"Mmm, a little." I pick up the wine glass from the floor, taking another sip as I eye him over the rim. "Staring at your muse isn't doing things to you?"

Rafayel stands up and walks over to me, one hand tucked into his pants while the other reaches out a finger to tap the rim of my glass. I place it back down onto the floor and sit up straight. He brushes the hair spilled over my shoulder back to expose my chest again then squats down, pressing a kiss where my neck and shoulder meets.

"It's doing many things. . .My line art came out perfect, my passion came easy." I meet his eyes as I lift a hand to guide him by the cheek into a kiss, the first actual kiss of the night.

“Ah- my lipstick. Sorry baby.” I wipe his bottom lip but it just smudges into his skin.

“Don’t be. Paint me too, my love.”

I smile big, surely looking like a smitten fool as I lean in and press a cherry kiss to his cheek. I instinctively wipe it, smudging the corners of the print while Rafayel leans in for another kiss.

He guides me onto my back as he inches his way onto the couch with me, keeping our lips connected in a heated lock of lip biting. “Open..” his finger taps my chin and I open, allowing his tongue inside to dance against mine.

Rafayel pushes his thigh into my core, his clothes rough against my pussy but the friction heaven sent. I moan into his mouth and he eagerly drinks them up as he rocks into me. I feel his growing erection against my inner thigh and I try to reach a hand down to feel him heavy in my palm but he stops me, gripping my wrists together with one hand.

He breaks the kiss and I chase his mouth, releasing a puff of air as he leans further away. Rafayel chuckles, showing off his canines. “I like you like this. Panting for me, look at you.” His voice almost coos and it makes me a bit self aware, blushing under his gaze.

“Stop teasing,” Half of me is saying that while the lower part of me wants him to continue. Rafayel has never given me a night without utter bliss, falling apart at his hands (and mouth) multiple times a night with the stamina infused in him. He truly isn’t human.

"I'm not though. You look so beautiful like this. . ." He brushes stray hair from my face. "Hair in its natural state, makeup fading, skin soft." He digs his equally soft hand into my thigh and I open wider for him.

"Raf, please. I need you."

"I know sweet girl, I'm not gonna deny you." I give him a look. "Nor will I tease, I promise. I just want a last look at you." He trails his ring clad fingers down the side of my cheek to the base of my throat, squeezing gently, then ends his journey at my breast. He pinches my nipple, making me intake air, choking up on my moan.

His head dips down and follows the sting with his warm mouth and tongue while his hand continues down my body to where I want him most. Rafayel runs his middle finger along my lips, gently pushing past each time he strokes upwards until he brushes my clit.

"Oh~" My eyes fall shut as I turn my face into my bicep, clasping my hands together as I fight against my body wanting to shake and squirm under his touch. A rush of adrenaline courses through my veins turning them hot the more pressures he applies.

Rafayel looks up at me over the plump of my chest, releasing my blushed nipple with a wet pop. He adds his ring finger in with his middle as he dips into my wetness again then brings his soaked fingers up to slip into his mouth.

He moans with a mouthful. "So sweet." He licks his lips as he withdraws his fingers to bring them back down to my open legs only this time he gently applies pressure to my opening with precision. With the right amount of pressure, and an angle he knows well, his fingers easily slide in and he curls them.

"Deeper," I gasp and take advantage of his hand around my wrist loosening to reach down and grasp his long sleeve. Rafayel groans as he rolls his hips harder into my thigh, fingers sliding deeper until the cold silver around his fingers touch my warm insides.

"Fuck, you're so hot, Y/N." Rafayel is breathy in my ear as his hand slides into my own, grasping tightly, as he forces his hips away before he blows his load in his pants. His fingers keep their pace while he kisses along my temple and cheek. "Doing so good, baby. I feel you, you're close. Aren't you?"

The rasp and need in his voice is enough to help me reach my peak, walls clenching sporadically as he sneaks in a third finger to attempt to match his girth. My orgasm rips through me, nerve endings feeling like sparks as I clutch him to ground myself.

"Yes, let me hear that beautiful voice sing. My little Siren." Rafayel removes his fingers and smears my cum along my body, hands moving as if it's a paintbrush in gentle strokes. I follow his hand while he watches my face, scrunched and flushed in pleasure as I moan softly.

Rafayel smiles to himself and leans down to press a kiss to my lips then his large hands slips underneath my arms to switch our positions to me straddling his hips. I brace myself with my hands on his shoulders as I keep my hips lifted while he works his pants and briefs off.

"I couldn't stop thinking about you riding me. You look so beautiful on top." He kicks his pants to the side, hands rubbing my ass and squeezing as he lowers me down against his dick. He's fully erect and his tip is red, probably angry from the dry humping. Rafayel moans as he slides his dick through my lips and against my clit, teasing us both from the sensitivity.

"Raf~ ah!" Before I could complain he lines himself up and drags me down till our pelvis meets. The first thrust is way too deep in this position taking all eight inches of him. I jerk upwards, top of my feet resting over his thighs to help push myself. "Wait- fuck, ah please~"

Rafayel tries to help with rubbing my tummy with one hand and the other resting on my ass. "You can control it baby," I breathe a sigh of relief. "For now."

I ignore him, too lost in the growing pleasure as I rise and fall, only taking half of what he has to offer. It's more than enough with his girth filling me and it seems to satisfy him as well. Moving his hand from my stomach he guides my breast towards him, sucking my nipple with deep moans as he plays with the other.

"Thank you, thank you." I cry out in pleasure against his hair as I hug his head close, arching my back as my hips speed up taking another inch.

"No, thank you my sweet Y/N." A litter of kisses to my breast. "You're so beautiful, riding me so well... Take more for me? Please?"

I pull away, looking down at his hazed over eyes full of adoration and lust. Rafayel isn't known for his patience, especially when it comes to pleasure. While he doesn't rush, his hips certainly doesn't do slow. He has the stamina of a bunny at times and cause of that he's the only man to ever make me squirt.

The first time it'd happened he was stuck staring in awe while I was extremely embarrassed having not warned him. He assured me it was nothing to be ashamed of and he's been hell bent on making it happen any chance he gets.

Perhaps tonight.

I give in and slide down another inch, walls fluttering around him. He releases a breathy moan and his wavy hair sticking to his forehead makes him look so sinful and-

“Pretty boy~ ‘m gonna come again- ack! Gentle baby, so sensitive right now.” Rafayel giggles around my nipple he’d just bit into then presses a kiss as an apology.

“One more and you’ll surely be able to take all of me, cutie.” He litters kisses all along my jaw and neck as his hands roam my spine and ass. My pace slows as I inch closer to pleasure, angling my hips to have his tip nudge my g-spot.

“Fuuuck yes!” I squeeze Rafayel’s girth as I come, whimpering and moaning into his hair as he quickly works my clit like a DJ. I grip his wrist to halt his pace but he fights against me until he gets exactly what he wants. “Raf no~” A pornographic whiny moan bounces against the glass panes as my body shakes almost violently while I squirt all over his toned abs.

“Oh- sh-shit.” Rafayel takes advantage of my walls loosening in its relaxed state and slides me down to meet his balls, tip aching to breach my cervix. He knocks the air from my lungs and damn near my consciousness.

I feel my body start to slump when suddenly I feel coolness near my lower tummy. I look down through teary lashes and Rafayel has activated his Evol. Beautiful baby blue tendrils swirling through my cum, collecting it to create a raspberry shape then it floats into his open mouth. His eyes flash purple.

My eyes are wide, face blushing red at the sight and he just smirks.

“Mmm, my favorite taste. You’re so sweet."

"You-"

"I?"

"You just-"

"I- I-" Rafayel chuckles while I pout from his teasing, reaching out to grab the back of my neck to pull me in closer. "Take just a little more for me, Darling. Yeah?"

I nod weakly with our foreheads pressed together as he shifts my upper body weight onto his, holding my ass suspended in place to thrust up into. I keep my eyes on his, feeling every emotion swirling in his orbs. My walls slowly grow tighter with each increasing thrust into a new pace and his grunts come more frequent.

I whine at the oversensitivity getting to me while wrapped around his neck using him as a lifeline. Muscles aching, clit throbbing, nipples brushing, deep thrust send us both into an orgasm- mind numbing for me.

When consciousness finally finds me again I'm on my back in our bed with Rafayel between my legs "cleaning" me up. Really he's just being a freaky frog, slurping both our releases past his pouty lips.

"Raf~ baby please- no more." I moan the words out but Rafayel knows to call it quits with a last long lick towards my clit. He grins up at me and kisses it then trails kisses up my body, now dressed in a violet silk slip, to press a bunch of pecks all over my neck.

We roll around in a giggly fit until Rafayel cages me in his bare biceps, using a bit of strength to keep me still. I look up at him and his eyes are so soft matching his smile. Using his arm that isn't holding me, he raises his hand to brush his thumb across the bridge of my nose, cheeks then lips before leaning in.

"I love you so much, my Y/NN."

"I love you mostest, my Sea God."

I relax further into his hold feeling my sleepiness begin to creep in as he presses gentle kisses to my lips before angling my jaw to slip past my lips with his tongue. I can't remember the defining moment of falling asleep but fresh on my mind when I awake is French kisses.

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salient-stitches · 1 month ago

Note

Hi there, I hope you're doing well. I had a couple of questions regarding Mirthful Messiahism. I'm part of a system and and one of our members is very interested in the religion/beliefs even if we are not familiar with Homestuck/Hiveswap ourselves. I was wondering if your group would be alright with a system within your religious space. Thank you for your time

Hello! I am so terribly sorry for the late reply, somehow i never get notified of these messages/asks which sucks! Currently we are a little bit on hiatus but that should change relatively soon! Anyone and everyone is welcome to join, as long as those who join are 18+! We have bots and other stuff specifically for systems as well!

#mirthful faith #mirthful faithful #mirthful messiahnism #cirque du deux #answered #mirth and rage #mirthful messiahs

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bucknastysbabe · 6 months ago

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Rating: Explict

Tags: ANGSTFEST, infidelity, Baratheon!reader, Targaryens always have a seat in the cuck chair, Sorry Aem you'll get big titty goth gf soon not big titty disloyal gf, pregnancy sex, WHO IS THE FATHER?, Criston’s delulu and the biggest baby in the world, tiddy sucking, lap riding, the chain and short hair is sexy, pnv!sex, crispy cremepie, crying, sad ending :(

Song in title - ‘Days Go By’, Sean Nicholas Savage

Taglist: @arcielee @aemonds-holy-milk @bambitas @elaratyrell @jamespotterismydaddy @lovelykhaleesiii @peachysunrize @starogeorgina @sugarpoppss2 @towriteloveontheirarms @zaldritzosrose

“Was it worth it?”

Criston frowned. He thought you looked at home astride his lap. Your ringed fingers ran across the chilly golden hands clasped around his neck. He shivered— as if the sigil of his station were attached to his body. Everything felt wrong in this quiet moment.

Aegon was nearly dead and forced through one dreamless poppy sleep after another. The maesters were not sure he could survive the Dragonfire. The Green army made a clear statement and killed a formidable foe at Rook’s Rest. Aemond took on the title of Prince Regent, living out his dreams of ruling the kingdom.

Yet Aemond’s fiery Baratheon wife, you, were here in Criston’s arms. Your hand didn’t move from the chain, eyes locked onto his own. Criston swallowed, guilt rising in his throat. He knew you should be attending to your husband, the Prince who was the closest thing to a son he had. Instead, you sought him out.

“I asked was it worth it?”

Criston huffed, “I don’t know…yes. We still have Vhagar, the Hightower host with Daeron and Tessarion from the south. The Westermen are trying.”

You smiled without mirth, petting his shorn hair, hand on his bearded cheek. Criston looked agonized, weary, almost fearful. His wide brown eyes flicked away. Perhaps you should be attending to Aemond. You liked him too, but you’d long fallen for the marcher between your thighs.

A brief period with Criston as your sworn sword during the engagement had linked the pair of you on a frighteningly deep level. His presence was constantly at your side, a handsome man at your beck and call. You’d grown enamored with the knight— regardless of the strife at court, his oath, and the fact you were promised to another. There was a kinship in lacking a dragon, Crownland outsiders, and mutual feelings of bondage by station.

Aemond took many a trait from his mentor— imposing warrior, sharp of tongue, and never forgot a slight. Both men were regimented and pious, devoted to their faith, and their duties. Yet they’d play dirty, and crawl outside the lines of morality to get their way. Somehow that helped you bond with the serious prince.

You languished in the engagement period, Ser Criston informing you that the prince took your maidenhead seriously. At the time you were hoping enough complaining would drive Ser Cole to action.

Aemond had discarded you after a…heavy session of kissing and petting. He ended up gasping and holding a hand out, declaring he took his vows to the heart. On the other hand, Criston folded after a month or two, sturdy hands up your dress, fingers sliding into your neglected cunt. The kingsguard was guilty and mopey, yet desperately craved your touch, as much as you desired his.

It was a vicious cycle. Feeling guilty from deviance, fucking it out, coddling each other about said deviance then ending up fucking again.

You’d thought he’d break away once you were properly wedded to Aemond, discarding you out of shame and fear. The marcher was moody for a couple of days, eventually being seduced when you knelt and swallowed his cock in an alcove after your husband had upset you. Criston was a sight with his lean thighs trembling, sculpted lips hung open with soft noises, praising you helplessly.

Aemond’s guttural grunts and muffled curses had you satisfied in a vastly different way. He did the job, rough and thorough, the possible evidence laid between you and Criston. It was the subtle swell of life in your stomach. Alas, Aemond had begun filling your womb at the break of war. Likely before the horrid death of Prince Lucerys.

Criston’s dark expression softened as one of his gloved hands palmed your stomach, covered in regal yellow velvet. You stuck to your house colors, preferring shades of yellow to green. The Lord Commander asked, “Do you think…?”

You weren’t sure. He didn’t quite do a good job pulling out before the wedding. He was jealous and angry, especially if Aemond had spent some of his time with you. The kingsguard was reassigned back to Queen Alicent, now severed from constant contact. You remembered Criston’s hands bruising your hips as you barked for the man to ‘pull out, on my stomach!’ He made it about halfway, frantically painting half inside and out of your cunt.

“You’re mine, mine, mine,” he’d half-sobbed.

“You’re changing the subject. There is no telling. Likely anyone would know until they got older. Baratheons come out with black hair. The queen has brown eyes, and Borros is the same. It wouldn’t be shocking,” you looked down at his hand, “There’s more of a chance of my babe being yours if that is what you’re wondering.”

Criston’s eyes didn’t match his slight pout. The man was proud deep down, under all those layers of remorse and responsibility. You placed your hand over his and gritted, “I fear the outcome of this war. I’d more like to end up with a dead lover and husband. A child with no father.”

He snatched your chin, brown eyes shining with unshed tears. Criston growled lowly, “Don’t speak of things like that. We shall win this damnable war. Rhaenyra and that vile Daemon shall die,” the marcher added in a softer tone, “I will be there for the child.”

“Do you not think of absconding?”

His rough hand swept back to caress your inky hair, lips twisting uncomfortably. Criston bit out, “No. Not anymore. My fate relies upon the family that saved me.” His lips moved to your neck, kissing softly, battle-worn hands holding your neck.

“I think of absconding, ah, lest they send me to a black cell.”

Criston murmured angrily against your neck, “Then you ‘retreat’ to Storm’s End. I know your father has no love for Rhaenyra’s claim. Stop. You’re going to make yourself go insane.”

“You make me insane, Criston Cole.”

“I love you,” he pouted, that delicious pity filling his pretty head. You leaned forward to kiss him, soft tits and that slight bump pressing against his loose garments. He wasn't wearing his armor— a simple shirt and dark pants. Criston sighed, head tilting, one hand in your hair, the other sliding down your back.

He groaned soft and sweet, sharing innocent kisses that turned deeper and darker as desire grew. You readjusted on his lap, annoyed with the damn bump. Custom murmured, “When I return, I'll get to see my darling doe all buxom and glowing with my child.” You shivered, pressing your lips into his, lapping into a warm mouth.

Criston’s hands wandered freely, caressing your belly, moving up to grope your tits. He pulled away to breathe teasingly, “Mm- your tits will be gorgeous, you're already blessed as is. He pulled down the hem, exposing your sore chest. You couldn't help but moan and grind on his thigh, squirming with the lavish attention.

“What shall you name the child?” He hummed before sealing his lips around your nipple. Your hand grabbed his shoulder, heaving a soft breath at the flicking of the marcher’s tongue. You stammered, lashes flitting, “Some-thing Valyrian I, fucking smith’s balls, suppose. If it’s a girl, she shall have- Criston! Shall have my mother’s name.”

The man pulled off with a wet pop and smirked, moving to the other budded peak. You cursed and moaned as his fingers plucked at your slick nipple. You gripped at that damned chain of hands, arching into his eager mouth, rutting against his hard thigh. Your shift wedged between your legs was growing damper by the second, sticking uncomfortably to your folds.

Criston groaned and squeezed to the point of pleasure-pain. His soft brown eyes gazed up, mauve lips swollen. The knight still held your tits, thumbing idly. He croaked, “You’re beautiful. I love you,” tears welled up in his eyes, “We shouldn’t do this anymore.”

You knew Criston wasn’t wrong, thumbing a tear from his pretty face. It had been on your mind too. Exhaling softly, you kissed his other fallen tear, tasting the salt. You spoke in a low tone, fearful you may cry, “I know. We shan’t. I just want you to be there.”

Both of you knew Aemond’s pride would be shattered. He was erratic enough to have both of you beheaded and then fed to Vhagar. The prince’s wife fornicating with his surrogate father. It would be another blight next to his title of ‘kinslayer.’ This had to end before they marched to Harrenhal.

“I’ll be there, I promise.”

“Then let us enjoy ourselves a final time, hm?”

Criston inhaled sharply, nosing up along your throat, hands raking up your dress. He muttered, “I suppose if the bitch did it with no repercussions, you can too. To think how much I hated her bastards.” You let him ramble on, hands working off his loose shirt, eyeing the way his gold chain and necklace glimmered against olive skin and dark chest hair.

You shushed the man as your hands grabbed the strings of his breeches. In a soft voice, you replied, “Fate has a way of coming full circle. Do come back alive at the least.” He frowned again, nibbling on his lip when you eased his stiffened prick out. “I will miss this though, do you truly think we can stay away from one another?”

The knight moaned as you pumped him a few times, index finger swiping off his pre, your lips closing around the pearlescent drop. He blabbered, blinking dumbly, “I don't know. For now, this is the last time. C’mon love, you're all wet, need you.”

You smiled as he held up the dress— your hand guided the blunt head of the cock to your dripping entrance. It was an easy slide downward as your hands clasped his strong shoulders, gasping as his cock stretched and filled your cunt.

His dark lashes fluttered, thighs flexing underneath you as he groaned long and low. He held your waist, one hand periodically resting on your tummy. You took his swollen mouth, gently lifting and dropping your hips. The pair of you panted and desperately grabbed at each other, tongues intertwined, whines leaking out of tight throats.

Criston’s hips began to meet yours at a faster pace, fucking moans out of you. He grunted, “Gods— I fucking love you. Thinking about you, us, even if from afar. I shall crawl back if I have to.” You rolled up tight against his frame, forehead plastered to his cheek.

It was barely a whisper.

“I love you too. Very much.”

You realized you were wetting his skin, tears falling as you rode him harder. Criston gently moved your head up, hips stilled while peering in concern. It was an odd occurrence for you to shed tears. His face twisted in sympathetic pain as he asked ”Doe, what are you fretting for?”

Criston’s breath hitched as he took your lips again, both hands cupping your face, calloused thumbs swiping away tears. The chair creaked as you found leverage on your knees, riding him faster and faster— escaping the pain in your heart. He cried out, lips sliding against one another.

“J-Just, don't stop, make it feel real,” came the breathless beg.

The Hand, the Lord Commander, the Knight, the steward’s boy from Blackhaven. Criston Cole sorely missed being the young Knight from the Marches right now. He whimpered at the clenches around his pulsing cock, silky cunt gripping him as you bounced. He felt the hard bump of pregnancy, cock twitching at the visceral reaction it gave him.

You tossed back black hair as Criston pinched and squeezed at your nipple, wetly panting as you took the reins. The man’s eyes scrunched shut as he whined throatily, hand slinking under all that yellow velvet to circle your button. The electric stimulation and his swollen girth had you whining and choking out his name, arms locked around the tan neck.

“Fuck…jus’ like that, close Criston,” you mewled.

He was babbling lowly, likely sonnets of praise and devotion. The pair of you were much too gone to properly kiss— more panting and pressing messy lips wherever possible. Criston bucked up as he thumbed upward roughly on your pearl. You bit down on the meat of his shoulder to keep from howling.

Only the sound of heavy breath, the chair squeaking, and the tell-tale slaps of two bodies writhing filled the room. His free hand dug into your cheek, glossy dark eyes watching your furrowed brows and flushed face. You could feel his prick twitching and swelling more, Criston was close.

You were along with the knight on that razor-thin ledge, thighs and cunt quivering. His incessant touches to your bundle brought more pricks of hot tears to your eyes, mournfully whining, “I love you, fill me up this time, wan’ it.”

“Ah- nuh- love you- oh fuck yes,” he groaned.

He snapped first, hot breath fanning over your cheek as he curled forward, hips and chest following, thick ropes of spend filling your already stuffed pussy. The feeling had you shaking and clinging to your lover, thighs given out as he thumbed you over the edge.

You came apart in teary inhales and erotic little sobs on the exhale— sharp and whiny. Criston growled under his breath as your pussy milked him some more, balls forced to push out just a little more, toeing that painful pleasure. He felt ragged, bleak, spent. He wanted to carry you to bed.

You smoothed out his hair, eyes brimming with tears, a painful smile on your face. You needed to leave now and get cleaned up before bed. Before Aemond barged in here asking to discuss the battle. It would have been better if he carried you to bed or a bath.

He took your lips once more as his bigger hands eased your frame off of his softening dick. Your lover’s molten seed leaked from your sore cunt. Ever the protector, he fussed over your state, hands fixing your dress, asking little questions. It stung like a manticore when you pushed Criston’s lovely hands to get him away.

“No more sweet knight, I need to get going. We must refrain now. I can't go around looking like this.”

Criston frowned and repeated himself, “I will be back. I promise.”

“I love you.”

He watched your trembling form exit his chambers in the Hand’s tower. He got up, stepped to the door, then stopped. Criston stifled his sob, locking the door instead. The knight would drink and sit with his thoughts. It was only right for a sinner destined to fail and take others down with him. He grit his teeth and swallowed down the nearest spiced rum bottle, fingers curled around those damn gilded hands.

#hotd fanfic #hotd smut #ser criston cole #ser criston cole x reader #criston cole x reader #big Pookie hours on this rainy day #criston cole smut

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pennonpennant · 1 month ago

Note

<-[}@{ Illiterate, I assume? ]>---------------

<-[}@{ Motherfucker do you ]>-------------

<-[}@{ KNOW about the church? ]>--------

<-[}@{ Its been a pretty strong ]>-----------

<-[}@{ fuckin consensus for a real ]>-------

<-[}@{ long motherfuckin' time ]>----------

<-[}@{ that Cherubs either are the ]>-------

<-[}@{ species that the scriptures ]>--------

<-[}@{ fuckin' talk about, or that ]>---------

<-[}@{ theyre heavily fuckin related. ]>-----

<-[}@{ Even the fuckin athiest ]>-----------

<-[}@{ nooks register they exist. ]>---------

<-[}@{ We have fucking museums ]>-------

<-[}@{ full of their goddamned ]>-----------

<-[}@{ uraniun plated bones. ]>-------------

<-[}@{ Fuckin' philistine contrariphile. ]>---

<-[}@{ Visit a goddamn museum. ]>--------

And alzo chervbz

AAlso not reaal.

#grumblr #//ooc: ! cherubs are the source of the green bones all over alternia and beforus #//ooc: this was mentioned once or twice in the dream bubbles as why gigantic green snakes and green angels were so important in mythology #//ooc: like how calliope and caliborn are heavily heavily heavily implied to be the mirthful messiahs #//ooc: meaning that it would be reasonable to assume that the pantheon of the clown faith would likely have English as a sort of #//ooc: god figure. two promised messiahs. and an adversery. each role being filled with. eventually.#//ooc: english. calliope. caliborn. and doc scratch. who are all also kind of the same person.#//ooc: its part of the whole purplebloods are somehow caricatures of like. three or four different demographics of people.#//ooc: and gamzee being mother mary- and lil cal could totally be a fuckin holy spirit analog- seriously its like a whole thing.

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whitachi · 5 months ago

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Shousetsu Bang*Bang Issue 109

cover by Prosodi

~*~

Haul Away, by Torino Koji

Arame Cove, by Domashita Romero (地下ロメロ)

Hunger at Sea, by Johannes T. Evans

In the River’s Hands, by Someone Else *

Odysseus Didn’t Know What He Was Missing, by shukyou (主教) *

Bitter Little Things, by Shrimp King

The Diary of Mr J. Walker, by Kit Miller *

* illustrated

—

Breaking in the Deckhand, by Pastel

~*~

Avast, ye landlubbers! Do not pass this booty by!

Ye heard aright! The S. S. Bang*Bang, set to sea for lo these many months, be returned to port this very day with a fine haul of booty hauled up from the briny depths for your eager eyes! We’ve the precious works of a few old salts for ye here in this pile of plunder, plus the fine pieces of a few tender mateys just beginning to get their sea legs under them. Be ye ever seeing such a fine haul of booty in all yer days?

Now, see, ye keep laughing every time I say “booty”! Do ye bilge rats not know booty be no joking matter among the men of the sea? ‘Tis true! This queer booty be stuffed with treasures galore, whether measured by league or by knot.

Aye, I spake no lies, ’tis queer! The queerest booty ever found on the high seas! So queer a thing as never before met the eyes of scallywags the likes of yerselves! Queer enough to blow ye down! To blow any man down!

Friend, ye be laughing again. What in this booty be worth such mirth? Know ye not a man’s booty be a serious thing?

Well, then! If ye still be lacking faith in me words to ye here, read the issue and see! And should ye have a friend or two in this world, pray be telling them of the fine haul to be discovered here and all the queer wonders what be contained within its pages.

Fair winds to ye, friend, and may yer anchor — and other parts — always be tight!

—

(For summaries, creators’ notes, and more, we would usually tell you to see this issue’s entry on the Shousetsu Bang*Bang wiki. In the interim, however, please visit the relevant Google Doc of contributor commentary for similar content.)

#s2b2 #shousetsu bang bang #queer #queer fiction

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multi-fandom-imagine · 6 months ago

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A/n: I apologize if this sucks 😑, been a while 😩

Jealous...he couldn't believe that he was jealous. It's not like he had a right to be. You were faithful, he knew that you would never do anything it was those parasites that wouldn't leave you alone is what he couldn't stand.

His fur bristles seeing one asshole not leaving you alone, the bastard trying to fix your necklace even though you were clearly uncomfortable. Working his jaw he straightened his form making his way towards you. His arm tightening around your hips pulling you too his side.

"You have two seconds to leave my sight before I put a bullet between your eyes." Mordecai sneered.

Watching the man quickly scatter away, a small snort escaped your lips. Shaking your head you placed a light kiss to his cheek as Mordecai's gaze lingered on the man until he was out of view. "You get so cute when you get all jealous."

"Hmp." Rolling his shoulders, he could still feel his irritation hit him. "We're leaving."

"Ohh! I know that look." It was the same look he always had when he wanted to fuck away his own frustrations. "Let's hurry up, wouldn't want you to get more pissed off....more jealous" you teased.

Mordecai harrumphed, feigning annoyance but his eyes twinkling with mirth betrayed him. "Jealous? Of those idiots with half a brain?" He spat, but that was a lie, anyone with a brain could see how jealous he was and right now he had to fix with. Not giving you a chance to react, he used the hand that wasn't holding your waist to swoop down and capture your lips in a intoxicating kiss, pouring all the longing and desire he harbored for into that liplock.

"Those idiots can look all they want. But only I get to touch you." Mordecai had to bite his tongue, he'd rather not they look but he couldn't do much about it.

Chuckling softly, you shook your head as your fingers clutched his tie fixing as he bent down for another kiss as he pressed you into the wall. His hand left your cheek to thumb your bottom lip lovingly when he detached from your lips again, his half-lidded eyes darkened with want.

"We're leaving."

Nearly melting into your kiss, you let your fingers clutch his shirt tightly. Before breaking the kiss your fingers grabbed a hold of his tie to peer up at him.

"I wouldn't mind that....I also wouldn't mind if you get a little possessive. I do like it when you get possessive Mordecai."

A low rumbling growl erupted from Mordecai's chest at your words, his eyes flashing with feral possession. "Is that so?" He practically purred, angling his face down so his words ghosted hotly against your parted lips.

"Well then, how could I ever deny such a request." In a blink of an eye, he grasped hold of your wrist tugging you into one of the spare rooms, locking the door. He didn't care at the moment, his thoughts only consumed by you. His hands gripped your hips tightly, the dig of his fingers undoubtedly leaving marks under the fabric of your dress that only he can see a declaration of ownership only for his eyes.

"How's this for possessive?" Mordecai practically growls in your ear, nipping at your neck playfully yet with an underlying edge. One hand leaves your hips to sneaking under your skirt, deft fingers parting the silky fabric of your underwear. He rumbled smugly when he felt your slick arousal coating his digits even before he touched your heat.

"So wet for me already." He praised huskily before positioning himself against your backside, letting you feel his hardened length pulsating eagerly through his pants.

Any rational thought he had was long gone, you always had that effect on him and since it was you he just didn't care.

"We have the whole night ahead of us. Do you think you can handle another of my jealous tantrums?"

Mordecai rolled his hips against your ass teasingly, his other hand coming around to palm your breasts possessively through your dress. "Or should I show everyone here who you really belong to?" He whispered darkly in challenge, nipping the curve of your neck.

You had to bite back a whimper as Mordecai clutched your hips. "Mordecai...please."

"Please, what?" Mordecai rumbled smugly against your ear, already knowing what you wanted yet choosing to draw it out to further rile you up. His fingers toyed with the slit of your panties, gathering your arousal in wet circles around your clit but never directly touching where you wanted him most.

“Use your words...you can still do that? Can't you?.” He reminded huskily, biting back a groan as you ground your ass against his hard length desperately. God, how he wanted to take you.

But this, this was by far more fun, drawing out your pleasure is just as enjoyable for the possessive man. Mordecai pressed open-mouthed kisses along the column of your neck, sure to leave dark love bites as a reminder of who made you sing.

“Tell me what you need’. I will give it to you, on one condition.” He pulled his fingers away from your drenched folds to pivot you around, smirking devilishly as your eyes fluttered open to meet his lust filled gaze, glasses long gone from his face.

“Scream my name for everyone to hear when you come. Let these idiots know who you're with.” Mordecai snarled, dipping his head to envelop your lips in a hungry, punishing kiss as he delved two fingers deep inside your core without warning, curling them expertly against the sweet spot.

“Now say it.” He demanded against your lips, working his fingers in and out of your tight heat mercilessly. “Tell me what you want, princess.”

A cry tore from your lips as you clutched the sheets below you. "Mordecai! Please, fuck me."

A possessive, feral snarl tore from Mordecai's throat at your pleading words. "Good girl." He rumbled appreciatively, yanking his fingers out of your soaked heat to quickly undo his belt and fly.

Without any preamble, Mordecai spun you around once more.Back now on the bed as he caged you in, hovering above you.

He wasted no time sinking his thick girth deep inside your clenching heat with one deep thrust, the feeling so velvety and tight around him making both of you keen at the intimate reconnection.

His lips crashed down to devour your gasp and moan, swallowing your sound as he set a punishing pace from the get go. The smacking sound of sweat-slicked skin meeting echoed in the still night, Mordecai's fingers digging bruisingly into your thigh wrapped around his waist to hold you in place.

"You always feel so wonderful." He grunted against your mouth, angling his hips to hit that treasured spot deep inside with each hard thrust. Mordecai drank in your features contorting in bliss, his own face a mask of feral rapture.

His pistoning grew more erratic as his release approached, his fingers finding your pearl and rubbing tight circling motions. "Come for me'. I wanna feel you clench around my cock when you scream my name." Mordecai demanded gutturally, pistoning his hips sharper.

"M-Mordcai!" You cried out as your orgasm crashed over you in flooding waves, inner walls clamping deliciously tight around Mordecai's cock still pistoning relentlessly through your high.

A low snarling curse tore from Moredcai'z throat at your whimpered declaration, the sound of his name on your lips as you came undone pushing him over the edge. With a feral snarl, he sunk his teeth onto the juncture where your neck meets your shoulder to muffle his grunts as he spilled his hot seeds deep into your fluttering sheath.

The two of you clung to one another as you both floated down from your shared high, Mordecai still languidly rocking into your tender core to ride out the aftershocks. His claws tracing idle patterns on your hip elicited intermittent shivers from you.

"Are you alright?" He whispered hoarsely once he found his voice again, pressing wet kisses along your shoulder and up your neck suddenly embarrassed, he did his best to not look at you.

He pulled out of you slowly and turned you to face him, his gaze softening at you as he cupped your cheeks.

"I'm fine Mordecai...you don't have to apologize. If I didn't like it then I would tell you."

Humming, Mordecai nodded his head as he shifted his body holding you close as he nuzzled his nose into your neck, you felt so good. Your body nestled tightly into his own, he could feel your heart beat. You were so soft, he loved moments like these. He loved how your tail would wrap around his own. Sure the sex was amazing, it was something he couldn't get enough of when it came to you.

He couldn't help but feel prideful knowing it was his scent, his cologne that covered your body. Maybe those idiots would leave you alone.

Shifting your body, you gave Mordecai a sleepy smile as you gave his chest a lazy kiss. "Do you feel better now?"

Scoffing, he adverted his gaze from you. He rather not admit how good it felt to be within you. He was never good with words, he was still shocked how he even managed to have you as someone like you by his side. "Yes...much better."

#drabbles #drabble #mordecai #mordecai heller #lackadaisy mordecai #mordecai lackadaisy #mordecai x reader #mordecai x you #mordecai heller x reader #mordecai heller x you #lackadaisy #lackadaisy smut #lackadaisy x reader #lackadaisy x you #mordecai heller lackadaisy

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missmonsters2 · 1 year ago

Text

Mirror, Mirror | Six: Epilogue

Please do not copy, repost, or translate my work anywhere else.

PART FIVE

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Fem!Reader

Summary: You never really thought about Wanda other than the fact that she's your best friend. Nothing more, nothing less. It just wasn't in the realm of possibilites, so you never let yourself develop feelings. At least until someone points out that you have a very specific type when it comes to dating, so maybe it is all subconscious? Reader's POV

Warnings: best friends to lovers. shenanigans. jealousy, jealousy. sexual tension. pining. yearning. sexual thoughts. spicy (tumblr's version). stupid steve. neurotic nat. brat & stinky. bug as in shutterbug.

*explicit version will only be available on Ao3 & will be posted there after series is completed*

Note: Mini Series is completed! Thank you so much for tagging along with me <3 Explicit version available in a week.

Reminder there's no taglist but you can follow my library blog for notifications 💘

Series Masterlist || Library Blog || AO3

Count: ~3.1k

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You rarely think about sentences that could change your life.

There are too many instances that could change your life; therefore, it would be moot to think about.

You have a terminal illness.

You've won 69 million dollars.

Someone you love has horrifically died—no, there were no remains.

It's all too overwhelming to think about; therefore, you don't. Yet, somehow, if you ever did think about life-changing sentences, you didn't think it could ever be, "Hey, have you noticed how you seem to exclusively date girls who look like Wanda?"

And it was like the ground crumbled underneath you. It was such a sickening realization—not that Wanda was in any way sickening—it was the fact that you might just be subconsciously a pervert.

The more you thought about the words, the more horrifying it became. Every one-night stand, every situationship, every girlfriend—god, they all looked like Wanda.

You're too scared to think about it deeper in fear of what it would reveal subconsciously every time you kissed or fucked a girl. Were you thinking of Wanda? God, you just couldn't think about it.

This was all Bucky's fault. You wished you had never gone out onto that balcony that night.

3 months prior to that night at the bar with Wanda & Steve

The cool air felt better, and the breeze settled on the back of your neck. There was definitely too much wine going around, and you only managed to escape as Tony brought out the hard liquor.

The crowd dispersed after several shots you didn't partake in. You stared into the distance, thinking idly how Tony had way too much money. Old money was ridiculous. Why does someone need a garden fountain as big as a pool?

Movement caught the corner of your eye, and you saw Wanda and Vision walking through the dimly lit garden. You smiled fondly at your best friend as she laughed at whatever charming thing Vision had managed to say.

Vision was...just okay, in your opinion. You thought he was too nonchalant about Wanda, and that was why they were so on and off rather than consistently being together. Wanda deserved someone who loved her fiercely, and you couldn't imagine Vision always putting Wanda first.

You watched with slight melancholy when Wanda linked her arms through his as they sat on the ledge of the garden fountain. You wished you had also brought someone along for this party.

"Hey, thought I saw you sneak out here."

You turned around and saw Bucky holding a glass of beer. You smirked at him with mirth. "You know what I must do when Tony starts bringing out the grey goose."

Bucky shuddered, clearly having been roped into a few shots. He came and stood next to you, catching the scene you were staring at. "Guess they're back on then?"

You shrugged. "Guess so. We'll see how long it lasts. I'm betting 3 months."

"Be realistic. It'll be 2 and a half months," Bucky snorted.

"Ye of little faith," you teased and then sighed. "I wish I also brought someone along. I should've brought that girl I met at my photoshoot."

"The brunette with green eyes?" Bucky asked, and you nod. "You know what I've noticed?"

"Hm?" you hummed in response to Bucky's casual tone.

"You seem to have a very specific type when it comes to dating," Bucky mused. "They're always brunette—save those two girls from university—and they always have green eyes."

You furrow your brows in serious thought. "I suppose so."

"Yeah," Bucky nodded, his tone still casual. "They always remind me of Wanda, especially from the back. I always have to make sure I'm careful not to mix up your date with Wanda."

Bucky ended it with a chuckle, stating he was getting cold before he left without another world, leaving you alone outside.

The connect dots snapped into place almost instantly, horrifying you as you continued to stare at Wanda from above.

Oh, fuck.

Maybe it was a good thing you didn't bring anyone tonight. You're not sure how you'd be able to take someone home into your bed with the daunting realization you go after girls who look like your best friend...because you actually want your best friend.

The three months since that discovery had nearly driven you to insanity. Since you refused to talk to anyone about it, most of your thought process was, " Oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no."

But in the end, you resolved that it couldn't happen. Wanda would never reciprocate your feelings in a million years, especially since she had Vision. Wanda occasionally even talked about the possibility of marrying him down the road.

It wasn't happening. It was never going to happen.

Wanda was more important to you than anyone in the whole entire world. You would never allow anything to risk the friendship—even your feelings.

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You felt like a sick sexual deviant.

Despite your resolve to bury your feelings and continue on as normal, it was getting increasingly weird to continue to see girls who looked like Wanda. Yet, you couldn't stop. It wasn't doing it for you otherwise.

But now, every time you kissed a girl, all you could see was Wanda in her. Sex was beginning to become a guilty pleasure for all the wrong reasons.

When you met Raye, it felt like another sinful thing to lust after, knowing how much she physically reminded you of Wanda. But you could see a big personality difference in the short time you spent chatting with Raye.

Wanda was the type you spoiled, indulging in her strange, wacky ideas. She could be very emotional, swinging from one side of the spectrum to another. She had such a big heart, willing to love, but also held grudges and was wicked if crossed. Wanda was a brat in all the loving ways you could mean.

Raye could be best described as emotionally consistent. On the surface, she portrayed a wicked sense of humor and was fun to be around, but she was much more guarded than Wanda. She was very independent, not liking anything that might even intrude on her freedom. Raye kept her true feelings close to herself and seemed to be teasing you to come find out.

It was different. You didn't mind, maybe liking it even (purely in the sense it was the opposite of Wanda, and you couldn't afford to keep lusting after your best friend in all possible ways).

Even so, your mind was distracted on the first date.

"Have you ever done a boudoir photoshoot?" Raye asks, her tone low and seductive.

"Can't say that I have," you smile, trying to remind yourself to be present during the date. It's been long since you've properly wined and dined someone, and Wanda kept entering your thoughts.

"Well, there's a first for everything and you might even have a willing model," Raye bit her bottom lip suggestively, her index finger stroking the back of your hand.

And while the southern twang does stir something in you, and you feel your stomach tingling, you're very aware that it's because Raye physically reminds you of Wanda. So, your mind traitorously imagines Wanda biting her lip and saying seductive things to you.

"THEY WOULD NEVER—"

You whip your head around, swearing you heard Wanda. When there was no sign of her, you furrowed your brows in confusion, turning back to Raye.

Was this a sign of insanity?

You resolve right then and there to focus on the lovely brunette before you and enjoy the date. It was easy enough if you relaxed and earnestly asked Raye questions about herself.

It was easy enough to hold Raye's hand and swing it back and forth if you just thought about how warm they were.

It was enough to giggle when Raye leaned in closer to whisper something silly or naughty in your ear if you just thought about how her breath felt on the shell of your ear.

Suddenly, the car next to you went off, the alarm beeping loudly enough to make you and Raye jump in surprise. You turned around and noticed the couple behind you were gone. You thought they looked slightly familiar, but it was too difficult to determine when they were so far away in the dark under passing streetlights.

Ultimately, you walk Raye up her steps, unsure what you want your next move to be. Everything feels strange since the revelation. You feel guilty for your lust, but specifically what causes it.

But when Raye pulled you in for a hot, searing kiss, you decided to just go with the flow...which also ended up being nothing as she got a call from her sister while clothes were discarded.

The call was only bordering on 40 seconds, but you decided your momentum was lost, and you needed that momentum to have sex with someone else while you tried (unsuccessfully) to not think about Wanda.

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷

Fuck. Darcy.

Those were the only words that could come to your mind after Wanda texted her vague answer about whether or not she was returning home tonight.

You sighed as you scrolled through the videos and photos, trying to get a headstart on putting together the video for Tony and Pepper. As you began opening up files, many were corrupted by the inability to open or glitchy images.

With another sigh, your chair scraped against the floor as you shifted back, pulling out your phone and shooting a quick text to the videographer asking if you could meet up tomorrow to get the SD card for the originals. You got a prompt reply with a thumbs-up emoji with a time and place.

You thought you might've just heard something shuffle in your room, but you forget about it when it's quiet again.

In the end, you spent another 45 minutes scrolling through some other photos that weren't corrupted, catching Wanda in the background and staring with a lingering thought about how absolutely pretty she was.

A part of you was in disbelief that Wanda was interested in women. You had so many questions that still lingered, but you didn't want to push Wanda or make it seem like you were interrogating her, and she needed to prove it.

Still, you wondered what exactly made Wanda come to terms with the fact that she liked women.

Specifically, why couldn't you be the reason she was interested in women? You shoved those forbidden feelings down, beating them back into its box to put away.

It didn't matter.

It shouldn't matter.

You're with Raye, and Wanda may be with Darcy. Or some other girl, or maybe even with a guy again.

It's just not going to be you.

And that's okay, you tell yourself. You can love someone without having to pursue anything. You just want to be there for Wanda.

Of course, all of this changed the moment you watched a slanted confession video from an unaware Wanda while your roommate was out for lunch with a client.

Shock is the only thing that registers upon the video finishing. Were you hallucinating again? Was this like the first date with Raye where you kept thinking you could hear or see glimpses of Wanda?

But you played the video over and over, blinking every time it was finished.

Then a burst of strange laughter bubbled from your mouth, and then horror dawned on you that, 'oh, fuck. She actually feels the same way.'

It was unclear whether or not Wanda was trying to let her feelings be known or if she was also facing the same issue as you, where she was suppressing them. Either way, Wanda would unlikely be brave enough to say anything soon.

You spent the week humming and hawing about what pursuing a relationship with your best friend would mean. What would the consequences be if things didn't work out? What would the consequences be if you declined to pursue anything more despite if Wanda confessed? What would the consequences be to watch Wanda move on and love someone else?

Your stomach dropped.

You needed to break up with Raye.

Your stomach dropped.

You wait 3 more days before confronting Wanda since she's clearly a chicken.

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷

"You knew you had feelings for me for at least 3 months?" Wanda screeches. "And you said nothing?!"

"Okay, relax, you banshee," you wince at the sound. "How is that the only thing you hung onto out of everything I just told you?"

"But...but!" Wanda narrows her eyes on you. "It was getting serious with Raye!"

"Serious?" you raise your brow at Wanda. "What gave you the idea it was getting serious? We were dating but I saw her maybe a few days out of a month with how much she flies out for work."

"So, it wasn't getting serious at all?" Wanda frowns.

"Well," you purse your lips. "Maybe for Raye. She was considering transferring to another department so she wouldn't have to fly out anymore."

Wanda's mouth hangs open, her face pale with the worst thoughts of what might've been if they never confessed their feelings.

"Which," you cut in like you're able to read her mind, "obviously, I told her to not do as I wanted to end things with her."

"How did she take it?" Wanda asks curiously.

You look uncomfortable as you shift in bed, but Wanda waits patiently. "I think she just emotionally shut down. There were no tears, no screaming, or any accusations about why I was ending things. She just looked impassive as she accepted it and asked me to leave."

"Oh," Wanda bit her bottom lip. She feels bad in a way, but not bad enough to regret making you hers. "I'm sorry, bug."

You sigh as you reach over and pull Wanda close, pressing a kiss to her bare shoulder. The blanket shifts down, exposing Wanda's neck and collarbone where you had unabashedly marked up.

"Now, are you done with the questions, or can we resume where we left off?" You ask mischievously, pressing languid kisses against the side of her neck.

Wanda closes her eyes with a soft hum, pressing her body closer to yours until you shift and move over Wanda.

"I notice that you didn't mention anything about Darcy."

"Mention what exactly?" You say between kisses, stroking Wanda's hip. "That I was insanely jealous and wished her ill? Although, now that I know it was a fake date and neither of you had interest in each other, she seems nice."

Wanda laughs. "Even after she hacked your laptop?"

"With your help, might I remind you," you pull up and pointedly look at her. "But if she never corrupted those wedding files, I would've never got the original SD card and found out about your feelings."

"Very true," Wanda muses as she throws her head around your neck and pulls you close. She pecks your lips charmingly. "We should get her a nice bottle of wine."

"What about Steve and Bucky."

Wanda scoffs. "They're meddling little school girls who are probably kicking their feet and giggling."

You can't help but laugh before you dive in for another kiss, eager but slow. Oh, man. You were going to love Wanda for the rest of your life.

After a moment, Wanda sighs. "Okay, fine. We can give our McDonald's coupons to Steve and Bucky."

You laugh again. "Alright, brat."

"Okay, stinky."

"Chicken."

"Stupid."

"Witch."

"Here we go again with that," Wanda rolls her eyes with a smile. "I'll have you know that if I were a witch, I'd be the most powerful and best witch ever."

"I bet you would," you agree very readily. "Instead of cursing people to death, you'd be saving their lives...or causing mass chaos. Huh, I guess that's not so different from now."

Wanda scoffs indignantly before she starts tickling you. You laugh, trying to jerk away, but Wanda is persistent in keeping you in place.

"Mercy!" You laugh as you roll to the side.

"Take that back! I do not cause chaos!"

"I take it back! You're clearly an A-List superhero!"

Wanda continues to tickle you anyway. "Say you love me!"

"I love you!"

Only then does Wanda stop, grinning wickedly as she presses a chaste kiss to your lips, and you're breathing heavily.

You want to call her a menace, but you're afraid that will only result in another tickle fight.

Wanda smiles warmly.

"I love you, too."

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷

"See, I told you Wanda would be the one to confess!" Steve smirks.

"That's because you're a little cheater who went and nudged Wanda along," Bucky rolls his eyes with a smile.

"Oh, yeah, like you're the perfect picture of fair," Steve narrows his eyes. "Don't think I don't know that you went to Bug first. I had to step in and nudge Wanda to make the odds even."

"Was it really Wanda who confessed when it was Bug who technically discovered her secret."

Steve seems to think about it before he slumps into the sofa, "I feel like that's a gray area." Then, Steve frowns. "Ugh, but then that means neither of us wins the bet."

"We can just call it even," Bucky shrugs, laying his head on Steve's shoulder.

"Oh, no," Steve shakes his head. "I won't let you wriggle out of our bet. We will watch all the Lord of the Rings movies if you lose."

Bucky groans loudly. "But there's so many and they're so long."

"You really think I want to watch the Star Wars movies?" Steve rolls his eyes.

"They're a classic!" Bucky argues.

"So is Lord of the Rings."

Bucky huffs but concedes. "Fine," he wrinkles his nose. "Should we bet on something else?"

"No, I like the thrill of two people getting together, even if it takes time. Besides, we have the time since we have to finish a whole bunch of shows," Steve says.

"Hm, which ones of our friends are due to get together?" Bucky muses.

"We could try Nat and Maria," Steve suggests.

"No, too hard since Maria doesn't live here," Bucky shakes his head and then offers, "Yelena and Kate?"

"I think they're actually already together," Steve furrows his brows. "But if they're not, I'm too scared of Yelena to get involved in her affairs."

"I think that's all our friends who are technically single with a viable date option," Bucky sighs.

Silence falls between them before Steve suggests, "Want to bet when Tony and Pepper will announce they're pregnant?"

They stare at each other for a moment before they yell out their guess at the same time.

"6 months!"

The silliness of it all leaves Steve and Bucky giggling.

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x you #wanda maximoff imagine #wanda maximoff fluff #wanda maximoff x y/n #avengers imagine #scarlet witch imagine #scarlet witch x reader #wanda maximoff fanfiction #modern avengers au #Elizabeth olsen x reader #mm: my fics

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caligvlasaqvarivm · 6 months ago

Note

Hey I know this isn't on-topic for an Eridan blog but you're the best HS theorist I know <3 so do you happen to have any theories about WHY Gamzee faked god tier? I always see theories about how he could be a real god tier too, or about how he manages to be immortal even though he's not god tier, but I cannot find any discussion of WHY he bothered with that ruse in the first place!!! He didn't even fool anyone, unless we count Caliborn for like 2 secs before Hussie told him the truth, and all he got for his trouble was shot!

I think it's mostly a gag, but this is the Analyzing Homestuck blog, so: I think it's because Gamzee wants to look like an adult to impress Caliborn.

Gamzee's lusus is physically neglectful.

But you were never taught that on account of a lousy upbringing. Your custodian was always out to sea.

And several things stem from that neglect - the first, his indoctrination into the Clown Cult, the second, his extensive and all-encompassing drug usage, and the third, his poor social skills, which leave him ostracized by his teammates.

Let's first take a look at what, exactly, that religion entails:

You belong to a RATHER OBSCURE CULT, which foretells of a BAND OF ROWDY AND CAPRICIOUS MINSTRELS which will rise one day on a MYTHICAL PARADISE PLANET that does not exist yet. The beliefs of this cult are SOMEWHAT FROWNED UPON by those dwelling in more common lawnrings.

TC: I PeEpEd oN A PlAcE Of 6 tRiLlIoN HeMoS TC: AlL Up aT OnE RoCk, BlEeDiNg aS EqUaLs TC: It's eAsY To sEe iF YoU SeArCh aLl yOuR FeElInS TC: ThAt pEaCe hApPeNs fIrSt, AnD MuRdEr's tHe sEqUeL TC: It's tHe bEaUtY Of tHe cArNiVaL, tHe mAgIc's iN TeNtS

TC: all my life i believed at a fuckin paradise to come what held the most baller, darkest of carnivals to join. TC: AND A PROPHECY TC: to tell all about a band of rowdy and capricious minstrels steeped in the good harshwhimsy. TC: THE MIRTHFUL MESSIAHS WERE FORETOLD TO BE CRASHING THAT FUCKING PIE STAND AND BRING THE HOLY RUCKUS. TC: like a giddy fuckin ninja one wheeling head long at the hugest fuckin horn heap shangri la's got to see. TC: I'M TALKING ABOUT THE VAST HONK, YOU BLASPHEMOUS MOTHERFUCKER. TC: what i believed in it to be was so beautiful, us and them all mellowing in tents, bumpin sounds, tossing back the faygo and soaking the miracles up our faith sponges, while the special stardust rained down at our elixir sticky faces, like a bunch a fuckin fairy powder from religion space. TC: IT WAS GOING TO BE US AND MOTHER FUCKING THEM. TC: them and mother fuckin us. :o(

In essence: Gamzee's cult believes that there will be a Vast Honk, which will kill all trolls; however, "a band of rowdy and capricious minstrels" will usher in/create a new paradaisical planet of nothing but good vibes and chill times, where the "mirthful messiahs" will get to enjoy eternity.

There's pretty clear parallels here to the Christian concept of the Rapture, which fits in with the Garden of Eden/Original Sin themes of the Dancestors and the Second Coming thing Karkat's got going on. But, more importantly, it's also pretty directly just... what SGRUB/SBURB are all about. Their original population all dies, but a bunch of kids band together to create a new universe, with new planets, where theoretically live out the rest of their godhood in peace and happiness.

Were it not for the casteist influences as a result of being a cult largely followed by highbloods, there'd pretty much be nothing inherently objectionable about Gamzee's belief system - it's fundamentally hopeful, and, in fact, when he raps about it to Tavros, part of it is outright about "equalizing" the hemocaste (they all bleed as equals, see). Tavros agrees:

AT: tHE SLAMS WERE TRULY PRIME, aND, AT: yOUR RELIGIOUS VIEWS, tHOUGH i DON'T SHARE THEM, aRE, AT: rEASONABLY INSPIRATIONAL, AT: i THINK i'M IN THE PROCESS OF RELEASING AT LEAST ONE TEAR,

Next, we'll look at the sopor usage and ostracization together, because I think they're interlinked. People on Gamzee's team are friggin' mean to him.

CG: MIRACLES ARE LIKE POOP STAINS ON GOD'S UNDERWEAR. TA: eheheh makiing fun of people2 reliigiion2 i2 the be2t thiing two do.

GC: NO TH4T SHOULD BOTH3R YOU, TH4T R34SON GC: WHY DONT TH1NGS L1K3 TH4T BOTH3R YOU?? GC: NO WOND3R V4NT4S C4NT ST4ND YOU

CT: D --> What you do appear to know is e%actly how to ma%imize my livid contempt for you CT: D --> With your revolting language and your sense of decorum CT: D --> At such breathtaking odds with the richness and perfe%ion of your b100d CT: D --> I just hate you so much

CA: that is the wworst fuckin advvice CA: wwhat an awwful thing a you to say CA: MAGIC ISNT REAL STUPID STOP BELIEVVIN IN IT

On the whole, the team treats him as the party joke, if not outright worthy of derision. The one person on his team who IS nice to him, Tavros, ghosts him after Gamzee is too forward and asks to make out with him. He's deeply lonely, and what's more, his introductory narration is littered with pessimism.

You'll be doing one thing then something else hits you just like that and you roll with it. That's what you do when life hands you lemons. You sure as fuck don't make lemonade because who the fuck knows where that fuckin' shit comes from?

Someone is bugging you. This is exciting. You're always down for shooting the wicked shit with anyone that who'll put up with you.

That last one makes it clear that Gamzee is also aware of how much people on the team don't like him.

I'm also of the opinion that "Soft Gamzee" was always fake and never existed, which is outright stated by Hussie from the book:

The best explanation for why Gamzee says he's scared of Vriska, in my opinion, is this: he's flat-put lying. It's a good way for him to maintain his cover as 'Soft Gamzee.' It also provides some ammunition for those who, against all sense of good taste and judgment, want to continue to believe and assert that Gamzee is a decent guy with sensitive emotions and vulnerabilities before he undergoes his Muderstuck awakening. He was none of those things, ever.

But there's evidence for this - Gamzee has actually always been kind of casteist:

AT: i THINK i'M IN THE PROCESS OF RELEASING AT LEAST ONE TEAR, TC: Me tOo, BrO, yOu mOtHeR FuCkIn kNoW ThErE Be sOmE Of mY EyE's RoYaL JeLlY To gO WiTh yOuR EmOtIoNaL pEaNuT BuTtEr. AT: wHOA, aHA, hA,

He's trying to be affectionately so here, but given Tavros's "whoa, haha," reaction, it seems like it's still a pretty out-of-pocket thing to say. Especially in light of GamRezi, it's pretty easy to read him as making passive-aggressive digs to Terezi here:

TC: I'm OuTsIdE kEePiNg An EyE oUt HeRe FoR tHe OlD gOaT. TC: yOu KnOw HoW iT iS wItH fAmIlY. GC: NO, NOT R34LLY! GC: 4DURRRR DURR DURP TC: Oh YeAh...

TC: hAvE yOu EvEr EvEn SeEn ThE oCeAn? TC: oR i MeAn SmElLeD iT... TC: SoRrY. GC: >:[

His reaction to Eridan is also "indulge emotional theatrics," but depending on whether you believe Eridan killed his lusus, it's debatably justified. I'm just going to mention that that's also there.

His constant assertion that Karkat is his best friend, which isn't reciprocated until after murderstuck, also kind of reads as a palecrush to me. This is supported by the fact that Nepeta has always had pale GamKat on her shipping wall - which I believe is more representative of how people feel and what they want than whether a romantic pairing is viable, as part of her Heart (and NOT Blood) powers.

He won't stop referring to Karkat as his best friend, really awkwardly changes the topic when the conversation has led to him having to acknowledge that Karkat is closer to Sollux (whom Karkat calls his best friend):

TC: yEaH mAyBe BuT hE's YoUr BeSt FrIeNd ThOuGh So It'S aLl CoOl. TC: AnYwAy I tHoUgHt ThIs SoUnDeD lIkE a PrEtTy BiG mOtHeRfUcKiN dEaL mY mAn. TC: aAaUuUhHh... CG: WHAT. TC: Aw BrO nEvErMiNd, I jUsT fUcKiN dId LiKe To ScArE tHe ShIt OuTtA mYsElF hErE. TC: tHeSe DaMn HoRnS.

(Sidebar about the usage of "best friend," Karkat pretty much outright says he's unreliable when it comes to who his best friend is at any given moment LOL - he spends pre-murderstuck insisting Sollux is HIS best friend. King of mixed signals.)

EB: who is gamzee? CG: HE WAS MY BEST FRIEND. EB: really? i thought terezi was your best friend. ... CG: GAMZEE WAS MY VERY GOOD FRIEND, WHO WAS THIS GOOFY LOVEABLE BULLSHIT CLOWN UNTIL HE WENT PSYCHO AND KILLED SOME PEOPLE. I LIKED HIM A LOT. CG: I DON'T KNOW, I GUESS MY BEST FRIEND IS REALLY JUST THE GUY WHO I HAPPEN TO BE FEELING MOST SENTIMENTAL TO AT THE MOMENT, IS THAT A FUCKING CRIME.

If we take Hussie's statement that Gamzee lied when he chased Vriska (whom he doesn't like) away from his horn pile -

GAMZEE: VrIsKa hEy yOu wAnT To uH… VRISKA: What? GAMZEE: ShIt, I WaS AlL GoInG To aSk iF YoU WaNtEd tO HoP In tHe hOrN PiLe fOr a bIt oF MoThErFuCkIn sHuTeYe, BuT… GAMZEE: I DoN'T ThInK I WiLl cAuSe i'm pReTtY MuCh sCaReD Of yOu, SoyEaH. VRISKA: Aww. ::::)

Then it stands to reason he's also lying about being scared of Jack so he can prevent Eridan from providing Karkat with emotional support:

CA: this is a lot a pointless fuckin rubbish and isnt no emotional help to him or me either for that matter CA: put kar on TC: UuUuH, i cAn't rEaLlY ThInK AbOuT InTeRvEnInG, tHe bLaCk fRoWnInG MoThErFuCkEr kInDa sCaReS Me

So, personally, signs point to Gamzee always having been a lot shiftier and meaner than he let on.

Naturally, that begs the question of why he's pretending to be nicer and higher than he actually is (not that he isn't high, but he's definitely more cognizant of what's going on than people both in- and out-of-universe give him credit for). Well, the answer to that is pretty simple: it's because he loves his friends and wants to get along with them.

You like to chat a lot with your pal Karkat, who is usually pretty cranky, but he is your BEST FRIEND. You have a lot of OTHER GREAT FRIENDS who you also like a lot.

Gamzee's story pre-murderstuck is a pretty tragic one about a kid who never got to learn proper socialization and has whacked-out religious beliefs, whose neglect from his lusus has left him with deep loneliness, who desperately wants to fit in with his friends, especially the lowbloods, and therefore feels the need to hide how pessimistic and angry he actually is under the guise of drug usage and not retaliating against the constant digs they make at him.

I also feel like I have to specify that Gamzee was already a pretty angry, mean, troubled kid prior to Murderstuck, because it helps to clarify his actions after being influenced by Lil' Cal. The nonlinear nature of the story kind of confuses the sequence of events, but it seems to be as follows:

Dave blasphemes against Gamzee's religion so hard that Gamzee has a total crisis of faith.

Gamzee has a breakdown and gets so pissed off that he oopsie-daisy'd a jester puppet into John's room on Prospit.

Gamzee, with his faith lost ("and now i don't know what to think about the spiritual fantasies i had"), Tavros dead, and thus in a very emotionally fragile state, is contacted by Doc Scratch and given instructions (likely to kill his friends and paint his wicked pictures in their blood). At some point during this, he falls under Lil' Cal's influence, too. As every person we've seen under LE's sway has very compelling, natural reasons for acting the way they do, I think it's better to see Lil' Cal's influence as influence and not mind control. It brings out the worst in its victims, but only what was already there.

This seems to give Gamzee a new belief system to replace/supplement the old.

TC: i've been kicking the wicked ignorance on this shit. TC: BEEN MOTHERFUCKIN SLAUGHTERING THE WICKED IGNORANCE, BRO. TC: all up in lifelong denial about my calling. TC: AS A DESCENDANT OF THE HIGH MOTHERFUCKIN SUBJUGGLATORS. TC: we are higher than you, brother. TC: WE ARE HIGHER THAN MOTHERFUCKIN EVERYBODY. TC: honk. CG: GAMZEE CG: PLEASE NO TC: and now i'm the last one, so i finally motherfuckin understand. TC: I FINALLY GOT MY MOTHERFUCKING UNDERSTAND ON TO WHO THE MIRTHFUL MESSIAHS ARE. TC: they were always both me. :o) TC: AND ALSO MOTHERFUCKING ME. Do:

Remember, his original belief system actually emphasized equalizing the castes - in death, anyway. It also never specified that the Mirthful Messiahs would be specifically highbloods. The hint that Gamzee had internalized casteism was always there, but now that his belief system has been supplanted by this new one, delivered by Doc Scratch (the story's Devil figure), his casteism becomes full-blown:

GAMZEE: heheh. GAMZEE: CHECK IT THE MOTHERFUCK OUT. GAMZEE: it's the peasantblood. GAMZEE: HEH HEH. GAMZEE: fuckin heh. EQUIUS: D --> Peasantb100d EQUIUS: D --> Is that a joke GAMZEE: if your blood. GAMZEE: IS A RUNNING MOTHERFUCKING GAG. GAMZEE: then soon. GAMZEE: IT WILL BE RUNNING. GAMZEE: through my motherfucking fingers.

TC: shit was motherfuckin poison, didn't you know? CG: UH... CG: NO? I MEAN, I WOULD NEVER EAT IT, BUT TC: THEN GET MOTHERFUCKIN SCHOOLFED ALL ABOUT THE WICKED NEWS, PUNCHLINE BLOODED MOTHERFUCKER.

Basically, the religious boy had a crisis of faith and was tempted by the Devil into becoming his servant - into desiring utter oblivion for everyone except his own continued existence within the one doing the destroying, rather than a paradise of love, friendship, and hope. And this new faith is what carries Gamzee through to the end of the comic:

KARKAT: HE STARTED GETTING SO UNBELIEVABLY SELF SATISFIED AND PIOUS, LIKE WAY MORE THAN HE EVER WAS BEFORE. KARKAT: LIKE HE'S JUST SO COMPLETELY CONVINCED HE'S FOUND HIS CALLING, THAT THIS SESSION IS THE GATEWAY TO THE PROMISED LAND WHERE HE'LL FULFILL HIS DESTINY. KARKAT: HE'S SO CAUGHT UP IN HIS IDIOTIC SCHEMES HE COULDN'T GIVE A FUCK ABOUT ME ANYMORE. KARKAT: WHATEVER. AT LEAST HE STOPPED KILLING PEOPLE.

So where does that bring us WRT the fake god-tier ensemble? Well, god-tiering in general is kind of a metaphor for becoming an adult - SGRUB/SBURB sets out for its player a quest directly tied into their maturation into adults, and god-tiering is (normally) supposed to sit right at the end of that questline, a semi-permanent state achieved at the end of adolescence. Characters who DO manage to god-tier without having naturally reached that point in their questline, especially Vriska, Dave, and Rose, have struggles that deal directly with "growing up too fast" - Vriska with the expectation that she be a vicious murderer, Dave with having never addressed his trauma and abuse, and Rose with having missed out on a loving relationship with her mother because she insisted on being more mature than her.

Gamzee's relationship to Caliborn is that of a parent:

ARANEA: It is just as well that cheru8 parents a8andon their offspring. Raising such a child 8y the familial standards of any race would 8e a monumental challenge. ARANEA: Nevertheless, it would seem there were those who tried. ARANEA: Details in my research suggest our villain had a num8er of acolytes oper8ting in the shadows, preparing for his arrival.

Kurloz also directly states that Gamzee's role in their religion is to serve and mentor their young lord:

KURLOZ: I COME BEARING THEE FINAL JOLLY ACCOUTREMENT MY FAITHFUL INVERTEBROTHER KURLOZ: THY BARDLY REGALIA IS DONE AND FUCKING DUSTED BY THE SPECIAL STARS THEMSELVES KURLOZ: ON THIS DAY THE DARK CARNIVAL REJOICED AND SAID IT WAS MONEY KURLOZ: NOW BRING TO LIFE OUR WICKED RUSE WITH APLOMB MY NINJA KURLOZ: OUR LORD AWAITS YOUR SERVITUDE AND TUTELAGE AT ONCE

And even beyond the religion aspect, Gamzee would take this job mother fucking seriously...

... Because his own parent failed him. See, we tie it all back to the beginning! Gamzee putting together a shitty fake god tier outfit is because he wants to be a good parent to Caliborn, an adult figure he never had in his own life, and god tiering is symbolic of that. And I think the saddest part is, he still didn't really manage to do that... because, perpetuating the neglect he faced from his own lusus, he wound up locking the two in a room and leaving them alone - possibly out of exasperation.

ARANEA: We will pro8a8ly never know who these scurrilous conspir8tors were. 8ut it is evident that at some point the cheru8 was locked in a room, either out of exasper8tion, or for its own good, until it was old enough to enter the session.

Like, I feel kind of bad for Gamzee, y'know? Especially since, alongside Eridan, he's one of the trolls the fandom seems to understand the least, and his story is also one of being failed by his family, society, and friends. This winds up turning him towards the worst parts of himself - the religious fundamentalism, the casteism, the emotional isolation - and away from the good - the fact that he loved his mother fucking friends, enough to wish upon them eternal paradise.

#homestuck #gamzee makara #homestuck analysis #homestuck lore #idk what to tag this #also i give up on fixing the colors. sorry

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