#orchid breaks your spine

[orchidspine]

Guess which one is my favorite

[itsphoenix0724]

I don’t know if your still doing the bouquet event. But an orchid with Rhysand sounds wonderful!

Orchid (Rhysand x Reader)

Warnings: angst (don't hate me)

Word Count: 970

❀° Event Masterlist ❀°

A/N: Thank you for visiting my page, I'm so sorry this took me so long to write. Reader takes the place of Feyre in this fic so Nesta and Elain are her sisters. I have a very complicated relationship with Rhys idk why he's just super hard to write for me. Please don't kill me but this is angsty I'm so sorry. But I hope that you enjoy it <3

You haven’t been able to leave the nursery since you brought your baby home. He was perfect, the crown of inky black hair matching his father, with your eyes staring back up at you. You’re humming softly rocking the cradle back and forth as he sleeps, the knitted bat stuffed animal curled under his small arm. Your body tenses as your husband slips through the doorway, he utters your name and you glare at him without stopping your lullaby. 

“I will not discuss this in front of our son.” Your tone betrays nothing of your feelings, refusing to let anything show in his presence. Rhys’s face pales a shade but he nods and gestures with his head to the door. After giving a subtle nod you leave the sleeping prince in his cradle, safely guarded by moonlit dreams, and follow Rhys out of the room. You want for nothing more than a glass of liquor, preferably the strongest Velaris has to offer, as you stand across the study from your husband.  Alas, you are nursing so your desire remains a boiling headache sprouting in your temples. 

“Darling-” Rhysand starts, but you raise one hand and he stops speaking, snapping his jaw shut. You take a moment to look at Rhysand fully. His raven hair, so normally well-kempt, is run through and the purple half-moons under his eyes cast grotesque shadows on unnaturally pale skin. You’ve barely spoken to him in days since Nyx was born. 

In fact, you’ve refused to see any of the inner circle at all seldom your sisters.

“I am going to talk now. You are going to do nothing but listen.” You will steel into your spine, wishing your power to grant you the strength for this. Rhys nods once sitting in his chair and wringing his hands together in his lap. “You made me your equal, and yet you betray me. You force the hands of our truest friends to betray me.” You have felt a tidal wave of emotions since you found out what your mate kept from you. 

Anger, betrayal, disgust, but all you feel now is sadness. 

Sadness at the reaper that seems to have been following you through your first week as a mother, angry at your sister for snatching your family back from the cold iron of his grip. 

“You have proven that the members of this court will obey your wishes without any regard for me as your equal. Not only that, the worst thing about this is you were going to let us die in ignorance, after promising that I would always have a choice with you. That is what truly breaks me, Mate.” You watch your husband fall apart before you. The High Lord of Night crumbling and dissolving like salt in water. You want to go to him, you want to ease his sobs and tell him that everything is alright. 

But everything is very much not all right. 

“Why?” is the only thing you can manage to croak out, your tears finally cracking the damn that you’ve built to keep them at bay. Rhys stands, crossing the room and three wide steps, and wraps you in his arms. You try to fight it but you let yourself collapse into the warm embrace he offers. You wail, cursing the world and your mate, beating your hands against his chest half-heartedly. He cups your cheek a thumb running to wipe the silver from your eyes, but your hands remain limp at your sides.

“I have no excuse,” he swears sinking to his knees you follow him melting without the force of his weight to keep you upright. “I tried to do my best by Madja’s instructions. I did not want to rip the joy from you, but I had no right. I’m so sorry my love, so so sorry. I wanted to bring you the news with a solution.”  You still choke around your sobs, the solid iron you’ve built around the bond cracking just a fraction, letting some of its golden light shine back through. 

“You also had no right to send Nesta on that hike. Her intentions may have been egregious, but she is the only one who was honest with me.” Rhys’s lips press into a thin line, the topic of your sister always a touchy one, but he nods. 

“I’ll do my best to be better for you.” Rhys gulps around the tightening in his throat. You don’t know how long you spend crying on the floor of his study, Rhys soothing your hair before something finally lightens in your heart and you let go. 

Forgiveness. 

You realize after one heartbeat, then two, that this feeling is forgiveness. You almost collapse under the weight of it. You meet Rhysand’s eyes and let the walls of the bond fall and you feel the palpable relief, see it in his eyes. 

“You have to be better.” You mutter, and Rhys nods resting his forehead against yours. 

“I’ll do better for you. For Nyx. For our family.” He swears and you feel the burn of another promise singeing into your skin, the stretching wings of a dove appearing on your sternum, you can see the twin appearing on Rhys’s own skin. Finally, you press your lips to his and he melts hauling you onto his lap. His kiss is bruising, the bond between you both singing happily in your chests. This healing road will be long, and the trust you’ve built with your family now broken and fragile. But the road is visible, the fog of pain gone from the path you must take. You will forgive, no matter how hard it will be. Rhys’s hands are shaking as he presses a kiss to your forehead. After all of the pain.

Forgiveness is a welcome feeling.

[waitimcomingtoo]

Once More To See You

Pairing: Peter Parker x scarlet witch!reader

Synopsis: in an effort to see Peter again, you Dream Walk and learn it’s consequences

Requested by @supernerdycookietrashblr

Masterlist

“Peter, can you hand me the sugar?”

“Didn’t you already add sugar?” Peter asked you.

“That was for the filling. This is the crust. I just want to add a little more.” You explained as you mixed the contents of your bowl together with a spatula.

“Oh, okay. Here you go.” Peter said and held the sugar out to you. You went to reach for it but realized you had an issue.

“Could you put it in please? My hands are full.” You told him and continued mixing the batter.

“You’d have more hands if you put the book down.” Peter said, making a chill go down your spin. You slowly looked up at him and felt your heart pounding in your ears.

“What did you say?” You whispered.

“The book. You should put it down.” Peter repeated. He still had a smile on his face but his eyes were full of tears. You blinked a few times in confusion before shaking your head.

“No, wait. I don’t like that. Say something else.” You said and started moving your hands around as red flares followed your fingertips. Peter slipped his hand into yours to stop you and held your intertwined hands over his heart.

“Please, honey. You know what you’re doing is wrong.” He whispered as he looked into your eyes with desperation.

“What?” You laughed nervously. “What are you talking about?”

“The Dark Hold. You told me you’d never use it. What happened?”

“How do you know about that? Who told you?” You asked as you started to grow angry.

“No one told me.”

“Then how do you know?”

“I know everything you know.” Peter said with a sad smile. You looked at him in confusion so Peter reached forward and put a hand on your cheek. You melted into his palm and wrapped your hand around his wrist as tears came to your eyes.

“Oh, honey.” Peter said softly. “You know I’m not real, don’t you?”

Your eyes immediately opened and you were staring at your bedroom ceiling. You blinked a few times until it settled in that you were in your bed, dreaming, and not actually with Peter. Your bottom lip began to tremble until you covered your face with your hands. You rolled over and silently sobbed into your pillow. You gripped the pillow after a minute and threw it across the room on a fit of rage. Your whole body shook with one as you punched your fist into your bed over and over until you collapsed onto the bed.

“It’s not fair.” You whispered through your tears. “It’s not fair.”

Once you calmed down enough to get yourself out of bed, you left your cabin to tend to the apple blossom trees outside. You walked along the trees and clipped at the orchids until you felt someone staring at you. You turned and saw Dr. Strange in the distance, sending a pit of despair to your stomach. You blinked back a few tears and looked away but still heard him approaching.

“Hey. I thought I might find you here.” Dr. Strange said as he caught up to you. You looked at him for just a moment before turning away.

“You found me.”

“How have you been since I saw you last?”

“Not great. I’ve been alone.”

“You don’t have to be.” He said, making you look at him with an unamused expression.

“Don’t I? Who do I have, Steven? Tell me. Tony’s gone. Nats gone. Steve’s gone.” You listed before sucking in a sharp breath to keep from breaking down. You were quiet for a minute and looked down at the ground.

“Peters gone.” You said quietly.

“Right. I’m sorry.” Dr. Strange said, regretting suggesting that you didn’t have to be alone. He had said it to comfort you without realizing you didn’t have any other option.

“Why are you here?” You looked up at him and shrugged.

“I wanted to offer my condolences. I know I saw you at the funeral but I didn’t get to say everything I wanted to say.” He said, sending shivers down your spine at the mention of the funeral, Peters funeral. You thought back to the cold air of the funeral home, the smell of the flowers as you lingered around Peters closed casket, and the uncomfortable shoes you had on all day that pinched your feet. You blinked back a few tears before wiping your face.

“Like what?” You asked and went back to your gardening.

“That I’m sorry I couldn’t save him.” He said, bringing you to stillness. You stared at the apple blossom in your hand for a long time until the tears in your eyes made it too blurry to see.

“It was your spell that brought all those people into our world. Your spell brought that flying green heathen after him.” You said through gritted teeth without turning to look at Dr. Strange.

“The spell went wrong. It was never supposed to pull those people into this world.” He said in a soft voice. He wasn’t making excuses, just trying to explain to you that it wasn’t on purpose.

“But it did. And because of you, I had to watch him get chopped in half by Norman’s glider. That never should’ve happened. And it never would’ve happened if you didn’t fuck up your spell and bring those people into this world. He’d still be here if it weren’t for you.” You shouted as you whipped around to see him. Dr. Strange looked at you for a minute and nodded his head to show you that he understood where your anger.

“I know. You’re right. I’m so sorry. Perhaps I shouldn’t have come.” He said with a sympathetic smile.

“No. You shouldn’t have.” You sniffled and turned back around.

“There was one more thing I wanted to speak to you about.” He said after a beat of silence, making your stomach drop.

“Whats that?” You played dumb.

“The Dark Hold. It’s gone missing. Have you seen it?” He asked you. You gulped and kept your back turned as you continued to snip your apple blossoms.

“You already know the answer to that.” You said quietly.

“Y/n-“

“Don’t.” You cut him off. “I’m not giving it back.”

“It doesn’t have to be this way, Y/n. You could give it back now and end this before it gets out of hand.”

You were quiet for a minute as you stared at the apple orchid in your hand. You eventually reached your hand up and turned it, making the apple orchid dissolve into a the red hex you were really standing inside. Your apple trees became barren and crooked and the blossom in your hand became the Dark Hold. You and Dr. Strange were silent for a moment as you both stared at the book.

“Every night, I have the same dream.” You began. “Peter is alive and he’s with me and we’re happy. And every morning, I wake up to the same nightmare. I’m here and he’s still dead. It’s not fair. I need to be with him. I deserve to be with him. The Dark Hold is going to help me do that.”

“I understand how you feel, but this is breaking all kinds of rules.” Dr. Strange warned you.

“Oh really? You know how I feel? You lost the love of your life?” You asked with a smile that was seething with anger.

“I’ll have you know I just watched the love of my life marry another man.” He said simply. You stared at him for a minute before letting out an angry laugh.

“Are you kidding me?”

“It’s true. I just went to her wedding-“

“She is still alive!” You cut him off. “She is not with you because of things you did and decisions you made. Peter isn’t with me because he is dead. Do you really think you can compare your situation to mine?”

“You’re right. I’m sorry.” Dr. Strange said quietly. You felt guilty for yelling at him but you were angry that he tried to belittle your feelings.

“You have no idea how I feel.” You said in a calmer tone. “You can see Christine anytime you want. If I want to see Peter, I’d have to be dead too.”

“Or use the Dark Hold. But I see you’ve already figured that out.” He said with a little sass in his voice.

“Why did you really come here? You clearly already knew what I was doing.“

“I came stop you before that thing completely takes you over.” Dr. Strange said and pointed to the Dark Hold.

“This thing has saved my life. It has given me a second chance to see the love of my life.”

“I know you think this what you want, but it isn’t. Trust me. This isn’t healthy, Y/n, and it’s not going to end well. You need to grieve him and move on. You can’t use this thing to bring Peter back. It’s not gonna work. Think of the cost.”

“What cost?” You scoffed and started to form a wispy red ball in your hands, just out of sight of Dr. Strange.

“It’s corrupting you. I can see it already.”

“You don’t know me. You don’t know what you see.” You growled and threw the ball of your powers at him. He went tumbling to the ground and watched as you opened the Dark Hold flipped to the page about Dream Walking.

“Don’t do it. Think about the consequences.” Dr. Strange protested when he saw what you were doing.

“There can’t be any consequences when I’ve already lost everything.” You said and started to wave your fingers around as a trail of red wisps of energy followed them.

“I know you miss him, but this isn’t the way to deal with your grief. Not only is Dream Walking dangerous, it is highly illegal. You could be killed for this.”

“I was already killed. The day I buried Peter.” You said lowly as you continued to craft your spell.

“If you keep going the way you’re going, you’re going to rack up a lot of enemies.”

You stopped conjuring your spell for a moment to look at Dr. Strange. He took a step back from you when he saw the mischievous look in your eyes.

“So that’s how this works? You break the rules, you become the hero. I do it and I become the enemy. That doesn’t seem fair.”

“I did what I had to do for the greater good. I was protecting your reality.”

“But you didn’t protect me. You took away the only thing I had left.”

“Please listen to what I’m saying. I saw millions of endings in millions of universes. Peter loved you in all of them. You are together and in love in an infinite other universe. Just not this one. Isn’t that enough?”

“No. It’s not enough. Not for me. I need to be with him in this universe. And you won’t stop me.” You said and turned back to the book.

“Maybe not. But I’m hoping I can reason with you so you can stop yourself.”

“I am never going to stop. Not until I find a universe where he and I can be happy forever.”

“Please, think about-“

You cut him off by throwing another blast of your powers at him before hovering into the air.

“Goodbye, Dr. Strange.” You said and flew off into the red sky.

When you landed, you took out the Dark Hold and started to continue your spell to Dream Walk. You did as the book said and soon felt yourself fading into another universe.

Your counterpart in the other universe felt a cold wind blow by her as the lights started to flicker. She gasped and ran to her bedroom in fear, tripping and falling over her own feet. As soon as she hit the ground, you entered her body. You blinked a few times and looked around at the unfamiliar house you were inside of before getting off the floor. You were inside a small cottage in the middle of an autumnal forrest, a shark contrast to the city life you were used to. You caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror and frowned a little. Your hair was cut to a length you never had it before and you were wearing clothes that didn’t fit your style. You didn’t feel like you at all, but you supposed it would be unlikely for all your variants to have the same sense of style. Your heart ached for Peter so you moved through the house until you found in the kitchen. His hair was buzzed and he was humming a song you had never heard before, but it was him. You took as deep breath as a smile tugged at your lips.

“Peter?” You said breathlessly.

“Baby? Is that you?” Peter asked and turned around. As soon as he made eye contact with you, his smile dropped.

“Peter.” You smiled in disbelief and walked towards him with open arms. Before you could touch him, Peter stepped back.

“Who are you?” He asked in fear.

“What? It’s me. It’s Y/n.” You laughed in confusion.

“No it’s not. You don’t walk like that. Or talk like that. Your cadence is off. And your posture is totally different. What’s going on?” He asked and looked around for the you he knew. You were stunned to silence for a moment at all the things he had picked up on until you realized his spider senses must’ve gone off once he saw you.

“Nothings going on, Petey. Just come here. I want to hold you.” You pleaded and walked towards him again. Peter stepped away from you before breaking into a run and going to the backyard.

“Baby? Are you out here?” Peter called out and started to search for you.

“I’m right here.” You said as you ran after him.

“No you’re not. You’re not my Y/n.” He shook his head and ran from you again. You ran faster and stood in front of him to block his path.

“Yes I am. Or, I could be. Please. Just give me a chance.” You pleaded and tried to touch him away. Peter ducked away from your touch and took off running.

“Baby? Where are you?” He cried out.

“Peter! Get back here!” You shouted as you chased him into the forest.

“Baby! Are you out here? Shout if you can hear me.” Peter yelled into the woods. You caught up to him but he tried to run away, so you used your powers to keep him in place. You carefully lifted Peter off the ground in a red wisp of your powers and brought him over to you. Peter struggled against your forces but couldn’t break free.

“Please don’t hurt me. I didn’t do anything wrong. I’m sorry I said you weren’t the real Y/n. We can pretend you are if you want. I’ll do anything. Just please don’t hurt me.” Peter pleaded as tears started to fall down his face. Your mouth opened in surprised and you felt yourself tear up as well.

“What? I would never hurt you. Ever. No, no Peter, I love you. I didn’t come here to hurt you. I just wanted to see your face again. Do you really think I’d hurt you?” You whispered in disbelief. He stared at you for a minute as you gently set him back on the ground.

“Where’s my Y/n?” He asked in a quiet, desperate voice.

“I could be her, Peter. Please. You won’t know the difference.”

“Yes I will. I know my girl like I know the sound of my moms footsteps coming down the stairs. I know her down to the look in her eyes and you don’t have it. You’re not her. I know the difference.” Peter insisted. You were taken aback by this and stopped using your powers completely.

“Your mother? You’ve seen her lately?”

“We go to my parents house every Sunday for dinner. My Y/n loves it since her parents…” Peter trailed off suddenly and looked at you sympathetically.

“What? What about her - my parents?” You asked him.

“They died in a car crash a few years ago. Didn’t that happen to you too?”

“I don’t have parents in this universe?” You whispered and took a step back from him.

“Is that where you came from? Another universe?” Peter asked curiously. You didn’t even hear him since you were too busy thinking about your options. You didn’t know if you could successfully dream walk again, but this Peter didn’t seem to want you. And even if he grew to tolerate you, you didn’t have your parents in this universe. This universe no longer seemed like the answer you’d been searching for.

“I have to go.” You said suddenly and started to walk away.

“Wait, please. Where’s my Y/n? What did you do to her?” Peter gently caught your arm to bring you back.

“I didn’t hurt her. I promise. I’m so sorry. I’ll fix this.” You assured him.

“Okay. I believe you.” Peter nodded and gave you a long, sad look.

“Why did you want to see me?” He asked after a beat of silence. You sucked in a sharp breath and Peter immediately nodded her head.

“See, I know that face. You have that face in common. It’s the same face I saw the night her parents died.” Peter said in a gentle tone. You looked down at the ground and started to cry, only stopping when you felt Peters hand on your shoulder.

“I love you in every universe, you know that don’t you?” He said in a soft voice. He then pulled you into a tight hug and let you cry into his chest. You hugged him as hard as you could and inhaled his scent, which differed from your Peters. Still, you accepted his embrace and held him close.

“I’ll fix this. I won’t bother you anymore.” You told him and ran back into the house without looking at him. You passed by the mirror again and this time, you saw someone else. Peter was right when he said you didn’t carry yourself the same way as your variant did. Her face rested in a different expression than yours naturally did and she had much better posture. You could see the fear in her eyes and reached out to touch the mirror.

“I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to say to you. This isn’t me. I don’t know who this is.” You admitted to her.

“Are you using the Dark Hold?” She asked you in a shaky voice.

“Yes. I am.”

“To see Peter?”

“Yes. To see Peter.” You told her. Her expression softened and she nodded in understanding.

“I forgive you for this. If I lost him, I probably would’ve done the same thing.” She said, bringing tears to your eyes once more.

“Thank you.” You whispered.

“For what?”

“Your mercy.” You smiled at her body leaving her body.

You tried to wake up in your own body, but instead possessed another version of yourself. You found yourself sitting in a big comfort chair in what looked like a nursery. You heard a small gurgle and looked down to see a baby in your arms. You gasped and started it instinctively rock the baby, making her open her eyes. But when you looked into the babies eyes, you felt nothing. This baby didn’t feel familiar to you at all. You felt no maternal responsibility towards the child and instead felt like you were holding someone else’s baby. You didn’t remember finding out you were pregnant and how you told Peter. You had no memory of the day she was born, her first word, or even what her name was. She looked like she was yours, but she wasn’t yours. You quickly put her back in her crib and left the room. When you walked down the hall, you saw photographs of days you had no recollection of. The entire house was covered in someone else’s memories. You caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror and nearly fell over. You were about ten years older with graying roots and crinkles by your eyes. You had no memory of growing up and experiencing the rest of your life, and yet there you were. You immediately turned away from the mirror and kept walking down the hall.

“Mommy?” You heard, making you stop in your tracks. A five year old came out of their bedroom and stood in front of you in the hall. Once again, you felt nothing towards the kid. They were cute and even looked like you, but they didn’t feel like your kid. You felt the same way you felt when seeing any other kid out in public, which was basically nothing.

You knelt down in front of the child and reached your hand out to touch their face.

“Hi, sweetie. Where’s your daddy?” You asked them.

“In the kitchen.” They told you in a voice you that sparked no recognition. You nodded to thank them before walking into the kitchen. You saw Peter there, looking older just like you did. This Peter had a beard and was missing his left arm below the elbow. You stared at it in disbelief for a moment until he turned around. He jumped a little, as if his spider senses hadn’t alerted you that he was there.

“Hey, honey. Did you get the baby down?”

“What happened to your arm?” You blurted, immediately slapping your hand over your mouth afterwards. Peter laughed a little and gave you a strange look.

“An infected spider bite when I was 16. But I told Benji it fell off because I didn’t eat my vegetables.” He said with a teasing smile.

“Benji?” You asked.

“Our son? Perhaps you’ve met him.” Peter chuckled. “Are we playing a game right now where we forget everything we know? Because I would love if you forget that it’s my turn to make dinner tonight.”

You laughed as well, then felt an intense sadness wash over you. He had Peters sense of humor, but the dad version. It made you sad that you hadn’t gotten to see Peter become the man you saw in front of you. You didn’t get to grow old together like you wanted to. You were just plopped into this timeline with two kids you didn’t even know the names of and a Peter that didn’t seem to have any superpowers.

“Are you okay, hon?” Peter asked when he noticed the pensive look on your face.

“No. I mean, yes. But I have to go.” You said and swiftly left the room. You stumbled over your own feet and fell to the ground when you felt yourself leaving this body. Your vision started to turn black in the corners until you lost sight completely. When your vision came back, you were in a new place. You looked down at your hands before running to find a mirror. This variant looked the most like your usual self, giving you high hopes for what it meant for Peter. You rushed to find him and ended up bumping into him in the hallway.

“Hey. You’re back early.” He chuckled as he caught you. You looked up into his eyes and felt your heart stop. This Peter looked exactly like the one you had lost. The last time you saw Peter alive, he was bruised and bloody from fighting the green goblin. This Peter still had joy in his eyes as he looked down at you with a kind smile. You put your hands on his chest and felt his heart beating beneath his old flannel shirt. Your bottom lip began to shake so you stepped forward and hugged him as tightly as you could. He hesitated for a minute before hugging you back, sensing that you needed it.

“Woah. What was that for?” Peter chuckled and tried to pull away, but you clung on. You were too upset to speak, and Peter sensed that, so he stroked your hair and let you cry into his chest.

“What’s wrong lover? Why are you crying?” He asked in a softer tone. You picked yo ur head off his chest and looked into his eyes as a realization filled them.

“You’re not from here, are you?” He asked you.

“No.” You admitted. “I’m not.”

“So it’s true? The multiverse is real?” He asked with an excited smile.

“Yes. It’s real. It’s all real.”

“Wow! So you can come another universe? How did you get here? And how will you get back? And…” Peters smile fell as he suddenly trailed off. The tears in your eyes and the way you hugged him gave Peter a bad feeling in his stomach.

“And why did you come here?” He said after a beat of silence.

“Because I missed you.” You said through a sad smile.

“You missed me? Aren’t we together in your universe?” Peter asked as he instinctively wiped your tears with his shirt. You were hit with the scent of his cologne and sighed in relief.

“We were.” You said as your eyes fell down to the ground.

“Oh.” Peter said sympathetically. “What happened?”

You slowly looked back up into his eyes and Peter got the hint. You didn’t need to say anything for him to know his variant was dead.

“Oh.” He said again, quieter this time. Your eyes flicked to the web shooters on his wrists for just a second, but he still caught it. He looked down at his web shooters as well and realized what had happened.

“I died as Spiderman, didn’t I?” He said without looking up from his shooters. You reached forward and took his face in your hands to make him look at you.

“You died a hero. You saved thousands of people, but I just couldn’t…” You trailed off and gave him a tight smile.

“But I couldn’t save you.” You said quietly and looked away from him.

“Hey.” Peter said and tilted your face up to look at him.

“Did I die in a cool way?” He asked, making you laugh.

“Do you really wanna know?”

“Absolutely. Was it really epic? Did I get eaten by a dinosaur or something? Or, oh my God, were we on the Titanic? Did I die on the Titanic?”

“I’m from another universe, dummy. Not another time. We weren’t on the Titanic.” You laughed at him.

“Damn. Then how did it happen?” Peter asked. You looked at him for a minute as you silently relived the moment you watched him die. You remembered the look on his face, the forever frozen look of fear that didn’t fade even after his heart stopped. You remembered the sound of his body hitting the ground. You remembered your throat still hurting by the day of the funeral from how much you had screamed. Before you could give Peter an answer, he retracted his question.

“You know what? Don’t tell me. It’s probably better if I don’t know.” Peter said with a sheepish smile, one that made your knees feel weak.

“I’ve really missed your smile.” You said softly as you stared into his eyes. Peters face filled with sympathy as he put a hand on your shoulder.

“As much as I’d love to have you stay, you know you have to go home.” He said in a gentle tone. You started to tear up as you looked at him, knowing it would be the last time.

“But you won’t be there.” Your voice cracked. “What am I supposed to do without you? Where am I supposed to put my hands? I can’t go back to a universe that you’re not in. My life doesn’t make any sense without you. We weren’t finished yet. I love you. I still love you.”

You were fully crying now as Peter silently listened to you speak. You needed to get all these emotions out one last time while you knew he could hear you. When you were finished, Peter wiped your tears away before pulling you into a long kiss. You shut your eyes and let him kiss you for the very last time. When he pulled away, he smiled softly as he rubbed your cheek with his thumb.

“It’ll pass.” He told you, and you knew he was right. You both sat with those words for a moment until you knew it was time to leave. You gave Peter one last look as you started it cast a spell that would put you back in your own body.

“Know that you’re loved.” Peter said to you just as you left that universe.

When your eyes opened, you were back in your cabin. The red hex that previously surrounded it was gone and it was now just a small wooden cabin in the woods. You went outside and used your powers to fly off until you reached the Sanctum Sanctorum. The doors opened for you as you went up the steps and you looked around until you found Dr. Strange in his library.

“Oh. Hello.” He said when he saw you in the doorway.

“Hey. Sorry I threw my mind powers at you.” You said sheepishly as you walked up to him.

“You know, I’ve had worse thrown at me.” He chuckled a little. You nodded in understanding before making the Dark Hold appear out of thin air.

“What’s this?” Dr. Strange asked nervously when he saw the book.

“It’s for you. I didn’t want to destroy it but I couldn’t keep it around either. I thought you should take it.”

“Thank you. I’ll make sure it goes where no one can ever be tempted by it again.” He said as he moved his fingers in a circular motion until the book disappeared. You felt a pinch of sadness when you watched it leave, but you knew it was for the best.

“What do you do with it?” You asked without ever taking your eyes off where the book had been.

“With what?”

“The love you still have for Christine. Where do you put it now that you can’t give it to her?”

“Oh. I’m not really sure. I guess I give it to everyone else. I try to love the people I love just a little harder.” Dr. Strange said with a sad smile. You nodded your head and looked down at the ground as hot tears spilled down your face.

“I’m afraid that I’m going to love him forever but we will never be in the same room again.” You cried and buried your face in your hands. You heard Dr. Strange get out of his chair and walk over to you. There was a hesitation, then a pat on your back.

“It’s okay to be scared. As long as you don’t let that fear turn you into something you’re not.” He told you. You wiped your face free from tears and gave him an appreciative smile.

“Peter would say the same thing.” You nodded.

“I’m sorry this happened to you. I’m sorry you don’t get to be with him.” Dr. Strange said softly as he rubbed your back.

“It’s okay.” You said with a sad smile. “At least he visits me in my dreams. I still get to see him when I fall asleep.”

You left the Sanctum Sanctorum after that and went back to your cabin. After the day you had, you just wanted to go to sleep and forget your troubles. You got under your covers and pulled them over your head to fully block out the world and soon felt yourself drifting off the sleep. In your dreams, you were opening a door to your old apartment and Peter was sitting at the kitchen table with two cups of tea in front of him.

“Hey.” He smiled. “I was waiting for you.”

Tag List 🏷️

@awesomebooklover17 @thebookwormlife @imanativeofswlondondahling @serendipitous-amor @tom-hollands-wifey @20fandomfangirl

@lavender-writer @whatareyouhidingpeter @takenbyheartstrings @ultrunning @imyourliquor-youremypoison @andreasworlsboring101

@letsloveimagines @peterparkoure @a-villain-vying-for-attention @justcallmehitgirl @jackiehollanderr

@mara-twins @maryjanee23 @geeksareunique @emmamarshmellow @unbelievableholland @flixndchill @sovereignparker @thisisthebiplace

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@maybemona @alexxcorona113

[falconcoast]

genshin characters as things i vividly remember |part ii

a/n: rehash of this post.

warnings: none xo

characters: scaramouche, ayaka, miko, ei, tighnari, kaveh, cyno, baizhu, al-haitham.

scaramouche;

rina sawayama songs (specifically dynasty and hold the girl). cellos. inciting chaos for the thrill of it. clenching and unclenching a fist. loosening a jaw you didn’t know was tightened. traveling somewhere new. arguments that you know you can win. orchid flowers. when a bird passes by you really quickly and rustles at your hair. letting go of old grudges.

ayaka;

december snow. smoothing down a bird’s feathers. when water is almost frozen. pulling your hair into a tight up-do. silver mirrors and jewelry. soft pink lipstick. people-watching. when you walk out of a party to go somewhere quiet. suit-skirt combos. fixing your posture before going on stage. the color of the sky during early winter mornings.

miko;

velvet pillows. roses. new books and bending the back of its spine to break it in. honoring traditions. bouquets and letters from suitors. the feeling of someone’s lips against your ear when they whisper to you. middle spring. afternoon classes. when a pet walks up to you and rests in your lap. moonlight shining in someone’s eyes. soft hair. delicately-done nails that make pleasing clicks.

ei;

golden thunder. rain so heavy it creates a stream down a road. the phrase “suffer the pain of discipline, or suffer the pain of regret.” absolute, midnight silence. gritted teeth. pure confidence. straightened shoulders. lilacs. softening when seeing your beloved. marble walls. letting a little one braid your hair.

tighnari;

freshly picked flowers. muddy boots. hikes. when an animal hops into your hand naturally. calloused hands. scars from running and tripping or climbing a tree and falling. superblooms. the scent of grass after it rains. pollen season. errand days. bickering with a younger sibling. the chirps of birds in the early morning. cedar trees. scolding someone while patching them up.

kaveh;

college students. meticulously doing your hair. pouting. putting your all into something you love. finishing a project and being happy with the result. daytime. chapstick kisses. hands-on learning. sunshine after the rain. kinetic sand. picnics. brushing your hair to one side. cold tea. daffodil blooms. birch trees.

cyno;

the cold shouldered friend warming up to you. busted knuckles. standing tall. eyes open wide. scorching heat. running on sand. blistering wind. watching from afar. warmth of the sun on skin. lightning hitting water. the hiss of an insect in the night. ink and parchment. tenderly sweeping someone’s hair out of their eyes.

baizhu;

well-cut lawns. letting your glasses hang low on your nose. humming. pilates. kissing a loved one when they’ve fallen asleep. the sterile scent of a doctor’s office. running water. dried flower leaves for tea. picking herbs at the farmer’s market. feeling of your toes in the grass. soft, west winds.

al-haitham;

scoffing at your enemies. the illiad and the oddessy. stationary. ap literature summer reading lists. burning the midnight oil. holding your hand over someone else’s when you’re teaching them how to do something. texas instrument calculators, not casio. study sessions where you get nothing done. the dad friend. looking to someone to only see them look at you already.

[ffxivaltaholic]

Prompt #8: (You Pick!) Prickle

#FFxivWrite2024

"Ouch..." He tensed as another cactus spine was pulled from his hand, holding still as best one could in such a predicament, and visibly pouting. Normally the Gleaner was quite careful when working with hazardous flora and fauna, in fact Seedkins and dangerous flora were actually his specialty... The pout was met with a raised brow, the other man's expression focused behind his glasses. "Almost done, one more prickle." He cooed softly, returning his orchid eyes to the task at hand. "I'm surprised, you seemed to be avoiding them with ease earlier, are you tired? Perhaps the sun is getting to you? We could take a break and finish later." Kristoffer continued on as he worked to remove the last cactus spine, turning to collect a salve from his kit. It certainly was a boon to have a botanist and healer alongside on this journey. 'I was distracted watching your beautiful face brighten at the different flowers...'

Diarmune wanted to say the words, to praise his partner and dote upon him, but in the moment it would not be very romantic sitting there with a pitiful expression at being bested by a cactus, and so he merely shrugged, adding little to no clarity to his answer. The response got a small huff of annoyance from the auburn-haired Botanist as Kristoffer went about healing the small cuts on Dia's hand. "Well try to be more careful! If you were on your own this would have been a very unpleasant time. That was seven needles..." The scolding was expected and Diarmune's silvery-white ears would flick back against his head as he tried not to laugh softly while being given a slight berating for his carelessness. Something about Kris fussing over him was so endearing and adorable. "But... I haven't found the weird little guy... Some kind of Sabotender I've never seen before..." The Gleaner complained with a heavy Thavnarian accent, looking at his bandaged hand with slight annoyance. Stupid cactus. Bringing his gaze back up to the other Viera, they exchanged a soft smile as Kristoffer drew Dia's injured hand over, placing a gentle kiss along the linen-wrapped knuckles. "We can come back tomorrow you know... Plus it is getting rather hot out..." Considering it was mid-day the temperature was reaching a point of uncomfortable, even in the shade. Despite being rather suited to the warmth, Diarmune was somewhat in agreement that it was a bit toasty even for him, and it was true they could easily come back another time, even the next day, but he was determined to find the little cactus creature that had scurried away upon being discovered by the pair. It looked like a new Sabotender for sure, but it was small with a little pink flower on it's head. He wanted to study and document it, but the critter had fled into the cactuses with an easy he could not replicate. Thus they had spent the last two hours searching.

A defeated slight left him and Dia nodded, admitting defeat despite his stubborn nature. He simply could not say no to such a cute face. "Fiiiine... Lets go back and get some shaved ice." Something to beat the heat a bit. As Kristoffer nodded and packed up his items, the Gleaner simply watched and admired until a moment came when he could reach out and capture the other Viera's face with his hand, pushing off the rocky edge to stand and steal a kiss before Kristoffer could scold him further. Given the chance he might have pushed for a little more affection from the botanist but something caught his eye. A pink flower... Atop an odd looking sabotender of sorts...

[casspurrjoybell-17]

Hart and Hunter - Chapter 20 - Part 1

*Warning Adult Content*

Julian Hart

Every time Dane and I make love, he makes sure I hear an 'I love you' in every look and touch.

Even when he uses me hard, when I want it fast and rough, he's always careful, attentive and watchful for the slightest sign of discomfort or pain.

Part of this stems from his love for me as his mate but part stems from what he knows about my past.

That's the part I don't like... when he's so careful not to hurt me, he reminds me that I can, in fact, be hurt. 

Sometimes a little tenderness goes a long way and sometimes a guy just wants to get fucked. 

I decide to make it clear which sort of time this is and get our 'supplies' in order before arranging myself in a somewhat provocative display. 

When he emerges from the bathroom wearing nothing but a towel around his waist, his eyes travel the visual buffet I'd arranged for him with a hunger that sends a little tingle up my spine.

Then his gaze lands on my cast... the only thing I'm wearing... and his appetite vanishes, replaced by something softer and tinged with regret. 

From that one look, I can tell I'm in for the 'rare orchid' treatment... as if I'll break if he breathes on me wrong... and I'm not in the mood for it.

I am in the mood for some fun though, so as he crawls towards me across the bed, I sit up and meet him halfway, looping my arms around his neck as his hands settle on my waist. 

"Hello, gorgeous," I say, angling my eyes down and between us.

"Long time, no see."

"You saw all there is to see this morning, Julian," he returns.

"Or was it that forgettable?" 

"You're never forgettable but I'll take a reminder."

He kisses me with tender passion, as if my mouth tastes like pleasure, and I shiver as his warm, rough hands traverse my skin.

When I can tell he's about to push me down and raise the heat, I nip his bottom lip playfully. 

"Ow." 

He pulls away, frowning and rubbing at his mouth. 

"What was that for?" 

"Just a little payback," I murmur, resting a hand on his chest and giving him a light shove.

It's not nearly hard enough to move him but he yields and falls back into the pillows.

"I can give as good as I get, you know." 

He smiles up at me crookedly, one long canine snagging his lip.

"I do. Maybe even better." 

"We'll have to be quiet," I whisper.

"We have a houseguest, remember? She's your little sister and I want to be able to make eye contact tomorrow." 

"You're the one who makes all the noise," he whispers in reply, stretching his arms overhead and displaying the muscles of his torso to full effect. 

"Maybe you should try gagging me." 

"Nah. I like the sounds you make. But if you really want something in your mouth, I have an idea."

I raise my brows at him and smirk.

"You're lucky I like the way you think." 

Wetting my lips, I keep my eyes locked with his as long as I can as I lower myself between his thighs and kiss the tip of his erection.

A twitch in his abdominal muscles makes it jump a little and I laugh under my breath. 

As I set to work distracting him with the wet heat of my mouth, I drizzle some lube over the fingers of my good hand and then, teasingly, slip them down past his balls to his ass.

His body jolts as I test his entrance and I stop what I'm doing and lift myself to look at him. 

"Is it okay? We don't have to." 

His expression flickers with surprise and an instant later, I realize what it sounds like I'm asking.

Then his expression settles again and he shakes his head and answers a little breathlessly. 

"No... it's okay. I trust you, Julian." 

The sincerity and openness on his face give me pause.

I'd only meant to tease him a little but his surrender tells me nothing about this is a joke to him. 

My amusement fades as I realize how switching roles makes me understand him better. 

Being dominant means being responsible... not just for another person's pleasure but for their safety and trust as well.

The fact he's willing to be that vulnerable for me means more than he knows. 

I also see how a good top takes his lead from his bottom, which is where the real power lies. 

It might be fun to switch things up now and then but not tonight. 

It might be fun to switch things up now and then but not tonight. 

Finally, he gently grasps the back of my hair and pulls me off him and I take a moment to appreciate the fruits of my labor. 

His smooth skin shines with a light sheen of sweat, his chest rises and falls with rapid breaths and a flush darkens his full lips.

Meanwhile, his cock leaks pre-cum like a fountain. 

"Julian... are you gonna finish this? You're killing me," he gasps. 

I smirk.

"There are worse ways to go." 

A little smugly, I grab the lube again but this time it's not for him.

Straddling his hips, I guide him into me, taking him slow until he's fully seated.

Then I stop and make him watch as I stroke myself off with him inside me. 

It's too much and with a barely stifled groan, he comes hard, his hips bucking with reflexive thrusts that push me over the edge as well. 

Pulling off him, I collapse across his chest, a literal hot mess and kiss his mouth. 

"Fifteen seconds," I tease.

"Just like our first time." 

"Shit," he laughs, kissing me in return.

"I think I like you on top." 

********

In the morning, Dane meets with Chloe to discuss the land-bond ritual.

It's not required, he tells me but it's polite to convey his intentions and ask her blessing as head of the local shifter clan. 

Meanwhile, I drive Ingrid into town for orchestra practice before returning to the burglar-prone block to interview our remaining suspects and apply our new animal detective angle. 

Lagrange's bike shop is at one end of the street while the Price's bakery is at the other.

Between these are the hardware store, the thrift store, a local art gallery, a smoothie shop and Danni Spelling's place. 

I park in front of Trinkets and Treasures but there's a 'closed' sign in the window and the interior is dark.

Stephanie must be taking the day off, though it's not like her to do so.

She'd stay open 24/7/365 if she could.

Maybe Lagrange's 'double' death got to her or maybe she's just tired of cops and reporters hanging around.

Whatever the case, I'll have to wait for her to open before I find out and hope she's willing to talk to me when she does. 

In the meantime, I head up the street to the cafe.

Daniel and Liza Price are the sort of well-matched, perpetually cheerful, middle-aged, middle-class couple who seem almost too happy.

I mean, nobody's that well-adjusted... are they?

Their affectionate banter and bright smiles could be hiding all kinds of dark shit. 

Then again, maybe they're just genuinely nice people. 

As Daniel tells me he ordered the brand of Peruvian Fair Trade coffee I'd mentioned in passing and Liza gives me a free chocolate-chip cookie with my drink, my unkind suspicions dissipate. 

They don't have any pets ‘Liza loves animals but she's deathly allergic or so she tells me’ but no skin-changer in their right mind would take either of them... it would be an exhausting act to keep up. 

Coffee in hand, I narrowly escape another lengthy rendition of Liza's life history and head on down the street to the hardware store.

There, Marta and Sergio Ortiz shower me with apologies, having learned of Ingrid's relation to Dane.

I do my best to reassure them, though I can't really speak to Ingrid's feelings on the matter.

I can, however, be pretty sure that Marta and Sergio are in the clear on the skin-changer front... at least according to the pair of cats who live in their store. 

And who even knows about cats?

Maybe they don't give a shit. Something tells me that's not the case, though and as Nails purrs and butts his head against my legs while Marta writes up a complementary gift certificate for Dane, I mentally scratch the pair off the suspect list. 

Even so, I open my senses a little as I stroke Hammer's long smoke-and-cream colored fur on my way out but all I get is the impression that he's a little bored and he thinks there might be mice in the back wall. 

[waiting4smthn2happen]

ESME / Psych. Thriller (~1600 words)

AUTHORS NOTE: i am very very new to formatting and posting on tumblr so all tips are appreciated!

TW: strong themes of suicide, manslaughter, derealization

=====

I dream of her. Every night, as my eyes flutter shut and I drift off to sleep, I awake in my dreams with her honey-blonde hair bunched in my palm and her glossy hazel gaze softly resting on my lips. At first, I wonder why she’s looking at my lips but then I realize that she’s watching them quiver as the air flows out through them. She must know I’m a mouth-breather. In return I admire how the ray of sunlight gleaming through the window shines on her cheek and how it causes her to slightly squint her left eye. I almost want to say something– to interrupt the silence– but I opt to scan the room around me instead.

I find myself in a hospital bed, surrounded by hastily painted off-white walls and framed prints of orchids. There’s an IV uncomfortably lodged in the crook of my elbow and HGTV is playing on the tiny television mounted on the wall in front of me. I lose myself in the obnoxious narrative for a few moments, as if an outside force was trying to distract me from my observations. A soft sigh to the left of me breaks my focus on the TV. I look to the source of the noise in mild surprise, almost forgetting that I am not alone. I lock eyes with the blonde and think to myself, why am I in the hospital? As I open my mouth to ask her, she shushes me with a smile. I flinch and suddenly, I find myself sitting at a kitchen table. 

It’s the evening, as shown by the moon’s presence in the night sky, visible through the white french doors that lead to the expansive backyard. I divert my gaze to the kitchen island, where the same honey-blonde haired woman is cutting vegetables. She looks up at me with a grin, then diverts her gaze back down to the cutting board.

“Something on your mind, darling?” She asks me.

I don’t answer. I stare at her in confusion, though I can’t remember exactly why I’m confused. I have a subtle feeling that I was just somewhere else, but a much stronger, almost overwhelming feeling tells me that I’ve always been here. I reflexively check my wristwatch for the time– 7:12pm. It’s dinner time, like usual. That’s right— we do this every day. Nothing is wrong.

Still awaiting my answer, she pauses the dinner preparations and walks behind me. She wraps her arms around my neck and plants a kiss on my cheek.

“We can order a pizza if you’re not in the mood for this salad,” She whispers softly into my ear.

I smile at her. “Nah, I’ll eat the salad. I’m just feeling a bit tired, that’s all.”

“Alright, if you say so,” She mutters after affectionately tucking a loc of hair behind my ear.

She removes her arms from my neck and resumes cutting vegetables. I adjust my collar where her touch lingers and notice that I’m now in a cold sweat. I nervously dart my eyes to her cutting the vegetables and am instead shocked by the sight of her lifeless body sprawled out on the counter. Blood pools around her head and drips off the counter and onto the floor. I sit idly in my chair, processing, while the pitter-patter of the blood hitting the floor comes to a crescendo in my ears. I finally take action by throwing myself out of my seat in a feeble attempt to escape, but as I turn around I am met with a blunt object to my temple. My vision fades to black.

“Do you regret what you did?” A voice whispers.

My eyelids flutter as I come to consciousness. I shift my head from one shoulder to the other and become aware of the throbbing pain in my right temple. I make an attempt to reach at the wound, but I find that my hands are bound behind me. I am seemingly tied to a chair in a pitch black room. My breath catches in my throat and a chill runs down my spine. A plague of goosebumps conquers my body, causing me to shiver and gasp, desperately trying to catch a full breath of air. It’s a meaningless attempt– panic leaves my lungs at half capacity and my head too heavy to comfortably hold upright. I try to scream for help, but the only thing I can let out are wheezes, almost as if I’m being suffocated.

“Or would you do it again?” The voice spits at me. 

I woke up with a jolt. In a panic, I throw myself out of bed and run to my mirror— I see nothing but myself in the reflection. I clear my throat and run my hands through my hair. I examine the bed— it’s empty. I must have had a nightmare. I let out a heavy sigh and sit back down. “What the hell,” I mumble strings of curses to myself. Will I ever get over this? Am I going to be tortured forever? I adjust the sheets and blankets on my bed and head downstairs to the kitchen for a glass of water. I make a point of not looking at the newspaper clippings on the fridge. I’ll never forget, but I’ll avoid reminders like they’re the plague. 

I haven’t driven in three weeks. I haven’t left my house in three weeks. I haven’t talked to any real living person in three weeks. I am afraid to check the front of my car. I know that in the eyes of many people I am considered lucky, but when I look in the mirror, I see a criminal. Guilt has complete control over my life.

I killed her. I killed her and I got away with it.

---

I’ve always hated country roads. They’re windy, there’s barely enough space for two cars, and at dark, it’s impossible to see anything. In order to go visit my grandmother, though, they’re an unavoidable obstacle. 

I was on the way back home from Grandma’s when it happened. It was almost midnight, and the sky was a pitch black blanket sprinkled with stars. I remember that my truck was running low on gas, so I was in a bit of a hurry. In my rush, I wasn’t observant– I didn’t see her. All I felt was the sickening thump of her hitting the front of my car and rolling under my wheels. 

I quickly looked behind me, catching a glimpse of golden hair on the road, illuminated by my backlights. “Holy shit. Holy shit,” I say, slamming my foot on the acceleration. I don’t know why I did that. I don’t know why I sped away. But I did. I did and I can’t ever take that back.  

That’s as much as I can remember. Shock erased most of my memories from the event, but I know that the next day I saw her on the news. The second her face popped up on the screen I went to vomit into my kitchen sink. Through the throbbing in my ears I hear the newscaster declare a name— Esme. Her name was Esme. 

“Autopsy reports say that the impact of her skull to the concrete caused her jaw to dislodge and break, which obstructed her breathing. She ultimately died from suffocation.” 

I hear something thwack against my front door. Wiping my mouth on my sleeve, I go to open the front door. Nobody was there but a newspaper laid at my feet. I pick it up and examine the issue. On the front page was, unsurprisingly, a large picture of Esme. “Twenty-three year old woman killed in hit and run”, the caption said. I ripped out the article from the paper and stuck it with a magnet to my fridge.

Today I threw the newspaper clipping of her death in the trash. I also checked the front of my car. A splotch of blood that clearly looked like that of an impact into a human being stained my car. I ignored it and entered my car anyway. 

For the past three weeks, I wondered how this day would go. I didn’t have a plan or a date or a note or anything. All I had was my guilt on my back and a clouded mind. I knew I had to confront the consequences of my actions. The memories of that night will likely torment me forever, pushing me further to the edge of insanity.

I ventured out into the night. The familiar country roads, once a source of dread, now called to me. As the car roared to life, the path ahead of me seemed bright and full of hope– like a path to freedom. 

I drove the half hour towards Grandma’s, aiming for the area right where it happened. When I arrived, my eyes met with a gnarled tree. Driven by an external force, I accelerated. The collision erupted into a beautiful pit of flames and scrap metal, exploding a symphony of booms and screeches into the sky.

Trapped within the wreckage, fire licked my skin and glass from the windshield pierced my body. Pain seared through me, and my mind and heart let out a scream. As my consciousness slipped away, the shimmering image of Esme’s golden hair on the pavement lingered. The crash was no longer just metal against wood; it was the collision of my past and present.

In that moment, the country roads became the final destination that my guilt took me– the final destination of that which is my life. I had finally found my freedom– freedom in the arms of death.

[dangermousie]

I wish you joy of each other, pastel couple!

I have said everything I want about CH before and so won’t bother again - man never had a spine or much of a personality, it would be weird to expect him to grow it now.

But Orchid? What have they done with you, my love! It’s not her not wanting DFQC - he put her through hell and in any event I enjoy watching Dylan suffering like a particularly angsty preraphaelite painting - it’s about her not wanting anything. She is so bland and boring and honestly if this is her main personality at the end, I don’t even want them together even if she remembers her love and is all “oh, I actually love you.” That’s not the ship I fell for. I loved DFQC but I adored Orchid - hilarious passionate Orchid, who lived so immediately and so emotionally and so vividly. I rooted for her her more than for DFQC tbh.

This remote, calm, mature stalagmite is dull. I can just see her wedded bliss with CH or DFQC or whoever. She will calmly read her book, get up at 5 to meditate and politely ask about her spouse’s day caring as much as I do about the weather in Argentina, but it’s the proper thing to do. Jesus. I can’t imagine her laughing or jumping on someone or talking animatedly or really anything. The term cold fish is invented for her. My brain breaks imagining her in bed with anyone, outside of “close your eyes and think of Xilan” behavior. God, she is boring. Orchid cared too much and felt too much and lived too much. Goddess exists.

Just no.

At this point, I just want DFQC get his hellfire back and get possessed by the evil spirit and burn shit down. It looks like I get my wish for a bit at least.

Burn that place down, baby!

This said, none of it is the criticism of the drama or the writing - it all makes sense, it’s all well-written. I am frustrated but in a good way, if this makes sense.

[inkykeiji]

but if you send for me, you know i’ll come

and if you call for me you know i’ll run

characters: shigaraki tomura, dabi

genre: bittersweet, kinda fluffy, kinda angsty

notes: this is the epilogue for my break my bones but act as my spine series!! and, with this, the main series is officially done!!! wow, i actually can’t believe it. this series genuinely means so much to me; it’s so special, so personal, and i truly appreciate every single person who has read the entire thing. thank you so much for sticking with it!! i love you!!! and, as always, please heed the warnings below! stay safe everyone | title cred: old money by lana del rey

warnings: no smut but still 18+ minors do not interact, discussion of mental illness, an altered (and kind of unrealistic) inpatient program in the psychiatric ward of a hospital, visitations to the psychiatric ward at the hospital, talks of medications used to treat mental illness (non-specific), mentions of doctors and nurses, implied poly relationship, implied cheating (and confession of such), brief discussion of fucking and implied explicit audio recordings being received, a fear of tense rickety relationships being triggering, codependency, tomura’s father is one again referred to as The Boss, daddy kink without the kinkiness

words: 3.9k

part one ⋆ part two ⋆ part three ⋆ part four ⋆ part five ⋆ epilogue ⋆ series masterlist

synopsis:

You always smell like him, every single time you emerge.

It only hammers that spear piercing his heart further into incessantly pulsating flesh, saturated with guilt and remorse, with longing and desire, stinging the wound as it burrows into the organ.

That aroma will always smell like home to him; the only home he’s ever known, the only home he’s ever been a part of creating, of maintaining, built brick by conscientious brick, mortar infused with graceful tiger orchid and saccharine toffee gluing together blocks of sweet hickory and spicy nicotine, warm and waiting for the final element to return back to the two of you, to complete it.

The Tokyo Metropolitan Matsuzawa Hospital is a mammoth, boxy building, all slabs of white concrete and glistening glass, bordering the edges of Setagaya City, just before it morphs into Suginami.

 You know the grounds intimately by now, could navigate them with your eyes closed if you had to, having spent many hours strolling among the grassy knolls and shaded stone pathways, sheltered by the large oaks stretched and arched across the landscape, with Daddy’s large hand clasped firmly in your own, always babbling on about how amazed you are by the sheer quietness of the place, how remarkable it is that the sounds and bustles of the busy city can’t seem to penetrate the thick shrubbery and vegetation shrouding the hospital, lending to its tranquil nature.

 Humming in time to the gentle pat-pat-pats of your shoes against the manicured rock, you allow your mind to drift, to reflect, as your feet carry you towards the far end of the structure, a route you travel three times a week, directions ingrained in the tissues of your brain, nothing more than muscle memory at this point.

 Genuinely, you hate to admit it, but you had been pleasantly surprised by just how fast Tomura went from unwilling and difficult to compromising and cooperative.

 I told you so, Dabi had bragged with a playful sneer, index finger booping your nose. Tomura’s smart, Tomura adapts—I knew he’d figure out the system, the quickest way to get out of there, within weeks of being committed.

 You knew that, too, knew how clever and crafty your Daddy was, knew he’d get the hang of the whole thing and conform to the exactly what the situation necessitated to ensure his release as soon as possible. You did.

 You just didn’t think he’d be able to reign in his feelings so rapidly, so efficiently, when you had never seen him do anything like it before.

 That’s because you’ve only ever seen him with you, Dabi had rolled his eyes. You don’t know how he can get when he works, when he’s got an idea—a motive, a goal—hatching to life in his skull.

 You suppose that’s true, as well. Tomura has always considered himself King of the World—and for the most part, he was—and despite his explosive, hair trigger anger and innate brattiness (a result of rarely being told no in his life), he was intelligent and sly, cunning and practical, always devising a new plan to get him exactly what he wants, failure and you being the only two things to send his emotions awry. And yet, you can’t help but wonder if this entire incident—episode—has knocked him down a few pegs, has humbled him just a little.

 Dabi doubts it, but you think it might be a real possibility; Tomura had already surprised you once before, near the start of his treatment, when it had been decided that you and Dabi would confess to your sins.

 He had been astonishingly calm, when you had told him about it over a year ago, fingers twisting into uncomfortable knots and crystal dewdrops decorating your smooth cheeks, stammered words fractured with guilt, remorse weighing on your tongue.

 It’s alright, he knows, he had said, beckoning you over with an easygoing wave of his hand. He had an inkling, he had told you, tone tender with confounding clemency, a merciful little smile adorning his face. He’s glad you told him.

 It hasn’t been explicitly discussed since then—not with you, at least, though you’re unsure what Tomura and Dabi speak about during their private weekly phone calls—but you’re not quite sure it needs to be, at this point. It just…is.

 Tomura doesn’t like to talk about that time, those harrowed, anguishing months, and you and Dabi had collectively decided that it was best to spare him from the details, unless he one day specifically asks for them. As far as you were all concerned, knowing something happened, and that something is still happening, seems to be enough; there’s no need to detail the past, not now, not anymore.

 Like clockwork, you visit, every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, never once missing a day in the whole year and a half he’s been committed, routinely climbing that white linoleum staircase to the west wing—Tomura’s wing, now—the stairwell illuminated by bright, organic sunshine, streaming in through the massive glass panels that line the walls, floor to ceiling.

 You don’t kid yourself into thinking that Tomura doesn’t have special privileges—special dwellings just for him, special visiting hours extended and increased in frequency—knowing well by now the type of things riches and prestige can buy you; knowing well by now just how powerful a man like Tomura’s father is.  

 Not that you’re complaining.

 Today is a Monday. Monday’s, you think, are the best. Because Monday’s are when you get to see him after two full days of being restricted, of not seeing him, which makes Friday’s, your last visit before those two full days of yearning, a specific type of longing procuring an ache in your chest—dull and throbbing at the core of your soul, radiating a painful pining throughout your limbs, infused in your blood and flesh and bones that can only be cured by your Daddy’s presence—the worst.

 Beams of gold filter through the large bay windows, catching in the delicate lace of the curtains and casting intricate shadows across the upholstery of the plush window-seat cushions. They dance across the fabric, dainty and graceful as a breeze twines itself around the thin drapes, an ever-changing myriad of shapes swaying elegantly to their own silent beat, a special song played by the wind just for them.

 But their beauty is nothing compared to the man standing in front of you. No, he’s a piece of art all on his own.

 Strands of pure silver, having lost their boyish blue tinge during Tomura’s acute phase, frame his temples, bangs pushed back from his forehead in thick waves, leftover tufts curling around his cheekbones and highlighting those brilliant rubies, shimmering in the late afternoon sunlight.

 Every time you see him, he looks better, you swear to God.

 Knitted cream cashmere envelopes his chest, stretched across prominent shoulder blades and blanketing his chest in its knotty embrace, intricate plaits of wool stretched perpendicular along the expanse of his torso, a sharp collarbone peaking out from beneath the braided neckline.

 You’re powerless to stop the soft giggle that bubbles past your lips as your eyes continue their journey down his form, noting the way his charcoal trousers clash with the fluffy blue bunny slippers adorning his feet—an impromptu gift from Dabi, which he had sworn Tomura had to own.

 Finally, your gaze flits back up to meet his, chapped lips still quirked up into that small, knowing, painfully familiar smile, and then you’re running, colliding against him with such force that he sways on the heels of his feet, the impact knocking a fond laugh from his chest.

 His embrace is soft and plush—not as much as it used to be, before the episode, before his muscle had melted off his bone, dissolved by delirium, but enough to be comforting, to be remindful.

 Inhaling deeply, your chest swells against his, saturating your lungs with his unique scent—fresh summer linen and sweet-sour lemon and the ghost of sandalwood cologne, clinging to all of his fabrics—perfusing your organs in a saccharine embrace.

 “I missed you,” you whimper into him, fingers curled in his thick sweater. “So much,”

 “It’s only been two days,” he teases, though his arms are wrapped around your waist tightly, crushing you to his body, warm and secure, home.

 “Doesn’t matter, don’t care,” you retort simply, nuzzling into his sternum. “It’s always two days too long,”

 A chuckle pries its way past his lips and he nods, because it’s true, because you’re right, giving you one final squeeze before finally releasing, large palm skimming down your bare arm to lace your fingers together, leading you towards your favourite seat, one of those opulent little nooks nestled against a large window.

 In the stark summer rays, his eyes look almost rosy, glittering jewels encrusted in flakey flesh and ivory bone, an eternal sunset etched into his irises—corals and cherries bleeding into salmons and scarlets, barely dimmed by the slight mist cast across his gaze by his prescribed medications.

 And, God, you fucking love him.

 It’s hard to believe he isn’t boiling in that heavy Aran sweater and those woollen slacks, body draped with a warm quilt of sunlight, but you know he’s still having trouble eating, even after his ceaseless complaints about the bland food served here had earned him the right to a personal chef—a donation, The Boss had called it, to the hospital and its patients; his way of reassuring them that this was not just for his son, as if they’d ever believe that.

 A mild gust drifts in through the open window, playing with the tendrils of his hair, those loose tufts that contour his bright eyes, ruby stare still directed out the window, surveying the grounds.

 And you wait. You always wait, the pads of your fingers tapping lightly against the back of his hand, idly tracing the veins and the bones, until he’s ready to begin.

 “So, they…” he stops, clearing his throat, shifting his jaw, blinking twice. “They, uh, they put me on new meds—more meds,”

 “Oh?” The question is soft, gentle and unobtrusive, an invitation for him to continue, should he wish to divulge.

 “I don’t like them,” he frowns after a moment of silence, nose scrunching in distaste, eyes drifting to the tangled mess of hands, cradled tenderly in your lap. “They make me feel…foggy,”

 Concern tugs at the corners of your lips, a tender thumb rubbing soothing circles into his knuckles. “Did you let the doctors know?”

 Nodding, he looks away, front teeth nibbling at the dry skin of his lips, tugging thin pieces free, blood immediately pooling in their absence. “They said they’d lower the dosage, and to ‘give it some time’,”

 “Sometimes the side effects become more manageable, right?” you ask, and he nods again. “You can always stop and try something new if they don’t subside,”

 His head quirks slightly, a poor imitation of agreement, and you can sense his irritation, seething just beneath his skin, a powerful aura that embraces him like a cloak, or the familiar arms of a much beloved friend, cracking around him like strikes of crimson lightning, that ebb and flow, pop and fizzle, with each of his measured breaths.

 You can see it: in the way his eyes narrow and twitch, in the way his nostrils flare and his lips press together, forming a sharp hard line, in the way his molars grind together and his jaw flexes under the force of the action.

 And there he is, the man you met all those years ago, the man who’s brutally influential and maliciously insatiable, the man who gets what he wants with nothing more than a tilted head and a sharp smirk; only a mere wisp before he’s gone again, reigned into the recesses of Tomura’s chest, shackled behind a cage of bone.

 “I just—” he begins after a moment, exhaling harshly to calm the tremble lacing his tone, eyes slipping shut. “I’m sick of—of all of this,"

 And it’s difficult to watch—difficult to watch him cycle through meds in constant search of a cocktail that works efficiently, paired with the least side effects; difficult to watch the way this illness evolves to fight against him, his own mind sprouting claws and tearing through the manufactured solace encasing his brain; difficult to watch him stumble through pitfalls of suffering and despair, to dig himself out armed with his own determination and the unwavering love of his babies, just to slip back into it again.

 It’s a long process, the road to getting better—he knows it is. It’s a lifelong process, managing this illness, learning how to cope, how to control and care for it all—he doesn’t need you to tell him that.

 It doesn’t mean it sucks any less.

 “I know,” you whisper, working hard to keep your voice light, to keep from too much sympathy leaking into your tone, taking his other abandoned hand between your own and cradling it like it’s precious. ���But you’re doing really well, Daddy. And we’re all so proud of you,”

 It’s evident that he has more to say, but you don’t push, watching with a sinking, tar encrusted heart as he shakes his head a little—to deny your statement, or to void his mind, you aren’t entirely sure. Clearing his throat, his fingers tighten around yours, and he changes the subject.

 “So. How is he?”

 And that, that manages to restore your smile.

 “He misses you a lot,” you tell him honestly, both hands squeezing his. “A lot. As always. You know, he’s a bit like a lost puppy without you,”

 Tomura snorts a little at that, but you can still see the melancholy hidden behind that thin veil of amusement. “I believe it,” he says softly. “You can tell him I miss him, too,”

 “I will,”

 A beat of silence passes, and it’s nice, it’s pleasant, blanketing the two of you in each other’s cozy presence, comfort accentuated by the toasty afternoon sun.

 “The nurse, um, the nurse says that maybe next week he can come up with you?” It’s supposed to be a statement, but it’s phrased as a question, imbued with the inquiry for your opinion.

 “That’s wonderful news, Daddy,”

 And your voice is so soft, so warm, so heart-wrenchingly sincere that it hurts, twinkling sparks emitted from the ball of fire roiling in your chest scathing his skin as they pour from your glimmering gaze and shimmering smile.

 But it’s beautiful, it’s comforting and familiar, and he welcomes the sting readily, basking in the way your buzz bubbles his brain and boils his blood.

 “Yeah, I—” swallowing thickly, his grip on your hand tightens, crimson eyes looking away, stare darting across the large rolling hills of jade, cushioned by dense pine. “I want to see him. I—I’m ready, I think,”

 “He’s gonna be so happy to hear it,” you giggle, and it’s hard to keep from gushing, it’s hard to suppress the wide smile excitement carves into your face, saturated in adoration and admiration, in hope and honour, a special type of pride reserved just for him, just for your Daddy. “He says the phone conversations just aren’t the same,” you pause, little fingers moving to brush silver strands from his brow, tips tracing the curve of his face, eyes following their languid movement. “I agree. It’s not the same,”

 Tomura nods, giving you a small smile, before that pleasant stillness drapes your forms again, enveloping you in its amicable embrace.

 “I’m nervous,” he whispers after a while, so quiet you barely hear it at all, though his hand is gripping yours with such strength that it procures dark fingerprints of periwinkle painted across your flesh, the nubby pads of his unoccupied fingertips rubbing against the thin skin of his wrist, chafing streaks of red against ivory, his nails trimmed meticulously short.

 And it feels like old times again, like those lazy afternoons and late evenings where Tomura would disclose all of his fears and anxieties to you, all of his hopes and dreams, sentiments peppered between kisses and whispered into your hair, or your neck, or your lips.

 It’s still true, that you’re the only one he truly feels comfortable talking about such vulnerabilities with; you always have been, you always will be. But that doesn’t discount the progress he’s made in his year and a half spent in this building, that doesn’t discredit the great strides he’s made in getting better, the astonishing advancements he’s made in cooperating with his doctors.

 “That’s understandable, Daddy,” you respond softly, gentle fingers beginning to tenderly uncurl his own, stiff and rigid, pressing lovingly into the joints to relax them, an instinctive reflex by this point. “But you’re making fantastic progress—no, really, you are, Tomura—and this is the next step, right?”

 Shakily, he hums, fingers twitching against your palms, a phantom urge to scratch again.

 “And if you feel like you’re ready then…” you trail off, shrugging a little, a gentle thumb running across bony knuckles. “Then you’re ready,”

 “But what if I—What if he—I’m worried it might—” chapped lips pull into a deep frown, forehead crinkling with the effort, and he looks away with a scoff, body beginning to quiver with infuriated annoyance. “That he might, y’know,”

 “Trigger it?”

 He grunts out an affirmative, accompanied by a single jerk of his head.

 “It’s okay, if he does,” you tell him, sure to keep your voice calm and vindicated. “He isn’t going to be upset with you, or angry, if that happens.”

 “I really want to see him,”

 “So we’ll give it a try. And if it isn’t the right time, then we’ll wait,” you pause, allowing your words time to snuggle into his brain, to soothe his anxieties and smooth his worries. “We’ll figure it out, together, the three of us,”

 “The three of us,” he murmurs. “Like the sound of that,”

 “Yeah,” you murmur, bringing his hand to your lips and embellishing it with chaste pecks, speaking through your kisses. “Me too,”

 It isn’t long after your pact that the nurse moves to retrieve you, gently uttering that your visiting time is up before retreating, allowing you some privacy for your temporary goodbyes.

 “I can’t wait to—can’t wait to fuck you,” Tomura breathes into your hair, nuzzling against your scalp as he presses your body to his. “Honestly, princess, I’m going fuckin’ crazy,”

 “It’s been way too long,” you murmur into his chest, nostalgia and longing stinging your eyes, voice high with a perpetual whine. “First thing when you get out,” looking up, your gaze searches his face, almost urgent, frantic, in its endeavours. “Promise me,”

 He chuckles a little, pulling back slightly to stare at you, his soft laugh conjuring a bought of pure sunshine, embellished with pretty rubies and silver ribbon, to bloom in your chest, fizzing and warm as it furls into a ball and sends warmth radiating through your veins.

 Holding up his pinky between your chests, he nods. “Promise,”

 “Pinky promise,” you giggle, twining your pinky around his and squeezing.

 “In the mean time, keep sending me those recordings,” he commands with a devilish smirk, voice dropping an octave.

 “You betcha, Daddy,” you wink, precious bubbles of shy giggles frothing in your throat. “See you on Wednesday,”

 “Looking forward to it, baby,”

 ✰          ✰          ✰

 In the hospital parking lot, Dabi leans against the drivers door of his gleaming Audi, lips wrapped around a cigarette, the worn carton of Marlboros discarded on the hood of the car, veiny cardboard box already half-empty.

 Perking up when he sees you bounding towards him, he quickly removes the cigarette from his mouth, exhaling smoke out his nose just in time to catch you in one of his arms, laughing a little as your body curls into his, a leg slotted between his thighs.

 The zest of lemon, intertwined with the scent of fresh linen and garnished with the slightest whiff of expensive cologne, invades his throat, thick and sticky as it coils into a tight ball and lodges itself between the gummy walls.

 You always smell like him, every single time you emerge.

 It only hammers that spear piercing his heart further into incessantly pulsating flesh, saturated with guilt and remorse, with longing and desire, stinging the wound as it burrows into the organ.

 That aroma will always smell like home to him; the only home he’s ever known, the only home he’s ever been a part of creating, of maintaining, built brick by conscientious brick, mortar infused with graceful tiger orchid and saccharine toffee gluing together blocks of sweet hickory and spicy nicotine, warm and waiting for the final element to return back to the two of you, to complete it.

 Finally, his grasp loosens, but you stay clinging to him, leaning back just enough to glance up at his face.

 “So.” Dabi clears his throat a little, swallowing past Tomura's scent. “How is he?”

 Pressing your lips together, you suppress a small smile at the thought of their similarity, rocking a little on the balls of your feet as tingling excitement races the blood in your veins.

 “He wants to see you next week,”

 “What?” he breathes out through a disbelieving smile, tinged with hope, the corners of his mouth twitching as his arms slacken for a moment, then tighten again. “He—Really?”

 “Mhmm,” you nod. “And I can’t wait for him to get a look at your ridiculous hair,” giggling, you reach up to run your fingers through blended ink and ivory, tousled tufts that flow into one another like soft waves in a monochromatic sea, his half grown out roots melding with the onyx dye.

 “Shut up,” Dabi shoots back, but he’s leaning into your touch, neck tilting down and aiding in your ministrations. “You love my hair,”

 “I love everything about you, I think,”

 “You think?”

 “Mmm,” you hum in contemplation, and Dabi rolls his eyes, squeezing you to his form.

 “So, he’s, uh, he’s still doing well, then?”

 You nod. “Been keeping up that stability over the past few months now. Actually,” you begin, and Dabi just can’t help but melt into you a little, his own gaze softening and grin stretching as your eyes glitter with anticipation, a breathless smile plastered across your face, wobbling with elation, words stuffed full of excitement, letters practically bursting at the seams with precious giggles. “They said—They said if he’s able to continue maintaining it that he might be discharged in time for Christmas!”

 Dabi laughs again, a large hand moving to cup your cheek, cradling it in a rough palm like its his most cherished possession, sapphire shining with mirth.

 “Well,” he murmurs, knocking his forehead against yours, noses nudging intimately. “We better make it the best damn Christmas he’s ever fucking had then, huh?”

 “We will,” you nuzzle into him, the promise nothing more than a delicate wisp of breath caressing his face. “We will.”

 And driving home, back to the small flat Dabi had purchased for the two of you—temporary and close to the hospital, nothing more than a placeholder until Tomura returns, until you can really, truly begin your lives together—with Dabi’s hand on your thigh and Tomura’s scent in your hair, you allow that hesitant hope to blossom, glowing and beautiful, embroidered with the prettiest sapphires and the most magnificent rubies, swathed in brilliant silver and striking onyx, rooting at the very core of your soul as it begins to grow.

 It’s been a long journey thus far, with much education to be gleaned and growth to be had on all three fronts. And even though it’s just the beginning, even though the road ahead is rich with twists and turns, ornamented with thick thorns and sharp sparks, none of it frightens you—none of it frightens any of you at all; not when you have each other.

 Yes, it will be difficult and yes, it will be painful, and yes, there will be tears and trials, clashes and conflicts, but it’ll all be worth it, it’ll always be worth it, you just know it will.

 Because the three of you will survive it.

 Together.

[unwilling-souls-if]

oh oh! what about rose and Orchid? 👀✨

Hi 👀

Rose - what are you most proud of?

Xander: His sibling. Charlotte makes him prouder than anything he could have done in his life by simply being herself.

Charlotte: One of her poems was published in a national journal, and the page was hung in her hometown's library. Her father always dreamed of being an artist, and she felt as if she honored his legacy.

Dione: Looking back at her life, Dione is very critical of herself. She sees her mistakes more than her achievements– there is nothing she is very proud of. She's filled with a shame that she tries to bury deep down, but it threatens to spill out more and more.

Perceval: How xe help people. Whether it's xyr job at H.E.L.L. or xyr personal interactions, it fills xem with warmth to see happiness flourish around xem.

Crescent: Their skills. They can track, hunt, chase anyone and everything they want. And they look good doing it, which is an undeniable bonus.

Orchid - what do you enjoy doing that others don't like?

Xander: It's already been touched a bit on the blog, but going out during storms! Seeing the waves crashing on rocks like thunder while the wind howls and low dark clouds darken the Earth. Very risky and irresponsible, but so tempting.

Charlotte: Breaking books' spines and folding the pages corners. It's not a deliberate thing, they just think it's nice when books look like they have been read and enjoyed. Messy annotations, too.

Dione: Wearing heels all the time. It doesn't hurt her feet (thanks to her angel resilience) and it looks good, so she doesn't have any problem doing it. Also, eating pineapple on pizza (I don't condone her actions, she's a heretic /j).

Perceval: Sleeping with a foot hanging off the bed. It's not very unpopular, but they enjoy gardening without a care. Getting their hands dirty, staying out in the sun sweating, the soreness in their thighs after crouching for too long. They really enjoy that!

Crescent: Failing. It's weird, but they enjoy a challenge– it's been so long since they've lost something. They want to be defied, to feel the burning need to break their limits. They want the thrill.

Thank you so much for your asks <3 🌻

[orchidspine]

My Lawrie gijinka

[littlefreya]

Easy Prey

Summary: Direct sequel to Jerk. Ring or not, August promised himself that he will make you his, in whatever mean possible and he kept that promise. 

Pairing: August Walker x Reader (2nd person pov)

Word count: 1.6K

Warnings: 18+, dark, kidnapping, bondage, dubious consent, teasing, dirty talk, gunplay (yeah add this to the list of kinks I gave you), sweet degradation and praise.

A/N: You thought August is going to sweet talk this one, didn’t you? Surprise! This was a short drabble brought by a prompt, turned into a one-shot and then my beta @agniavateira suggested this as a sequel to Jerk before I posted. Since most of you may be in a thanksgiving dinner tomorrow, enjoy my own early b-day gift to you! Many thanks to @wondersofdreaming and @sapphirescrolls who convinced me to post this. 

Please comment and reblog if you enjoyed. Your feedback is my fuel. 🖤

Easy Prey

August Walker lived his life swinging between the two sharp edges of a sword; but then, how could he not? He had to maintain a handsome prime-alpha male reputation while hiding his true cruel nature masked beneath mist and shadows.

It took everyone by surprise once it was revealed that the slick, charming agent was a vicious, Armani-wearing monster. A hard-to-swallow pill for most, but these two diverse entities were always one and the same: 

August Walker was John Lark the way darkness followed light. 

And how unfortunate it was of you to be lured into the spider’s web, stunned by the beauty of the pearly silk; you’ve gotten too close and had your limbs caught in the sticky threads. Now captured, you’ve earned yourself a taste of August’s sweet toxin yourself. 

Fear wasn’t even close to the sensation that was gnawing in your gut.

The suite was cosy; a sleepy fire crackled in the mantle, shy beams of maple light kissed your bare breasts while you laid upon the softest pillows. It felt like a sinister joke compared to the ropes charring the supple flesh of your wrists. August had you stripped of any remnants of protection of course, save for the little jewellery circling your finger which he eyed with a blank stare that screamed in its contained silence.

Fully clothed, he stood at the fore of the bed, wearing a blue three-piece suit as if he was attending a royal wedding. A magnum was clutched in his right hand and a dagger in the other. The calmness and elegance of his appearance only made you arch and grunt in your fruitless attempts to set yourself free.

“Ropes too tight, angel?” He hummed, his voice so pleasant it felt like your lungs were floating in a void. His crystal-pale gaze dawdled upon you, invading beneath the skin, penetrating the warm crease between your legs which you fought to keep shut. 

He felt it, or maybe even smelled the arousal that wafted at his direction and chanted his name.

“I’d save my strength if I were you. We’ve already proven that no one can hear your screams and we have a long night ahead of us.”

His words covered the bones of your spine with a thick layer of frost and in your searing throat, a bitter substance reemerged. Screwing your eyes shut, you wished more than anything for this to be a nightmare; but every time the binds twisted about your hands, you remembered the dreadful meaning behind the pain. 

It was there to remind you of the harsh slap that was reality.  

August tilted his head, a smile beginning to spread from each corner of his mouth: all pleasant and  charming as if this was nothing but a couple’s naughty getaway. 

“You can’t wake up from this, this is not a dream… or a nightmare, depends on your disobedience,” he assured, boding a sudden hollow in your chest. “Now, which one do you prefer? The knife or the gun?”

“Fuck you!” 

Defiant, you gathered yourself to scream a trembling cry, sending your legs to kick the mattress in a hopeless fight. Only it made things worse as August was able to spot the little dew-kissed orchid between your legs, glistening-wet with invitation. 

Flicking a tongue over his upper lip, he crept close. His broad shoulders strained, his posture that of an elegant predator; as you saw the large outlines of his heavy cock stretching his navy-blue trousers, even hatred and horror couldn’t mask the pang of need that shot through your core.

Despite the panic, the traitorous instinct of life whispered of undisclosed, primal lust. You wished so badly you could fight or hide it, but alas there was no hiding from August. He could sense it, see it, and even taste it on his wicked tongue. 

“Gun then,” he answered and slid the knife back into the holster in his belt.

Your breath hitched as the mattress dipped beneath his weight, and you watched paralysed as he aimed the gun between your legs. Strong tremors coursed along your skin and your knees buckled and wobbled as the cold metal touched you; and yet, in that very moment, you did the impossible and moaned.

“Has it been that long since you had a dick inside you?” August observed with a vicious grin crisping his lips. It made his moustache twitch almost comically. 

“Don’t worry sweet angel, we’ll fix that soon.”

Pushing the gun between your kneecaps, he forced them open and ran the barrel feverishly down your inner thighs. The metal was freezing against your flesh, eliciting little tingles to spiral beneath the tender brush. Gasping, you looked away from him ashamed. You were terrified, not just of him, but from how much the wanton centre of your sex clenched from his ministrations.

You were bound and kidnapped by a dangerous man, and yet in your mind played the sick fantasies of him unbuckling his belt and giving you his full girth hard and wild. 

“You will soon have me in every hole,” August continued with a promise on his honeyed lips while lowering the brim of the weapon perilously close to your radiating heat and toying with the sensitive area teasingly. “I will make it hurt real bad, you’ll feel me there for days if not more,” he hummed and swerved the barrel between your engorged lips. 

“Please!” You gasped and writhed away slightly, tugging on the binds that began chafing your delicate skin. August raised his glare to meet your pleading eyes and leaned forward, his shadow looming over you entirely. Reaching one hand to your nape, he clutched you forcefully while his icy glare pierced right through your skull.

Slow and sensual he began to run the gun between your soft petals, gingerly grazing the hard shaft at the plump peak of flesh that made you cry out with both pleasure and despair. 

“Aww...” He keened and groaned. Never stopping his coaxing of your cunt with the still object, his breath huffed hot upon your cheek as he rounded his beautiful lips in faux pity. “Poor helpless little butterfly.”

Crying and dazed, you stared directly into his eyes. Words of plea kept running caged inside your head, unable to make their way out while you watched August’s large shoulder move back and forth. The movement resulting in the unwanted pleasure. Back and forth, he stroked you, gradually increasing the pace, and not without style even. Ruthless, August was keen on making you come.

You weren’t even sure what it was that you begged for at that point.

Grunts and sobs escaped your throat unwillingly. You squirmed and pushed against it, your body craving for more: not just for the rough friction that tingled at your cunt but also at the large bulge visible at his groin. The more rapture began to creep through your flowing tendons, the further you sank into delirium, wondering how he would feel like buried deep between your tight walls, fucking you the way only someone who has no boundaries would.

“Fuck!” You screamed, grinding against the metal while August leaned even closer and kissed the corner of your mouth before groaning and moaning at your lips. His hand worked hard between your thighs, the cold barrel now warm, the hollow edge coated with your elixir. 

The wall of your protests crumbled as the simmering surge of climax began pushing itself down your belly, leaving you teetering between self-loathing and ecstasy. 

“That’s right my beautiful butterfly, I’ll pluck your wings,” August promised in a husky whisper, watching you as you coiled and cried louder, your walls convulsing tightly around a sad, empty space as you came. If only you didn’t wish it was August choked between them instead.

As you slumped down, sweaty and breathless, he drawled a growl of content and slowly withdrew the gun to hold it next to your shivering face.

“I swear, Sloan’s assistants keep getting sluttier every year; the last one I fucked had a thing for me choking her,” he mocked while grazing the wet barrel against your cheek, “do you think you’d be into that too, sweetling? My hand around your throat?”  

Rounding your eyes in utter fear, you swallowed the dryness in your throat. August sighed with a malicious little grin while twisted awe danced between the blue, sparkling sapphires that examined you ecstatically, so fascinated by how easily he managed to break and bend you to his will.

Still holding the neck of the gun pressed next to your cheek, he reached the other hand above your head. A part of you was relieved for a moment, thinking he was about to untie the bind. 

But your hope quickly died as you felt his fingers rolling the ring that decorated your finger.

The diamond reflected onto the deep blue of his eyes as he examined it closely before throwing it directly into the fireplace.

“No!” You cried out brokenly, as the last memory of your old life disappeared in flames.

“Save your tears beautiful,” August retorted, his voice once again so soft it chilled your very core. He shifted his entire weight between your straddled thighs, and leaned in to kiss the wetness below your eye, “you won’t be needing it anymore.”

His tongue slipped out to collect the briny liquid that gathered on your cheek, and another hum of delight rumbled in his chest as his covered cock unmistakably ground against your mound, “I am your man from now on, might as well accept it and let me do whatever I want.”

Shivering under him, you took a deep breath, your body already swaying in demand as you felt him throbbing beneath the soft fabric of his pants. To your own horror, your head fell into a slow nod of shameful consent. 

It wasn’t just August you were afraid of, but also for yourself.    

[widowsofchaos]

ill wind

summary: A drunken one-night stand takes a turn. pairings: dark!Wanda x black!reader x dark!Natasha warnings: (malevolent advantage of alcohol consumption, power manipulation, dub non-con/smut) I hope ya’ll enjoy! <3 ao3 a/n: Written for @that-damn-girl ‘s PRIDE challenge. Chose a scenario prompt “drunken one night stand” with my two of my fav marvel women. Many apologies for being rusty at my writing! Beta: by the beautiful @imanuglywombat Thank you, Laura for being such a great friend & for proof-reading! Thank you for the amazing commentary, you’ve been such a huge help on this fic! Xoxo psa: I had to repost this story again due to the original post being reported by tumblr for adult content, so here it is once again! Also, a big thanks to everyone liking this fic, I didn’t realize it would be a fan favorite until I kept getting tagged by other writers’ answering asks of readers asking about it! It means a lot, thank you!!

do not repost my works!

A surge of throbbing pain hits your head.

Somber shades of yellow and white marinate into a dewy flourish; trying to break through your fluttering lids. Three hearts beating under smooth silk sheets, limbs entangled, a blooming migraine bestows your crown.

A cheeky god who’s shit-eating grin is flashing before your squinting eyes, you huffed. Serves me right, I guess, you mulled. The rowdy tyke biting more than she can chew.

A cheeky god who’s shit-eating grin is flashing before your squinting eyes, you huffed. Serves me right, I guess, you mulled. The rowdy tyke biting more than she can chew.

Your hooded eyes sharply scan the bedroom, realization hits like a freight train – this isn’t your room. It’s familiar to memory, your mouth curves into a frown, you rub your eyes roughly. Trying to clear your vision, studying your surroundings thoroughly. Powering through blurry perception, your senses are a bit irregular, groggy.

You attempt to twist your body, metal clanks against the skin of your back. Nerves frigid at the slender-shaped leather sensation, your breathing is shallow, your brain is driving into overdrive, grasping at the assumption that it’s a belt; the horizontal form, and the shape of metal is a big clue of it’s identification.

The slick leather sliding against the nape of your back, traveling against the slope of your lower spine, regarding the patterns of the buckle that grazed against your ass.

Peering out of your blurry haze, your moist skin recognizes the flood of body heat.

Overwhelmed by your flush state, your crown shifts down and you almost choke on your spit and you almost choke on your spit. On your right, lying peacefully on her back is the Slovakian witch herself, Wanda. On your left, her face half-smooshed in the pillow, the Russian beauty herself, Natasha.

Anxiety rolls off of you in waves. Naked, and satiated with pouty sleepy lips – yourself bare as the day you were born. Arm draped gracefully over her face, the twinkle of a glimmering rock adorning Wanda’s left palm mockingly winks at you.

Whining very lowly, you leisurely twist your head to face Nat, curled near her head was another shiny rock snickering at you. “Fuck.” You cringe. Biting the bullet, you navigate through the migraine, bent elbows dig into the mattress, lifting your head up, weak fingers grip the sheets to cover your indecency.

On the floor, spews of clothes are scattered – your Alice Cooper shirt, your lace black thong, your denim shorts, your strapless bra – along with other familiar articles of clothing. A red string thong, a pair of high-waisted blue panties, a black button clad blouse, a leather skirt, – it was an Armageddon of fabric.

As your brain fizzles to calculate your escape, a featherlight fingertip grazes and tickles your neck, you gasped at the intrusion. Your head snaps to your left, green orbs pierce through you, “Hey.”, it was sultry, yet raspy.

A twinge at your core – no, no, no – this can’t happen. Becoming a homewrecker isn’t on your bucket list. “Hey – um, I don’t fully remember–” You were stuttering, never have you lost your cool. “I – fuck.” Your eyes downcast from Natasha’s intense stare and shame seeping through your bones; a dark chuckle erupts from her.

“It’s okay.” She cuts you off, with her knuckles caressing your cheek. “No need to be worried – or scared”, a feral grin, all fangs. Your mouth gaps opened, and closed like a blubbering fish. “I’m so sorry, Nat.” A bit breathless, tears form in your eyes.

Your head running miles per hour, tongue thickened with sincerity – worried that you definitely ruined one of your best friendships.

“I shouldn’t be here.” Your fumes are running on auto-pilot. A coy flutter of her lashes, “Why are you sorry? You weren’t saying that last night.” Your chin wobbles, “Excuse me?” A devilish smirk dons her mouth, you can tell she’s entertained by your confusion.

Natasha’s calm stature, coolly lifting herself by the elbows to sit against the headboard, bare milky breasts bounce free from the blanket – it throws you for a loop.

“Whatever I said last night –” Your fidgety fingers grip your messy curls, seeking an ounce of control, “–I was drunk. I – can’t remember. I know I probably said some stupid shit.” You harshly bite your bottom lip, drawing some droplet of blood through split skin, “Not at all, miláčik.” A soft Slovakian timber looms behind you, your entire body stiffens.

French manicured nails graze your tender shoulder blade, weaving a hiss through your teeth. Crudely tracing red claw marks, a shiver crawls through your spine; Wanda stifles a chuckle. “No need to worry, Y/n.” A peck on your shoulder, you gasp, flinching a bit away from her lips.

“No, this is so wrong. I ruined everything – I – need to go.” You stutter, averting your teary gaze away from both women. Fumbling and shaky hands tugging off the sheets, embarrassment surges inside of you due to your bareness.

Covering your breasts with your arms in shame, a disappointed sigh can be heard, a whizz of mesmerizing magenta energy floats and surrounds you. Your brain becomes fuzzy – dizzy numbness infiltrates you. Brown orbs criss-cross, a force heaves on your chest, pushing your body forcefully against the mattress – an ungraceful huff escapes you.

“Oh miláčik, you’re not going anywhere.” Wanda whispers, her knuckles softly caressing your cheek. “I–” Your mouth gapes to speak but you are cut off, “Quiet.” Natasha sternly demands, trimmed brows pinch menacingly. Wanda’s slender fingers flicker hairs-away from your lips; muting you.

“Do I really need to refresh your memory? Or do you want Wanda to just show you?” Natasha pucker lips sporting a faded tint of pink – a hint of last night’s rendezvous. Something is different in their eyes now; something darker. It nerves you, a force is weighing on your chest slightly more — leaving you gasping a bit.

You nod your head in Wanda’s direction, peering through squinted glossy eyes. Wanda’s open palm waves over your face, a flared energy of fluid orchid pink and creamy white whisk in a blurry mix.

Transporting your subconscious through a tunnel of faded memories – a film reel of the past — neon rainbows of worldly splendor travel around you. Kaleidoscope splendor.

Through a murky veil, your airy presence arrives at the living area — Stark’s late night party from last night in full swing. You are befuddled yet amazed beyond belief. The scents of alcohol roars in your nostrils and the crisp clear cadence of your tipsy friends flow through your eardrums – goofing off, and chatting – you can feel the atmosphere differently on your skin.

The chilled air that flows from the open balcony imbibes your flesh, goosebumps littering your translucent skin in its wake; your breath hitches at the tingles soaring through your body.

The powerful gifts Wanda possesses never fails to impress you.

Nimble feet waltz through the hallway, reaching to the common area, it felt as if another unknown force was guiding you – searching for your past self. Assuming by this time of the party you were already impaired off your ass. Your silent steps were transparent, featherily light against the flooring; the cool sensation grazing your toes.

The cheers rising in volume, the coil of anxiety curling in the pit of your belly. Forcing yourself to cease your pace, nerves overriding. Afraid to face the truth – realization that you slipped. How easy of you fall into their bed, like a slithering snake. Tears formed at the brims of your eyes – wiping the droplets away by the back of your palms.

A push collided against your back, an ungraceful yelp escaped you as you toppled over – your entire form floating, twirling a bit. Wiggling legs falter mid-air, hovering over the ground; trying to find your bearings. A force guiding you towards the common area. The aroma of liquor tickles your nostrils and boisterous laughter rings in your ears.

Easily you found past you hanging off of Thor’s extended bicep – like a monkey climbing a damn oak tree. You attempted to face-palm yourself, but your hand went straight through your ghostly face. It was free reign to wonder about the compound.

Fascinated to just linger around, seemingly waiting for your own mistake to be replayed for you. In the corner, you see Sam and Clint chuckling like a couple of knuckle-heads at you trying to bounce off of Thor. It was odd, you felt like you were in the film Ghost.

Wandering among friends, they walk right through your invisible disembodied form. In the corner, you see Bucky and Steve smooching on the couch, stealing cheeky kisses – a bit tipsy chuckles from Thor’s ale.

Your drunken form catches your eye, incoherent words to Thor, Sam, and Clint --- most likely you’re telling them that you were gonna rest for a bit. You saw your past self flop ungracefully on the couch, your eyes wearily fluttering open and shut.

Two shadows peer upon your body and you almost choke on your own spit. Wanda and Natasha sat on both sides of you, petting your hair and caressing your cheeks. Delirious you were, you slurred a hello. You squinted darkly at Natasha’s palm – it was a flask in her grasp.

Taunting you with a shake, promising more alien ale, in exchange to ‘hang out with us’; Wanda’s fingertips grazing your temples, snickering lowly. You are frozen in your spot as if the soles of your feet grew roots planting in the flooring. Deceit. It was a simple trick dealt by your own hand, your own inebriation used against you.

For a millisecond, you feel it was your own fault – following the wolves in sheep’s clothing. Aided by the sneaky claws of Wanda, and Natasha; trolling towards the elevator. Your breathing is sharpening, choppy pants squeezed from your lungs. The walls of the living area began shaking as if an earthquake was occurring.

Your subconscious begins deteriorating piece by piece. Vibrations begin surging throughout your body and in a glimpse, you see every member of your team in a mid-frozen state.

But in a flash, you see Bucky and Steve grinning with toothy Cheshire Cat smiles – following the direction of their gaze, staring at Wanda and Natasha dragging you away. It gives you a weird uncertain vibe, making you shiver.

The walls of the compound begin to crumble upon you. Vibrations surge throughout your body, almost losing your balance on your toes. You hold onto yourself, hugging your head in your arms. An efflux of bursting colors blinds you, swirling and erupting upon you. A force pushing you through the familiar tunnel of mist.

Deafening white noise pound in your ears, as if you are breaking through the ocean surface – wheezing for air, a heavy weight crawling off your chest. The blurry veil clears, your vision sharpens to see Wanda and Natasha hovering over you, smiling like the cats that got the cream. “You tricked me,” You stammered, fuming with rage but a flailing thread of humiliation.

Wanda clicked her tongue, wagging her finger at you – scolding you like a child. “We didn’t trick you. You came willingly. Right, Nattie?” Wanda cooed to Natasha, dreamily gazing at her. Natasha hummed, “Indeed, Maxie. All we did was follow –” the tip of Natasha’s finger softly grazed Wanda’s chin upward, a slow turn back to you, “--- You lead the way.”

“I was fucking drunk. I don’t even remember shit! You took advantage of me!” You barked, green and hazy blue hues darken. Natasha’s palm grips your jaw, emanating an ow from you – a bruising touch.

“Would you like Wanda to give you a repeat of it? I must warn you –” She leaned forward, lips almost brushing yours, “–you were very loud, and wet.” Nat’s voice was laced with malice.

“No.” A muffled whine slip from puckered lips pinched between her fingers. “You know – we could just give her a demonstration.” Wanda purrs, delicate hands find your body; snagging the sheets off your body, Natasha groans at the sight of your bare breasts.

Bending forward Wanda’s pink tongue darts from her plump lips, licking long strides against your dewy skin. Starting at the navel, her tongue traveling up to the valley of your plush breasts.

Cowering thighs clench shut, “Nuh uh, none of that.” Wanda’s sing-song reprimand makes you twitch at the pit of your belly. A fiery carmine mist infiltrates the air, twirling presence swirls around your crotch, and thighs – the force snatches your legs spread eagle-wide.

“You have no clue how long we have wanted you, huh?” Natasha coos crudely as your thighs slowly lift upwards, slowly your thighs lifted upwards, your kneecaps coming to rest against your supple breasts.

“You’re soaked, miláčik.” Wanda’s body glides with smooth precision, downward like agile feline; legs dangle in the air, ankles locked. Comfortably tucked between your legs like it was her rightful reign. Inhaling your sweet tangy scent emanating from your glistening cunt, her pink tongue darting out to lick her bottom lip. Long strides stroking inside your wet folds, shamelessly delving between short-fuzz mound.

“Delicious. Like a peach.” Tip of her moist tongue, twirling on your clit, “Hmph – fuck.” Your eyes fluttered to the back of your skull. Natasha licks a trail of warm saliva from your lush breast to your baring neck.

Suckling on your pulse point, you gasp a breathy groan. Teeth nip and scrape the skin ravenously, baring her fangs --- resembling her infamous Araneae emblem.

Sweet kisses to your collarbone, teeth nibble at your brown nipples, tantalizing tugging on the sensitive flesh – red nails painfully scraping into your ass cheeks, whimpers slither pathetically from your lips. Mewls from Natasha, a click of her tongue, tsking you as if you were a cat, a mere pet to play with. Your lips form into a thin line, forbidding any involuntary moans to slip.

“Twah. Don’t hold back those sweet noises, baby.” Wanda lulling you, following with a salacious bite on your inner thigh, you yelp trailing into a pathetic moan as she licks against the mark. “We had you singing like a canary last night,” Natasha speaks huskily against your cheek, nibbling a bit. “You may be restraining, trying to be quiet. But you’re just one loud girl, just like your mind.” Natasha said lowly, your dazed eyes trying to concrete.

“Loud thoughts, and vivid fantasies.” Wanda’s lips pucker to suckle throbbing clit. You grunt, Natasha pinches your nipple — earning a squeal from you. It was painfully delicious — you can’t lie — your body definitely can’t hide the fact. “There you are, darling.” Natasha’s voice drips with husky lust, a second twist.

You yelp, your head tilts back and strains against the pillow — welcoming the sting whole-heartedly. Natasha cups your breast jiggling it a bit; flicks her tongue against the erected nipple and suckles it in her entire mouth. Your whole breast devoured, you hiss, peeking through your lashes — it was sinful how her pink saliva glossed lips engulf your tit.

How her tongue lapped at your nipple with such hunger. Worships you into the cave of her mouth. Her sneaky fingers snatch the other one — twisting and twirling mercilessly between her finger-tips. It’s sloppy, filthy, and fucking dirty — and wrong. You feel as if you could pass out. The soppy slurps from Natasha and the leg-shaky clit bites from Wanda were pushing over the edge.

You push your waist up and down, riding Wanda’s tongue; for a moment you lose yourself. Her hot tongue gliding between your velvet folds, how her tongue coats in your essence.

Wanda’s soft palms glide against the curves of your thighs, her nails scraping against the flesh. You jolt as she swats against your underthighs. Harsh painful slaps, as she eats you out. The heat of the slaps is scorching in your pores, adding salt to the wound — Wanda digs nails a bit more to relish in your squirming.

“Ow.” It’s small, but it’s heard. Wanda removes her lips from your pearl, you pitifully whine — frantically, you hoist your head to glare at her. A trail of white saliva connects from her bottom lip to your clit, she twirls her tongue in a languid twirl; collecting all of it.

Licks her upper lip, like a feline just drank the dairy. “Don’t pretend you don’t like it.” Wanda smacks your glistening cunt, a wicked snicker. You wail, it’s a tug of war for you. You don’t want to be here, getting eaten the day-lights out of you, and your tits suckled.

You need time to decompress on the fact, you had sex with two of your best friends — who are married. Who you had the biggest crushes on – but you can’t risk losing a full-fledged friendship over lust.

Two sets of slender fingers plunge inside you, snapping you out of your thoughts, as the pad of Wanda’s thumb rubs manic circle motions on your throbbing clit.

“Get out of your pretty head, miláčik.” Tears form at the brims of your eyes, shaking it no — you can’t risk losing this friendship. “Do you really think you can bypass a spy and a telepath?” Natasha’s voice was like a crackling fire, dragging you out of your conflicted thoughts.

“Did you think we wouldn’t see how you gaze at us, huh? All those thoughts swarming in there?” Her index gently taps the center of your forehead. It was difficult to fully concrete or even speak coherent words as Wanda was teasingly inserting her fingers in and out of your wet cavern; ceasing her thumb a bit.

Speechless — what could you say to that? “Worried on becoming a homewrecker?” You were stuttering a bit, you still needed space to adjust, what if this doesn’t work out, and you were stuck in the awkward middle? “I–I need some time —” Natasha’s eyes darken, refusing to accept your rejection. You didn’t even have the proper choice — you didn’t have a choice.

It was a drunken one — barely a choice filled with manipulation and trickery. “No.” She hisses, gripping your jaw, you whine lowly in your throat at her harsh grasp.

Without wavering her eyes from yours, as she steals a bruising kiss. Wanda’s eyes ignite to fiery red, hitting your sweet spot hard, and brutal. You shriek, trying to worm yourself from Wanda’s grasp — but no success. Wanda’s mist restricts and pins you against the bed, her jaw tightens and clicks.

“You can’t escape us. We want you just as bad as you want us.” Wanda’s viscous fingers split you open, squelching; not once allowing a second of adjusting. As if her powers were electric at the tips of her witchy fingers, you felt a zap inside you. Oh, how a wicked bulb lits upon her head. “I have an idea.” Wanda hums with an evil smirk, stopping her actions.

“I don’t even have to touch you to make you cum.” Wanda guides Natasha away from your aching body by the shoulder. Her slim fingers contort as she sits on her knees, red energy emits, and swirls from her hands.

Manipulating your senses, fire brewing at your nerve endings, unadulterated ecstasy brimming at the pores. Wails leave you like hymns, your lips forming into an O; eyes pinched shut as your back arches off the mattress.

Hissing through your teeth — it’s electric. Enthralling as you twitch under Wanda’s command. Jittery spasms as a coil at the pit of your belly began twirling bigger, and bigger. “She’s getting close. I can smell it on her.” Natasha whispers, her breasts heaving a bit from her chest swelling from excitement, her smug smile curling from her lips.

“I can feel her energy. It’s heavy and intoxicating.” Wanda’s head was in a haze, as she connected with your spirit, along with Natasha’s. A connection. To intertwine — but not for herself, with extra concentration, it is sizzling erotic as Natasha’s charka intertwine with Wanda’s as it chokes your inner essence.

Wanda’s fingers pinching in the air, weaving your life-force, your hips bucking into the air, as your impending orgasm is roaring — your pussy is swollen and soaking. Your soppy hole clenches and pulsates against an enigmatic fullness, Wanda exploring yet violating your cavern — touching against your moist walls, your clit throbbing and hot.

“Fuck — I — I need to c–cum!” Sputtering over your blubbering lips, a snarl rumbles in Wanda’s chest, as she hovered a bit by the knees, the power over three energies was carnal.

Natasha’s head tilts backward, her fiery hair curtaining her face, her baby-hairs sticking against her forehead from brewing sweat; pinching her nipples painfully between her fingertips, groping her breasts in the cups of her palms. “I need to feel her cunt against mine.” Her voice is hardened and desperate.

Natasha’s head snaps upward, staring directly at your sweltering face, the greenery in her pupils darken and dilate.

A growl seethes from Natasha’s wet lips, low and dangerous. Your muscles shake; pleasure engulfing your limbs, weakly trapped in this mystic force, forced to enjoy Wanda’s manipulation. Moving like rivers upon your skin, unraveling waves washing over you — suffocating, painfully sweet.

Despite Wanda taking unbridled control, ravaging your body as if she owns it, weaving pleasure from you as if she knows your body from the inside out, as if she knows every sweet-spot, and tick inside you for years — there is a layer of gentility. Impulsive, yet soft. A tender lover, a pinch to savor.

Groans, grunts, and high-pitched moans echo as corrupted sympathies and bounce against the wall pavements, ringing in your ears. Flushed cheeks, sepia skin now tinted with pinkish shades spreading throughout your body.

Bliss swelling and sealing in your limber legs, aching in the best possible way. Cattle-wails of desperation, a dribble of cum trails between your wet folds and between your cheeks hitting your puckered asshole.

Wanda’s witchy slender fingers fiddle, makeshift claws to create more pressure — releasing more telepathic vitality for Natasha and yourself to ride out your orgasms.

With a flicker of Wanda’s index finger – maneuvering to the form of a pistol – a trigger, a jolt of energy bolts at your navel. A bullet. You convulse, airy pants, your torso heaving with your thighs quaking in its tight hold.

A snap bursts within you, your eyes opening widely, translucent colors combust upon your vision — worldly satisfaction manifesting into reality. In unison, all three souls unleash guttural moans.

Wanda’s fingers tremble, sucking in breath through her teeth, her energy fading into thin air, retreating back into her palms. A sharp guttural groan spilt from Natasha, a skin-peeling frenzy; basking in the astral aura that is the Slovakian witch. Your thighs collapse down debilitating from your torso.

Almost falling like an empty sack, Natasha tries to steady her breathing, as she loses herself completely at the heightened senses of her orgasm. It was such a sight, heaving over, crooked elbows denting against the mattress — on all fours, her spine heaving upward as tremors convulsed.

Never have you ever seen Natasha lose her stature in all the years of knowing her, ever so the chilling demure nature — only in your wildest fantasies have you dreamt of Natasha torn at the seams.

At the corners of her jaw, was tinged pale pink upon a damp milky surface, with her glossy eyes, adding to the primal gaze. Zoned out, peering through her lashes, her eyes are feral. Unhinged, ready for the kill.

“Keep her legs open.” Natasha hisses, nostrils flaring. Wanda slithers away, wobbling a bit by her knee-caps. Humming with a knowing smirk at Natasha, licking her upper lip with her pink tongue – she knows what Natasha wants. “I want her mouth.” Wanda snickers, a glint of mischief at her eye. Hastening breath fans over your bare shoulder, from her button nose against your sculpted collarbone.

Choking a bit, gasping for a full breath to tame your heightened nerve endings; your mouth parted. Gulping back your dry throat.

Wanda clicks her tongue, her nimble fingers trace the lines of your lips. “Keep that mouth open, dove. I’m going to quench your thirst.” Sneaky mind-reader. Sultry thick accent spells you for a momentary lapse.

“Please, wait. Give me a momen — aggh!” A plea falling on deaf ears is strangled into a wanton cry. Your hands shake, hugging yourself against your chest, arms crossing; trying to comfort yourself.

A painful slap against your clit, over-sensitive and squirming. Heat blooming throughout your hooded clit. “I don’t think so. We’ll stop when we say, got it?” Natasha snipes.

A pregnant pause.

Smack.

“Understood?” Natasha barks again, with a vengeful clap of her hand — as if it possesses the power of a god, unmerciful; but worships you in the smooth rubs on the stinging flesh. Your lips parting into a moan, a few sniffles muffled — it’s whiny and pathetic.

“Don’t cry. We’ll make you feel good again. Don’t you want that?” Wanda’s lips hover over you, against your cheeks, her teeth slightly grazing against your skin. A bite at your inner thigh, a warning. Natasha’s more aggressive. Wild, impatient, and just savage to devour you, for you to comply with their demands.

“Yes. Just wait, I’m sensitive.” You needed a reprieve, a breather from the intense third-eye cosmic orgasm you just had a few minutes ago. “No time to waste.” Wanda perks, a soft kiss on your lips. The witch balances herself over your head, trapping your skull between her thighs. Above your lips was her peach-fuzz cunt, dripping and inviting.

A tiny voice at the back of your head informing you that this is beyond wrong, red flags and alarm bells ringing that the circumstances after this will be catastrophic.

Fingers sliding in your curls, glides open-palm against your head, “C’mon, dove. Open wide. We know you’ve dreamt of having a taste. Don’t be shy now. You weren’t last night.” Wanda’s clutch shifted into an iron grip, pain over-riding your humiliation.

“Loud, wet — very eager to please, to impress.” Natasha kept listing off how you acted in bed, closing your eyes shut in embarrassment. What if this is just a tryst? A mere game for a married couple to spice their sex life? Years worth of emotional baggage and scars begin surfacing to your murky mind. A good lay.

And when Wanda and Natasha are done with you without a second thought, using your body after a good late night and morning fuck, despite questionable undertones --- confusion.

Your body yearns for their touch, going against your better judgement; it’s best to sit down and discuss this like rational adults. Another part of you wants to claw at both of them, for lying to you. Using Thor’s ale against you to lure you to the lion’s den. What if after this, they don’t want you? A mind-game to throw you off. Fearing to lose a friendship over a momentary lapse of hot sex.

Restricting back burning tears, ‘very eager to please, to impress.’ That’s you, always ready to bend over to get people to like you — it even transcended into your sex life. Motivated by liquor and you lost yourself to lust and temptation, although these two used your drunk state against you. A humiliating sight you probably were.

“Get out of your head, miláčik.” You sigh, slowly opening your eyes. Your breath hitches, Wanda stares down at you with sympathetic hues. “We’re not going to throw you away. We’re not going anywhere.” Relenting her harsh grip, the pads of her fingers soothe the remaining ache.

“You’re ours.” Firm and demanding. Natasha spreads your weak legs open once again, positioning herself to sit interlocked with you. Natasha hums, “Don’t even think of leaving us. You know we’re capable of catching you. Chain you to the bed if we have to.” Her cunt against yours, clit to clit.

You can feel the wet slick that coated between her asscheeks, a slip n’ slide as her ass sprawled against your wet thigh. Her fingers clawing against your thigh to top it over her leg. Quaking a bit, a shiver crawls up your spine.

The insanity of it all, you just wanna hide away. “Be good, miláčik.” Wanda descends upon your face, her natural essence wafting deeply in your airways — flooding your senses. You shouldn’t be thriving off of this sex but it was hot and incredible.

Wanda comfortably situates herself as if she sits on a throne —- as if she owns you. Your protests are muffled into mumbles, as your lips wrap around her swollen snatch. Your nose nestled against her short curls, the tender skin was like silk against your palate.

A crude shift from Natasha’s waist, a strident thrust as she begins tribbing you, you are moaning against Wanda, herself shuddering as her hips sway up and down upon your cheeks.

Vulgar Russian curses heave from Wanda’s lips, high-pitched and transcending into orgasmic nirvana. Natasha is growling — slipping into Russian curses and wanton moans — taking what’s hers as she keeps riding herself on you. Sucking through your teeth, you nibble on Wanda’s clit, and tugging her slippery labia between sucked in lips.

Vociferous wails and whimpers, a cadence of sticky slick mixing from one cunt to another. A lubricant that was chafing against flesh. The lewd differences between these two women is clear as day.

Wanda is the bright sunny day and Natasha is the inky night. Soft is Wanda in shades and colors; with benevolent timbre. Amorous is Natasha but in darker tints, with a reserved mask; with raspy timbre. Both ravenous for control. The pinnacles of what many women strive to be with superior intellect, beauty, and brawns.

Being the gay bottom you are, it’s no surprise for you to be charmed by such powerful women. After many hookups with women over the years, this was the most intense and enthralling one yet.

Years of crushing on them from afar has led up to this. Fresh-faced and more enchanting than before, Wanda sighs in content and victory, as she gawks down at you from her tottering head. Her tousled tresses curtaining her cheeks, riding with more enthusiasm as your lashes flutter. With a dominant drive, Natasha’s groans as she’s close to cum.

Her wetness and yours adds to the sensation on your clit. All three bodies fumbling at bit from the brutal-pace of face-fucking and cunt riding. The headboard hits the wall a bit, matching the frenetic grinding of skin to skin.

Shedding their heroic femme skins and turning into savages. Nasty. Filthy. Corrupt. Your fingernails dredge into Wanda’s femurs, prowling skyward the sweaty region of her hips, to the toned plains of her tummy to finally the mountain peaks of bosoms.

Pinching her pink nipples between your fingers to the point of making her yelp, it was an unspoken incentive for her to ride your mouth harder. Teeth tenderly gnashing inside her pussy lips.

Ragged murmurs, clipped curses, and taunts – You like it? Yeah, you were made to be under us, withering, and shaking. You want me to cum all over your face, pretty girl? Have Natasha drown your pussy with her cum? Yeah, dove, I can feel your clit pulse against mine!

Shocked silence as your astonished eyes widen, your mouth is flooded with cum. Rendered speechless, airy gasps from Wanda and Natasha is still upon your cunt, small mewls from her, now beyond sloppy and wet; a mixture of your cum and hers. Natasha’s hips juddering against yours, riding the last of her orgasm.

“What a good dove, we have,” Natasha speaks through the thick silence. Wanda hoists herself up by the knees, as you gasp for more air — your entire mouth now glistening with her fluid.

“Yes, she’s so good. Took everything we gave her like a good girl.” Wanda coos at you, hooded lids with a sultry curve of her lashes flutter at you; jolting away as she laid back on the bed with a wheezing breath. Regaining her composure, her dainty fingertips graze against your sweaty forehead to flip curls that strayed on your eye-lids. It was intimate, too intimate — it is the touch of a lover.

Natasha releases your leg, it was a bit strained from her fingernails and tight grip. Her hands cup your tummy, kissing by the navel; as she repositions herself by your side, mimicking her wife’s action. Caressing hands on your arms, dainty fingers soothing against your breasts, and shushing your rapid breaths.

Sandwiching you between themselves, a sudden direction on your belly was taken. Both Wanda and Natasha soothe the smooth clammy skin, with curling smirks that were both devilish yet attractive.

With a silent conversation that you aren’t privy to, confused as they both looked at each other with knowing gloating stares. Wanda takes her own pillow and fluffs it between her hands, as Natasha upraises your curved hips. Once again, you’re left in the dark, thrusted back into demoralization and bewilderment.

Is this it? Now that this married couple — who you idolized, and cherished this friendship with — has had their fill, who are you to them? Words birthed during the mist of lust are empty promises most of the time. Is this friendship over? Do you even have the mental capacity to continue this friendship after this tirade?

Bone-shattering orgasm after orgasm was ripped from you, and yes, it was amazing to the core, but there was a part of you in the midst of clouded hazy sex, that you didn’t want it. To be touched, you just wanted some space to recollect and process your feelings about this entire messy ordeal. You’re not sure what you want really out of life --- especially out of a polygamorous relationship.

What does this say about Natasha and Wanda?

This was a scene contrasting their usual masks of personalities, yet it molds and blends into their psyches just accordingly. It’s terrifying.

You stiffen at the revelation, serrated images were slowly circulating around your mind like the stingers of raging wasps; the small brushes of knuckles against yours, the over-friendly back massages, the persistent need to have you in their presence at all times that was mislabeled ‘just to hang out’ and ‘we miss our best friend.’ And with your yearning affection, it was easy to follow the wolves to the den for the slaughter.

Facades of kind smiles, words of advice, late-night talks that delved into and entrusted girl nights — was something darker, something sinister boiling underneath the surface.

Palms driven with cursory attached upon your arms, gripping and digging; it is demanding. Scooping underneath your bum, open palms gripping your globes, and heaving upward so your hips are positioned in the air. Wanda grabs an extra plush pillow, and Natasha maneuvers your bottom down on the pillow.

“What are you two doing now?” You are a bit irritated – tone clipped – at your running-at-a-mile per second thoughts, and sore at the muscles.

“Hush, you’ll see.” Wanda snickers, as she plushes the pillow underneath your bum. Natasha gingerly holds you down as Wanda dashes to the nearby bedside drawer. Her open-palms caress your belly, ogling with much affection and pride.

“I can’t wait.” A soft smooch above your located uterus. Anxiety filling your veins at the unknown, you begin wiggling in Natasha’s tight hold. Wondering what in the fuck, she meant. “Relax. Let it happen.” Natasha’s words were not settling your nerves, it only makes the panic hitch.

In Wanda’s palm was a turkey-baster, filled to the brim with white sloshing liquid. Eyeing the baster with pure excitement shining in her eyes, her eyes nearly criss-cross as she inspects the foreign fluid almost oozing out of its confinement.

“Perfectly curated semen for the perfect womb.” A bulb breaks and explodes in your head — emptying your dome into nothingness — thrashing in Natasha’s lethal lock. She sighs with a disapproving shake of the head, stretching your arms into a pretzel lock against your chest; painting brown skin in splotches of lavender hand-prints.

Whilst Natasha confines your fore-arms in her restraints for hands, putting weight on your upper body into the bed; Wanda’s eyes glow with fury, once again forcing down your legs. “Relax, dove. This is what we wanted with you for so long. Don’t you want to be with us?” Wanda seethes with a crooked grin, as she leers down at your shaking body.

How she revels in your weak state under her touch. Makes her urges to fuck you with her strap and make you scream like the perfect little bitch you are. Their perfect dove.

“Why?” A watery cry, before succumbing to your fate — who are you to fight against a powerful telekinetic, and one of the world’s greatest retired assassins? The only outcome would be death.

“Because we love you. You’re the one to carry our baby. I can just —” Natasha groans, her eyes rolling back in yearning. “– imagine your belly swollen, waddling bare-foot. Breast-feeding — fuck — you’re already breath-taking, miláčik, but God, you’re going to give us heart-attacks.” Her voice drops an octave lower. Natasha leans her head lower, a kiss on the crease between your brows.

Your body shivers as you feel the chilled tip of the turkey-baster nearing your gaping hole, you begin weeping quietly.

Wanda shushes you, “It’s okay, milacik. You’re going to be a great mommy. Three mommies and two daddies. The baby will be the most beloved and protected little one.” A warm smile graces Wanda’s rosy cheeks. Three mommies? A dream of having a family now enforced upon you, this is a clusterfuck. Firstly, tricked by your own drunken state, second, pinned down for morning sex, and now you’re going to be impregnated by a fucking baster?

Wait --- two daddies?

“Two daddies? What? Wait, who’s the father?” You shrill, your head struggling to peak down at Wanda as she paused mid-way from inserting the cum; your eyes wild and glossy. Wanda chuckles, it sounds genuine — it’s anything but.

“Not just one father, miláčik. Our dutiful Captain and Sergeant.”

You feel light-headed, a hay fever flooding your dome. The tips of your ears feel hot, your head flops back down onto the pillow with a fluffy thud.

An incoherent whisper. “What was that, dove?” Natasha’s thumb rubbing your wrists, coaxing you to speak up. “How is that possible?” You wept, fresh tears coating your face.

“Anything is possible with modern enhanced technology. Now a baby can be genetically linked to two fathers. Isn’t that marvelous?” Wanda gleamed a cheeky smile, her eyes twinkling with unnerving mirth. “Why Steve and Bucky? Do they know what you’re doing?” You almost choke on a strained whine, your face scrunching up tightly.

Praying that Steve and Bucky didn’t have any involvement, nor a speck of encouragement of this insanity. “Of course, they know. We all made the plans together.” Wanda’s hand rubs your thigh to calm you but it only adds to your fright.

“Steve and Bucky are ready to settle down, they always dreamt of having kids. They love you and know you would be the perfect mother to their child. Our child. We’re all going to be one happy family.” And without any moment to spare, Wanda gently thrusts the baster inside of you, squeezing the silicone bulb firmly. You gasp as you felt every drop paint your walls white, drowning inside you.

You twitch in discomfort, your head thrashing side to side, your cheeks hitting the wrinkled sheets. Mutely screaming, teeth gnashing at the air, refusing to accept the inevitable. Natasha peppers your face with kisses to calm you down.

Whispering declarations of love, you restrain any more tears to escape. Wanda cups your belly, it was very subtly swelled from the massive load. “Look how much went inside, Nattie.” Wanda alleviating your distress by small circular motions.

Natasha halts her kisses. She titters a bit, “Well, I’m not surprised. Two enhanced soldiers will deliver a copious amount of cum.” Natasha joins in on the soothing strokes by her fingers. A splotchy memory of Steve and Bucky wickedly smiling while your drunk-self was dragged away to your fate.

Betrayal.

Two people you trusted for years – who you considered close friends — played a role in this capture of enforcing a life of motherhood upon you. You didn’t realize lone tears were trickling down your face until you felt a thumb wipe away.

“Don’t fret, milacik. This will be good for you. For all of us. We know what you need.” Wanda kisses your waist and travels upward your chest in a trail of kisses; as she climbs on you, cuddling by your side, wrapping her arm around your hips, and a leg around yours.

“We’ll treat you so well. Like a queen.” Natasha loosens her grip on your arms, easing the aches in your muscles, but detaining you, to ensure you won’t escape from their grasp. Natasha plants a leg over your legs, positioning next to Wanda’s, sandwiched, and suffocating.

Laxing your body from stiffening under their touch, just trying to mindlessly drift into an impending hazy slumber. “Let’s rest. We’ll tell Bucky and Steve the good news later.” Natasha says in a lulling tone, as both women cuddle to squeeze much closer to you as if they want to reside underneath your skin — tightly, and smothering.

Sedately, your eyes close. Tentatively, their breathing morphs into your focal point, to hear Natasha’s and Wanda’s settle into steady rest. Urgently needing your privacy in sound, and body --- away from nosey intruding psychic.

As you lay there, mute and digesting the perverse treachery like a dry pill ripping down your throat, your tongue weighing heavy, barely registering reality.

Murky thoughts try to align in correction, not to bemoan over the guile that is Natasha and Wanda that was akin to pistoling barrage upon your spirit.

The soft fabric of the pudgy pillow wedged underneath you was burning against your bum, an indicia that could compel an unsought future. The tact to force maternity upon your life, your womb is now without doubt, fertilizing soldier swimmers.

What can you do now? How can you battle against the odds of the inevitable? Cuffed emotionally, and intimately by ex-friends deformed into duplicitous lovers who are now dead to you, and buried in deep, fresh graves in the crevices of your heart.

You must learn from the suffering, and brace the ugliness of being a fool. Your shudder, and bite back a sob as jagged remnants began floating behind your lids of last-night that was thick of debauched moans as slim fingers plunging into your cavern; it was a fleeting splash of excitement but it simmered and dwindled into a piercing ache in your chest.

It was euphoric, but not simply euphoric, there was fear and confusion intertwined too. For many years, you had grappled many weights of trauma, but you couldn’t stomach two damaged hearts.

Love me, love my dog — or so the saying goes. Can you handle being a mother? Are you even capable of being a good mother? You almost snort at the ridiculous notion.

What if aborti--- Jesus, you wouldn’t be able to go far with that option. It’s not even a fucking option. ‘Not with these two.’ You internally huff.

So you’ll wait. Wait it out, move in silence, map out your next course of action. Figure out escapes, leaving behind your life as an Avenger, and the only family you’ve ever had — just be quiet, comply and wait.

All you could do is wait.

[spicymayo1983]

Hiya. If you haven't yet seen the 2013 erotic thriller In Secret starring Elizabeth Olsen, Oscar Isaac and Jessica Lange I highly recommend it. I've watched it twice in the past month. Lol.

Oscar's character Laurent Leclaire is so sensual, so devious that I decided to write a short, filthy little fanfic starring you, the reader, and him.

Laurent is sexy evil personified, sigh.

The setting is 1860's Paris. The story takes place before Laurent meets Elizabeth Olsen's character Therese. You are a young (nothing illegal, you are 19) virgin artists model that gets seduced and absolutely ravished by the dominant, more worldly Laurent one evening in his studio when you are posing for him.

Warnings, female receiving oral sex, dominance, frank descriptions of painful virginity loss, rough sex, language, not for anyone under 18. Just pure, gratuitous, thirsty smut. Lol.

But it's set in the Victorian Era so that makes it classy? Lmao.

Touch and taste

Things started out fairly innocent enough. You met him at your older sister's dinner party one evening.

He is a friend of your sister's husband, they went to school together.

Your sister is much more outgoing than you and at 19 you are still unmarried, having never even held hands with a man before.

You live with your sister and brother in law in an old but tidy home in Paris. You are middle class and the home is well decorated and furnished. Your sister is expecting her first child and you are looking forward to helping care for the infant.

The two of you have a warm, loving relationship.

Even for the Victorian Era you are painfully shy, your sister had to beg you to come to her party.

There are several single men there and she's trying to find you a suitor, a potential husband.

He was an artist, and his name was Laurent Leclaire.

You sat across from the mysterious, brooding man and as you attempted to make small talk with the other guests you couldn't help but notice from the corner of your eye how he looked at you.

It was like Laurent was studying you, taking in your shy, delicate beauty. When your eyes finally meet he flashes you a devilish little smirk that sends a shiver down your spine.

Your face turns bright red and you immediately look down.

In the glow of the candlelight you can make out his absurdly beautiful chiseled features. His curly hair, dark eyes, and of course that smile. He made you feel things, unfamiliar feelings that terrified you somewhat. You feel a twinge, an ache, coming from somewhere inside of you. Somewhere where good, Christian women don't normally get those feelings

"Oh dear, what's wrong?" Your sister asks, noticing your flush.

"It's nothing". You reply quickly with a nervous giggle.

"Perhaps I've imbibed in too much wine, I'll be fine".

"Oh my it's getting worse!" The older lady sitting next to your sister exclaimed.

You happen to catch a glimpse of yourself in a mirror hanging on the wall across from you. Indeed the flush has gotten worse, your pale cheeks are as red as cherries.

"Let's get you upstairs". Your sister insists, helping you get to your feet.

"No I'm fine". You reply, sounding slightly irritated.

"You look terribly unwell". Your sister continues. "Come with me".

You reluctantly follow your sister upstairs to your room. You have to pass the handsome stranger on the way by, and you could have sworn you felt his hand brush yours, and then down the soft velvet of your skirt.

Once upstairs your sister helps you undress. You crawl into your bed and she brings you a cup of warm tea.

"You have a fever". Your sister frets as she lays her hand on your forehead.

"Quit fussing over me I assure you that I'm fine". You reply, smiling a little as you begin work on the embroidery project that was waiting by your bed.

"How am I ever to find a suitor with you making me leave the party early?"

"There's noone suitable there". Your sister replies sharply.

"What about the dark haired gentleman across from us?" You inquire, a slight smile creeping across your face.

"His name is Laurent and he is nothing but trouble". Your sister snaps back. "Stay away from him, I mean it, he will ruin your reputation".

Your sister's harsh words surprise you a bit, but you now have a name, Laurent, and you are also intrigued by your sister's stern warning.

Ruin my reputation? What on earth does that mean? You wonder as you nod off to sleep.

The next morning you are awakened by the familiar smell of food cooking and the sound of men talking. Sleepily you leave your bedroom and step into the hallway.

It's him again. You catch a glimpse of Laurent talking to your brother in law in the foyer. You immediately duck back into your bedroom and hastily get dressed.

You dash down the stairs quickly, brushing past Laurent. You look at him and flash a shy smile, he smiles back warmly.

You enjoy a nice leisurely, breakfast with your sister, brother in law and Laurent. You catch him glancing at you again, your face turns a light shade of pink.

Afterwards Laurent catches you alone in the foyer. You formally introduce yourself, Laurent kisses your hand.

"Your features. They're so classically pretty, like a sculpture". Laurent tells you as a rather seductive smile appears on his handsome face.

"I'd like to, if you wouldn't mind, paint you".

You giggle nervously at his proposition as your face turns pink. Laurent gently touches your flushed cheek,

you look at him and say nervously, "I'll do it".

"Wear that beautiful velvet dress you had on last night, and the pearl earrings too". Laurent replied, looking into your eyes.

The next afternoon you nervously arrive at Laurent's small flat/art studio, which was only a short walk from your own home.

As soon as he opens the door he smiles brightly and takes your hand. He leads you to a small room, where you sit on a chair in front of an easel.

Laurent sits next to you, looks deeply into your eyes and says,

"Tell me more about you, y/n, I like to learn more about my subject before I paint them".

"There isn't much to say really". You reply quickly, your face turning bright red again. "I'm 19, from Paris, I love my sister and brother in law. Both our parents passed years ago."

"You get embarrassed around the opposite sex, don't you?" Laurent pressed, taking your hand in his and stroking it. "You're so innocent like a child, but at the same time I know you're curious".

The man has read you like a book, you gasp a little at his words and start to tremble noticeably. Laurent leans over and kisses you gently on the cheek.

"Can I kiss your beautiful lips?" He continues, his breathing changing a little due to his own arousal.

"I've never done this, kissing". You reply, the heat from the lower part of your body becoming almost unbearable. "You'd have to show me".

"Open your mouth a little bit". Laurent orders, stroking your cheek with his strong hand. "Follow what I do".

He passionately kisses you using his tongue, you're shocked but quickly mime what he is doing. One of his hands drifts to your lap and he starts to stroke the wetness that is hidden by your pantaloons.

"Undress for me, I want to see my beautiful subject, all of you". Laurent orders, not asks.

You are so caught up in the moment, in him, that you obey his commands.

Noone has ever seen you like this, male or female. Well, maybe your sister. Definitely no men. You are trembling a little as you stand before him.

Laurent uses a paintbrush to trace and tease your body, you can see his hard manhood through his trousers.

"Let's go into my bedroom, I want to touch and taste you". He orders.

You go into his bedroom and recline on his bed. Laurent undresses, revealing his lean, muscular body.

His hard cock looks massive, intimidating, you've only seen them in medical journals and you've had no idea that they were this large in person. Perhaps it's just his own personal endowment.

Laurent kneels between your trembling legs and gently spreads them.

"It looks like an orchid, a fragile, pink orchid, it's so beautiful". Laurent tells you as he teasingly massages your intricate folds that are peeking through a thick patch of hair with his fingers.

He leaves you for a moment and grabs a sketch pad, he uses charcoal and quickly sketches your womanhood. When Laurent is done he shows you, you gasp a little and say, "I've never seen this side of myself".

"Can I touch and taste your petals?" Laurent pushes, you can see the desire burning in his eyes.

"Taste? What do you mean?" You ask, innocently having no clue what he means.

"Let me show you". Laurent purrs, leading you back over to his bed. "Tell me where you want my tongue".

You relax on the bed again, you gently spread your legs and he kneels before you and spreads them further.

He touches his tongue on your sensitive bud, causing you to immediately tremble from pleasure.

Laurent begins to suck and lick your frilly inner lips, you moan with delight from the intense sensation that you are feeling spread throughout your body.

What he's doing to you feels so good yet so sinful, and dirty.

Laurent's tongue moves down further, and he hits a barrier, your hymen is still intact and fairly thick, he gives it a gentle little flick with his tongue.

He then buries his face into your hairy mound, taking in your sweet, musky scent, the tip of his nose brushing against your wetness.

Your scent makes him moan from delight, Laurent is showing you just how much he savors and appreciates the female anatomy.

He teasingly strokes your innocence with his finger, being extra careful not to penetrate it or break it.

It's almost like he's in awe and aroused at that little barrier.

"My cock needs you, I need to feel this". Laurent begs, you can see the precum oozing from his hard tip.

"It's for my husband". You reply quickly and nervously.

"Noone cares about that anymore, especially in this city". Laurent tells you with a quick laugh.

You are so worked up and attracted to him that you relent, he spreads your legs again and positions himself on top of you.

Laurent starts to enter you, you gasp and sputter in a mixture of agony and pleasure as he slowly penetrates you, both of you can feel the moment your hymen breaks, spilling a considerable amount of blood on his sheets.

"Does it hurt?" Laurent asks.

"Yes". You reply, tears rolling down your cheeks.

"Good". He replies, thrusting into you harder.

With your legs wrapped firmly around his waist Laurent fucks you, hard. The pain quickly turns to pleasure as you become more comfortable with his body.

When he cums he fills you with a fairly large load as he moans and sputters. Afterwards Laurent spreads your legs again, and sticks his tongue deep inside of you, tasting a mixture of your juices.

Your sister is correct. If Satan himself walked the earth his name would be Laurent Leclaire. The man is so virile, so charming and so handsome that even you, the shy, innocent virgin relented to his charms.

Afterwards with his help you get redressed. As he's lacing you into your corset Laurent gently kisses and nuzzles your neck, muttering about how beautiful you are.

You sit with him through the night and he does indeed paint your portrait, as promised.

"You touched my hand and dress when I was walking by at the dinner party, didn't?" You ask, your face turning pink again.

"Of course". He replied, chuckling a little. "I wanted to see if you were as soft and delicate as you looked. Your silken hand felt just like the beautiful fabric of your gown".

"Why the pink background?" You continue, smiling a little.

"The pink represents the blushing of your cheeks". Laurent explains, sounding like every bit the serious artist. "And the colors of your beautiful petals, you are truly a masterpiece of God's creation".

The end

[jimlingss]

Moirai [4]

Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5

➜ Words: 7k

➜ Genres: 60% Fluff, 40% Angst, Isekai!AU

➜ Summary: Death is supposed to be the end. Or at least that's what you assumed when you're hit by a TRUCK. But the moment you open your eyes again, instead of being sent to the afterlife, you've become a baby. And not just any baby. You're the female villain of a video game.

“Not bad.”   The old woman twirls her the point of her quill all over your parchment, giving check marks with the flick of her wrist while you hold in your sigh. Of course, it’s not bad. You’re probably as old as she is if you count your other life. You might be in the body of a seventeen year old, but you’re smarter than one. Probably.   “Fix your posture,” she barks a beat later without sparing a glance and your spine straightens on instinct. “It seems like you can move onto the next volume of philosophy social theory.”   “What? Uh, I mean, pardon? I thought I was finished, Lady Devon.”   “Learning is never finished. The faster you learn that, the better Queen you will make for the empire someday.” The Viscountess, the one assigned to oversee your princess training, shuts the textbook. “But we will move on next time. It’s time for your dance lessons.”   You hold in your groan.   On your sixteenth birthday, instead of being gifted diamonds or laced dresses from the best seamstress like any child of a duke would receive, you were shipped off to the royal palace.   It was the worst present ever. And you once got soap in your other life.   Ever since, you’ve been officially considered the Prince’s fiancée. Not much different from how the game was set up when the main character enters the stage. So you’ve long given up on trying to avoid this, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t happy about it.   You might be free from your parents. But unlike the Devereux estate, proving your worth only gives you more to do. None of your tutors or mentors are ever satisfied with your performance. If you show your capability, then they push you further and further to see your limits. You can’t run away or swing your sword either — the tolerance in the castle is at zero.    “Excuse me.” Lady Devon gets up from her chair and walks to the door with a grace that only fifty years in high society can bring you. “The dance tutor should be down the hall and coming shortly.”   You hum and cordially smile. “Please, take your time.”   Her wrinkled eyes pin on you until the door shuts. Only then do you breathe a big sigh, tension released in your body and your back slouching into the chair again. But you don’t waste much time getting comfortable.   Instead, you jump to your feet and rush underneath your bed.    In a spooled pile in the dusty back is a make-shift rope you tied from spare clothes. It took three nights to rip and weave together, but it was a surprisingly fun activity when you envisioned this moment — knotting the end around your balcony railing and throwing it overboard.    As strict as the castle is, that doesn’t mean you’ll give in so easily.    Even you deserve a break once in a while.   An older man in a frilly jacket enters the room. His eyes dart around before they land on you out the balcony doors, standing at the other side of the marble railing.    His jaw drops. Brows raise. “My lady—!”   Oh shit. It’s now or never. With your eyes shut tight, you jump.   Your dance instructor’s shout echoes through the palace and you peel your lids open when the impact of the landing doesn’t come. When your feet don't touch the ground. It’s then and there that you realize that you’re dangling midair, the clothing rope in your grasps.   You didn’t make it long enough!   Oh fuck! Fuck!   The cloth rope starts to slip from your grip, between your fingertips and you brace yourself. It’s just the second floor of the castle. You’ll survive if you fall, right? Right?!   Your teeth grit and your scream is soundless as you let go.   But instead of slamming into the ground, you tumble on top of something much softer yet still firm. Something that lets out a pained groan, that’s quite warm.   You bolt upwards and your eyes double as you realize that something is someone. By sheer coincidence and coincidence only, you’ve fallen on top of a dark-haired man and pinned him onto the ground.    “S-Sorry! I’m so sorry! My deepest apologies.”   You bow your head and slide off of him as he sits up while gripping the back of his head.   The two of you look at one another, eyes meeting—   The moment is interrupted by a shout. “Lady Anastasia!” The sprinting stomps crescendos in volume, coming closer and closer and you start to panic, not sure where to go, where to hide.   But then the person in front of you reaches out, grabbing a hold of your forearm.   You frown in confusion, about to shake him off until you find your fingertips becoming translucent. The palace guards slow down right where you’re sitting on the ground, yet their pupils move past you as if you were part of the stone wall.    “The Crown Princess must be this way!”   The parade of guards sprint past.   The man lets go, undoing his invisibility spell.   “You…” You fall back. “....ended up learning magic?”   The corner of Taehyung’s mouth curls. “So you do remember me.”   “O-Of course, I do.” How could you not? There’s been only two encounters with him in the past seventeen years, but even before your first meeting, you’ve already had his name imprinted in your mind. For reasons that are perhaps not positive ones. But he looks different now — different from how he was at ten.    You suppose seven years would do that to a person.    Taehyung is dressed in a white blouse, darkened trousers and a navy cape embedded with gold around his broad shoulders. If you didn’t know any better, you would think he was the prince. A height that towers your own. Cheeks that are no longer plump but chiselled with his sharper jawline. Eyes that aren’t impoverished. He is less like the pitiful boy than you remember him.   You try not to stare for too long, but by the smirk on his face, you know it’s too late.   You get up and dust your blue gown off.   “Do you need a place to hide?” he asks with a small smile, catching on quick as the guards’ shouts fade. “If you are, I know just the place.”   You cross your arms and look up at him. “Lead the way then.”   Taehyung grins, brown irises lighting up and his lips tugging into a boxy smile that catches you off guard. But he swiftly turns on his heels and you’re left trailing behind him.   The castle grounds stretch across the horizon. If someone didn’t know their way, they could get lost forever and potentially starve to death. You know Taehyung’s been largely confined to the Western towers while you’ve been managed closely in the Eastern wing. It was pure coincidence that he happened to go this way and you happened to try to escape at the exact same time.   A coincidence that you left your paths and crossed, a coincidence that you landed right on top of him.   It’s definitely not a part of the original story.   You wonder if you should deviate from the storyline so much. The first time Anastasia and Taehyung are supposed to meet is weeks from now after he lures her in and tries to convince her that she needs his help to keep Prince Jungkook around.   Taehyung most certainly did not bring Anastasia to a quiet corner of the garden, far from the stone walls, a private place that’s shrouded in trees with a welcoming white bench.    “I come here often to read,” he murmurs as he gazes up at the canopy of the tree providing shade, listening to the leaves rustle. “It reminds me of someone special.”   You know that person is his mother.   Taehyung gestures to the bench and the two of you sit next to one another, looking out at the beds of pansies, orchids and marigolds.   “How have you been?” you pipe up, curiosity nibbling at your skin.   You haven’t seen him in so long. You can’t help but wonder if he’s in the same mindset as the Taehyung you know from the game — pained, lonely, blood thirsty.    But you aren’t scared of him or what he might do. You feel hurt for him.   Taehyung smiles to himself as if he knows what you’re thinking. “I’m fine. Frankly, I’m much more interested in your situation and why you would jump out a window and have the whole castle looking for you.”   You sigh, not sure where to start. Maybe the beginning.   “Actually...I’m the Crown Prince’s fiancée.” The words are muttered out of your lungs, uncomfortable on your tongue. But when you peek at Taehyung, he simply smiles, seemingly not surprised. So you inhale a breath and allow yourself to slouch. “I’m going under what they call ‘rigorous princess training’. But it’s really awful.”   He grins. “Is it?”   “They never give me a break,” you whine. “I’m supposed to go to dance class, but I know I’m going to step on their feet so what’s the point?”   As you turn your head to look at him, you realize the game animation and drawings really didn’t do him any justice. Taehyung’s shaped up to be a handsome man.   You clear your throat. “Since when did you learn magic?”   “A long time ago. It’s nothing special.” He glances at you. “Although, I never had it blown up in my face yet.”   His words tickle a memory in the back of your mind — the night at the Solar Festival.   He smiles as your eyes connect. Taehyung gazes tenderly at you as if your irises are the most interesting kaleidoscopes, like he’s searching for something deep within your soul. Your breath hitches, heart pounding within your ears and you quickly turn away, wondering what this weird tension is.   Or shit — maybe this is the beginning of the co-conspiracy that will lead you to your doom.   Instantly, you stand on your feet and grab the skirt of your gown. “It was nice seeing you again, Prince Taehyung.” You bow your head and muster a polite smile. “I should get back before I get into any more trouble. I appreciate the help you have offered me today.”   You spin around, prepared to strut off. But then your arm is held back.   Gently. By Taehyung’s grip.   You turn to look at him.    “When’s the next time I’ll be able to see you?”   You frown in bewilderment. It takes a delayed moment for an answer to come out of your throat. “Will you be going to the debutante ball?”   The corner of his mouth turns and he bows. “I will be now.”   He takes your hand and kisses your knuckles before you slip away and weave out of the gardens. For some reason you’re left with a strange feeling swirling in the pit of your stomach.   //   There’s a scolding of your lifetime waiting for you when you return and you muse that you finally found someone worse than Edith and your own mother. The tutors are even more brutal with their discipline and you know there’s only one person who can help you, one person you can escape to readily.   “My lady,” a young girl speaks up and you stop right in front of the door. “Lady Devon said you were supposed to be studying embroidery for the rest of the da—”   “Am I not allowed to visit my own fiancé?” Your timbre holds firm and you look down at the flinching girl. God, it’s just too easy to play into the villainous role that was set up for you sometimes. “And who are you to tell me what to do? I think you’ve forgotten your place!”   “My apologies!”   You scoff and your knuckles rap against the surface. There’s a muffled ‘come in’ and you throw open both doors.   Jungkook is sitting on the sofa in front of his desk with papers in hand. He looks up expressionlessly as you strut inside. “Anastasia. What brings you here?”   “I have matters to discuss, Prince Jungkook.”   “Very well.” He looks to the attendants at the doorway. “Please bring in refreshments.”   They bow their heads and within the next minute, a pot of tea with two cups and several tiered cake stands full of pastries and tarts are set down. The doors shut shortly after and you count.   One. Two. Three.    The coast is clear and you immediately flop on to the sofa across from Jungkook’s, kicking off your shoes and slumping with horrible posture into the soft furniture. Jungkook, likewise, throws down the papers in hand with a grin.   “You should’ve come sooner,” he complains. “I was getting tired of reading reports and letters from advisors.”   “Yeah, well, I was busy.”    You lurch forward to grab a sweet fruit tart and stuff your face. Jungkook might laugh while watching you, but no one gives desserts to you in this place. Not like they did in the Devereux estate either, but at least they didn’t watch closely at every single thing you chewed.   You don’t care if you can’t fit into those tight dresses.   Jungkook pierces a strawberry on top of the cake and chews in his cheek. “I heard you ran out on princess training again.”   “Hey. The last time I did that was months ago. Plus, you’re not the one to speak. You’re the lucky one here. Why do you get to do whatever you want and I can’t?! It’s so unfair!”   “That’s because two days after you came, you dueled me and won. What kind of Crown Princess wins in a sword fight over the Crown Prince?”   You burst out laughing. No one really expected you would win. They were already horrified when you held the sword. You suppose they’re just trying to get rid of those rumours and make you into a dignified, soft-spoken, honourable lady that will win over the public with her gentleness.   Yeah right. Like that’s gonna ever happen.    “You should’ve just been better. You’re the Crown Prince.”   “Yeah, yeah, yeah, and it’s because of you that I had to go under more training with the royal knights until it felt like my bones were going to fall off,” he mutters and you snort.    The two of you devour the table like children starved on sweets and once you’re full, you lay down on the sofa as if you’re a stuffed pig ready to be roasted in an oven. Jungkook smacks his lips together and eats the last strawberry.   “Are you at least ready for the debutante ball?”   “It’s just dancing.” You turn to look at him. “What’s there to prepare for?”   The ball happens every other year for the girls in the empire as a coming of age ceremony. It’s a celebration that everyone looks forward to. But for you, this year, it signifies the beginning.   “You better not step on my toes,” Jungkook warns.   You scoff. “You better not step on mine or else I’ll throw a ladybug at you.”   “That was one time!” he yells and you laugh.   You gaze at the ornate, painted ceiling of the study.    Jungkook doesn’t know that the debutante ball is the start of everything. It marks you turning eighteen. It’s where the game begins and where he’ll meet the heroine. It’s where the gears will set in motion.   You’ve long given up on trying to run away from the storyline. Perhaps it was when you came to regret being unable to prevent Taehyung’s mother’s death. Maybe it was when you turned around at the Solar Festival and decided to sit by him. But whatever the case, you decided to stay and fight, to find a way to survive instead of escaping. It still startles you when changes are made that are so different from the original game, when it deviates far out of your reach and control.   But one of the biggest changes and probably the best is your relationship with Jungkook.   Unlike Anastasia’s, you and him are not just polite on the surface. There isn’t a wide distance. You don’t yearn for him. He doesn’t disregard you. Rather, you’re friends.   And you hope that fact doesn’t change. That he never becomes an enemy.   From here on out, all the efforts you’ve put forth for the past seventeen years will finally come to fruition and show its effects.   You hope you tried hard enough.

The dress is a deep wine red.   The layered tulle skirt poofs out in the shape of a bell, spilling from your waist. You turn around in front of the mirror while picking at your translucent sleeves, noticing that the fabric sways with each of your movements. Your hair is in a half-updo with flowers, pinned up as curls drop over your left shoulder. It’s better than what Joan could’ve ever done back at the estate. But altogether, it’s a magnificent yet imposing look.   You gotta admit, in this get up, you feel like you could cackle and step on the main character’s hand with your pointed heel as she cowers in front of you. Being the villainess is the easy way.   “My lady…” the younger servant steps back with the tape measure.   You nod at her. “It’s acceptable. There’s no time to dwell either way. The Prince’s fiancée shouldn’t show up late.”   “Of course!”   The entourage of servants follow as you stride down the castle halls. The muffled violins become clearer the closer you get to the main ballroom and there at the doors, Jungkook’s already standing there with a cordial smile. He wears a navy jacket with golden buttons, trousers to pair and white gloves that matches the sash over his body with the royal emblem.   The maids bow their heads, taking their place at the sidelines and Jungkook offers you his arm which you take. The pair of you stand in front of the doors.   “You actually look decent for once,” he mumbles out of the corner of his mouth.   You scoff quietly. “I’ve always been this beautiful.”   “You always look like you’ve just rolled in mud or hay.”   “And you’re beginning to sound like Lady Devon.”   Jungkook snickers as you jab him discreetly in the ribs. At the same time, the squire finally makes his announcement — “His Royal Highness and Lady Anastasia!” — and the doors open.   Your expressions wipe over with only the corners of your mouths pulled and you enter together.   You make sure your back is straight. That your head is raised. Chin out. Steps light. Every scrutiny and detail about perfect posture is displayed right into your body language and the pair of you stop momentarily at the stairs with your plastered smiles.    Everyone watches as you both descend the stairs.   It’s quiet — some older women awed behind their feathered fans, men sipping their glasses of bubbling champagne. But their gazes are loud as Jungkook guides you to the middle of the cleared floor.   Nearly eighteen years of lessons have led up to this moment.   Jungkook kisses your knuckles and you slip into position — right hand in his, your left on his shoulder as he mimics you. The mellifluous violins in the corner start to crescendo and you follow Jungkook’s lead, stepping from side to side, back to front.   “Looks like you’re not stepping on my feet,” Jungkook murmurs as the two of you begin to take bolder steps and sweep across the ballroom floor.   “I might’ve skipped dance every chance I got but that doesn’t mean I don’t know how to do it.”   “Touché. Just keep smiling.”   “I am.”   “You look too concentrated.”   With his criticism, you fix the furrow of your brows and your smile tries to widen. It feels a bit stiff and psychotic, like you’re forcing yourself to pretend you’re Rose from Titanic who went with Jack to dance when in reality, this is as fun as watching paint dry. “Better?”   Jungkook grins. “Sure.”   The music continues as you dance, but while you maintain your bright expression, your eyes flicker through the thick crowd. You spot the King who sits in a grand chair at the back. He nods along with an approving expression and your parents are standing by him too. Your dad seems to be getting a comment in every other minute while your mother appears wholly satisfied.    You’re happy at least someone’s enjoying this debutante ball.   But you don’t look at them for long, not when you’re focused on searching for a girl you have yet to see in the flesh. The main character. The heroine of the game. You know she’s in the room tonight.    You know she’s watching right now.   Yet, as your eyes travel through the surroundings, instead of trying to find the girl, your mind strays for someone else — Taehyung. He said he would be here tonight. But you don’t see him…   “Anna, it’s over,” Jungkook mumbles and you snap back to attention, giving a curtsy.   The Prince bows as well and the music continues to a jovial tune. The people around start to enter the floor, dancing with their partners and from your peripheral vision, the King approaches.   He’s gotten old since the first time you met him. Each strand of his hair has turned gray, wrinkles deepened and eyes slightly protruding. Yet the man is still dignified and the righteous King of the empire with his commanding, aristocratic presence. But you wonder if he aged so quickly because of the Queen’s sudden death years ago, an event you know shook the Royal family.   “Your Majesty.” You curtsy again, pulling the edges of your dress.   Jungkook smiles. “Father.”   “Very well done job, you two.” He smiles. “I’m confident that the pair of you will lead this empire well.”   “Thank you, Your Majesty.” You smile cordially at the older man. “You’re too kind with your words. I can only hope that one day we shall live up to your legacy.”   He laughs merrily from the pit of his stomach and even though you and Jungkook both know you’re laying it on thick, there’s no harm done. “Spectacularly spoken. I’m sure you will.” The King turns to his son. “I heard you were managing the finances in the Southern provinces well.”   “I was actually going to seek council on that issue,” he exhales and in the meanwhile, you notice a few potential ladies-in-waiting looking at you. You try to ignore them, but their stares are too pointed. They’re outright gawking at you and you grit your teeth, knowing there’s no other choice.   “If you’ll excuse me.” You dip down and the King nods.    As Jungkook continues talking to the King, the both of them striding to his throne, you’re trapped in small talk.   “I believe we’ve met once before. I am Countess Ashburnum.” — “I am Lady Herington, my husband is Baron of Herington.” — “Oh my! You absolutely look beautiful in your gown.” — “I know a seamstress who makes the best lace dresses in all of Ashea!”   The conversation drones on and on with the circle of women and you make short replies while maintaining a friendly smile.   It’s only when your eyes boredly wander off do you notice a girl eating at the refreshments table.   She’s out of place. You can tell with how her eyes dart around the hordes of people and she fidgets alone, dressed in a yellow dress that looks like it’s been sewn from sunflower petals but worn at the hem as if it’s someone else’s. But as unremarkable as her presence is, her features are soft — eyes rounded, lips pouty and cheeks full.   You’re beginning to understand how someone can be described as lovely as a rose.   “If you’ll excuse me, there’s some few other people I need to meet.”   “By all means.” The ladies dip down and you nod your head, beelining through the people to the refreshments table. But it’s hard to get through with the amount of people that want to stop and greet you.   You watch the girl in the meanwhile.   You don’t blame her for appearing so awkward, like she’s not sure where to go or who to talk to or what to do. If this is who you think it is, then she’s just a baron’s adopted daughter. She hasn’t been to many social events. She hasn’t been exposed to high society. And it’ll be a world that’ll be difficult to adjust to.   You remember in the original game, Jungkook just chose her because she looked out of place and he wanted to get away from dancing with you. But considering your relationship with Jungkook isn’t sour in any aspect, a catalyst might be needed to continue the plot.   If you start the encounter, then perhaps you’ll have control over it.   “The desserts are delicious, aren’t they?” you pipe up beside her, stuffing your cheek as you look out at the crowd.   The girl is taken aback at someone initiating a conversation and her excitement is practically tangible. “Yes, they are! I like the strawberry cream one.”   “Ah. I’m more of a fan of the fruit tarts.” You turn and meet her eyes with a smile. “What’s your name?”   “My name is Lucienne, but my family calls me Lucy.”   “Your family?”   “The Helena family. My father is Baron of Liza,” she says and that’s enough to confirm it. This is her. The heroine. The main character. The one who will take your place, become the Crown Princess and be with Jungkook. And if such a thing is inevitable, then you can make her perception of you different from how it was in the original game. Just like you did with Jungkook.   “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you then.” You curtsy and she does as well after a delayed moment. “My name is Anastasia Loretta Devereux.”   Her eyes widen. “You’re the Crown Princess! Oh my goodness, I just watched you dance! It was amazing.”   You smile and this time, it's more genuine. The heroine’s personality traits are dependent on the player, but it looks like in this world, she’s pretty excitable, extroverted and innocent. If you weren’t so secretly tense, you’d muse that you might actually make a good friend tonight.    “Thank you and thank you for coming. I hope you’re enjoying the ball.”   “Yes, I am, your grace— I mean, my lady.”   “Please, you don’t need to be so formal with me in private,” you tell her even though she insists otherwise. The conversation starts to slow and you scramble for ways to continue it. How did you use to get girls to like you back in school? What the hell did you use to do again?    The answer comes a second later— “I love your dress.”   Lucy’s eyes light up and she looks down. “Really? I actually sewed it myself.”   That revelation has your eyes turning into saucers and your sociable facade falls. “What?”   “It’s not much,” she giggles. “The servants were taking down some dusty curtains back at home to replace them, but I thought it was such a waste, so I washed it and hand sewed it myself. I was afraid it would look shabby for tonight’s ball.”   “N-No, it’s amazing!” She looks like she’s straight out of a fairy tale. She is straight out of a fairy tale! Even Snow fucking White would feel outdone. “You have some real talent.”   You wonder if the girl sings to squirrels in her spare time. You wouldn’t put it past her.   She beams. “Thank you.”   The violins seem to dial down into a waltz piece and several more people enter the floor with their partners in hand. You turn to Lucy with a smile. “You should dance.”   “Oh, well, I’m not much of a dancer.” She brushes a strand of her hair loose from her bun behind her ear. “And I wouldn’t know who to dance with either…”   You hum and at the exact same time, someone with doe eyes unsuspectedly passes by. You steal the opportunity when it’s handed to you— “Jungkook!”   The Prince turns at the familiar call of his name, one without any title to it. His brow is quirked and you take Lucy’s hands, pulling her along with you as she remains stunned. This is it. This is the first meeting.   For you, it’s like you’ve dragged your best friend down the school hallway to talk to her crush. But for them, you wonder if it’s a life-changing moment. One of the ones where time seems to stop and fireworks are bursting in the air and their breaths hitch and their hearts sycroniz—….   Probably not by the confused look on their faces.   But you’ll take it!   “Prince Jungkook, meet Lucienne. She’s Baron of Liza’s daughter and she goes by Lucy.” You turn, hand gesturing out towards him. “Lucy, meet Prince Jungkook.”   “N-Nice to meet you, Your Highness.” She curtsies and you can feel her nervousness by the way her hand shakes in yours.   “Likewise.” Your fiancé turns to you with a skeptical brow raised. “Seems like you’ve made a friend tonight.”   You plaster on a big smile. “I know right.” He and you both know you don’t like to play nice and hence, don’t have friends at all. So it’s an oddity for you to bring around someone you met five minutes ago. But you don’t let Jungkook ask too many questions. “You should dance with her.”   “Pardon?”   “Why not?” You push the girl towards him and she nearly stumbles into his frame. “Ball’s are all about dancing and Lucy here’s looking for a partner and I know you have to get that practice in!”   By the narrowing of his eyes, you can tell Jungkook’s suspicions of your intentions or what could possibly be up your sleeve. You wish he was as dumb as he was seven years ago. “Anastasia.”   “Umm...I really don’t have to, Your Highness.” Lucy bows her head, placed in an awkward position and you internally apologize to her, but you gotta do what you gotta do.   “Come on,” you continue to pressure Jungkook. “You’re not going to leave her hanging, right?”   Jungkook exhales out of his nose and he looks like he’s not going to let this go so easily, but for now, he relents. He bows slightly and takes Lucy’s hand. “Will you have this dance, Lady Lucienne?”   “Yes…?”   Okay. It’s not a storybook, fairy tale moment or anything like the game, but this is as good as it’s going to get. This way, your engagement with Jungkook can smoothly end, Lucy will take your place and you’ll be able to survive in peace while supporting them like a secondary character instead of the villainess.   With your arms folded, you stand at the sidelines and watch them dance together.   It’s stiff at first, but soon, Jungkook’s murmuring something to her and she’s laughing.   They look like the picture perfect couple. Even others are nudging each other and watching the pair. A smile tugs on your features, but your observation as an audience member soon is interrupted.   “Would you like to dance, my lady?”   It’s a husky timbre, one that startles your senses and has your head whirling around.   You didn’t know you were waiting for him until he appeared, until a feeling of ease that you didn’t know existed washes over you. Taehyung has his arm extended, a tender smile on his face. His dark brunette hair is combed to the side and he’s dressed in a black jacket with a navy cape draped on his left shoulder, not any less handsome than the others in the room.   The corner of your mouth curls. “If you don’t mind me stepping on your toes.”   Your hand slides into his palm and he grasps your fingers. “I don’t.”   If Jungkook and Lucy had eyes straying then you and Taehyung have eyes turning — most don’t know who he is when he’s never shown up to any social engagements, but few do and while they’re shocked, already whispering tales of scandal, you don’t notice.   You’re far too mesmerized by him. By the fact that he’s here, that he’s looking into your eyes, guiding you along the ornate ballroom floor. The skirt of your dress sways as he twirls you carefully, the two of you synchronized to the rest of the dancing crowd.   “I didn’t think you would show up,” you murmur once you’ve landed back into his arms again.   “Were you waiting for me?”   “I decline to answer.”   The corner of Taehyung’s mouth tickles into a smile. “Well, looks like it was a good thing you skipped out on that dance lesson since you obviously didn’t need it.”   You grin, scoffing lightly. “That’s because you’re a good lead.”   “You’re a good partner,” he replies as the music diminuendos. You wonder since when the pitiful boy you knew became so sly and mischievous. Or maybe he was always this way and his mother’s passing simply made him quiet. “And of course I would come if you were here.”   Your brow lifts. “And why is that?”   Taehyung hums. “Let’s just say, I’ve been meaning to get a chance to speak to you for a long time now.”   You wonder what he means. If he’s simply planning to build rapport to conspire with you. But your relationship with the royal family and Jungkook is known to everyone as being decent. The Taehyung in the game also never went out of his way to meet Anastasia either.   It was always her. Anastasia’s choices led to her being used as his pawn.   Taehyung breaks your train of thought as he leans in close to your ear, “I’m always scared of getting you into trouble, but you can’t when everyone’s here. We can chalk it up to a coincidence that we met and danced, right?”   “That’s the bastard’s son, isn’t it?”   Your ears suddenly tune into the murmurs, words hidden behind gloved hands and feathered fans.   If people didn’t know Taehyung before, word was spreading like wildfire. “The one who was born from that maid.”   “You mean the King’s first son?”   Your head turns when there’s a heavy set of eyes placed upon your form and you realize the King is sitting on his throne, expressionless. He’s staring at Taehyung who hasn’t noticed, or maybe has and yet chose to ignore.   Taehyung’s right.    A ball like this is truly the exception. The only time you and Taehyung would ever be able to meet in public.   His eyes meet yours once more and you realize the reason Taehyung never sought you out. He never looked for you because he was afraid of what that would mean for you.   How the slander and hatred of his name would attach to yours.    The dance ends as the turmoil inside of you overboils. Your mouth parts to speak, but Jungkook approaches and interrupts. “Taehyung?”   The younger brother has his eyes wide and the older smiles. “Good evening, Your Highness.”   Jungkook laughs. “What’s with that? Actually, no, what are you doing here? You never come to these things!”   Maybe because he’s not allowed to.    You haven’t seen the half-brothers interact before. But you wonder how much Jungkook really knows about Taehyung — probably not a lot based on what you know in the original storyline.   The two brothers had to fight each other to the death in a civil war.   Jungkook came out victorious.    And knowing that future makes you feel queasy as you look at the both of them being friendly together.   “I just thought it was time to change that.”   “You should’ve appreciated not having to go for longer. These things can be so boring. You’re honestly the lucky one,” Jungkook says.   Taehyung’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Am I?”   “I wish I was in your shoes sometimes,” Jungkook sighs and turns to you. “Anna. Anna? Anastasia!” You’re startled, brought out of your trance and Jungkook grins. “I was going to ask you how the dance was.”   You loll your head to your shoulder. “Taehyung’s a better lead.”   Jungkook’s jaw drops in offence and he scoffs. “He’s probably too nice to say anything badly about you.”   You roll your eyes and glance to his side, wondering where the main character went. Lucy should be here or at least beside Jungkook. Or maybe something went wrong….   “If you’ll excuse me, Your Highnesses.”   You bow, eyes already set off on the crowd. You don’t notice Taehyung reaching out, brows lifted, expression distraught that your moment together was so short. But by then, you’re already gone.   You look around, searching for the girl in the soft yellow dress.   But instead, your arm is yanked back roughly. You spin around to meet wrinkled but stern gazes. The ones that can only belong to your parents — the Duke and Duchess of Devereux.   Even if you’re in the castle now, you’ll never be able to be free of them.   They pull you out to the hall and into a nearby private room meant for quieter conversations for the guests. The doors shut and the silence simmers tensely around you.   You muster a smile. “Mama, papa, how have you bee—?”   There’s a sharp sound that echoes throughout the empty space and you’re shaken, breath staggering when you find your head whipped to the side. Your right cheek is numb.   She just….slapped you.   You turn to her, voice shrill. “What was that for?!”    “How could you dance with that man?”   “What?”   “Did you know you could ruin your entire marriage by associating with the likes of that man? Everything you’ve worked for, Anastasia, everything that your father and I set up for you and the Devereux house could be ruined.” Her voice sends chills to your spine, quiet, deadpanned and yet full of venom. “Do you know who he is? He’s the bastard son. Do you want to get on the wrong side of the King? Or are you trying to show that you favour him as the next heir instead?”   “What?”   They’re jumping leaps and bounds, thinking ten steps too ahead.   “Do you know how much trouble that would cause?” Your father pipes up behind her, his voice low. “It could get the entire family executed for treason.”   From the corner of your eye, you see your mother’s hand raise again. But you clutch her wrist before she has the chance to slap you another time.   “Once is enough,” you spit through gritted teeth. “You don’t want people outside to know, do you?”   She yanks her hand out of your grasps. “Ingrate. If you’re not careful, everything the family has done for you will be gone in an instant. Don’t you know everyone in that room is watching your every move? You are the only heir of this household. You are the Crown Princess. The future Queen. Every decision, every choice, from what food you choose to put in your mouth to what colour you decide to wear, it affects not only yourself but everyone.”   You know. You know the burden on your shoulders better than anyone else.   But is one dance with Taehyung not even allowed?   Your mother rounds the table and sits down on the sofa. “Not to mention, you allowed another whore to dance with your fiancé. She’s just a measly baron’s daughter. There’s no royal blood in her.”   “Neither does our family have any,” you mutter.   The Duchess whirls her head around in absolute shock.   The Duke is the one who intervenes, level-headed yet stoic. “You must be the Crown Princess, Anastasia. You must keep that status and causing the King to be unhappy will do nothing to help.”   “There are other ways to stabilize our family status,” you reason with him. “I don’t understand—”   “No matter how talented you are,” he says slowly as he paces to your mother’s side, “even if you can wield a sword better than most palace knights, this is the only way.”   Your staggering breath inhales through your mouth and out your nose, frustration, torment suffocating. You want to leave this place. Leave the castle, leave the Devereux name, leave these duties burdened onto you. The scrutiny that comes along with the wealth and power.   You want none of it.   You might be Anastasia. But you’re also Y/N.   Wanting to survive and living a long and fruitful life was your goal even before this lifetime. And as selfish as it may be, you cannot fulfill that wish while maintaining your parents’.   You can’t.   You can’t fight to be the Crown Princess if you want to live. You can’t see yourself into old age if you’re executed. You can’t keep Jungkook close and Taehyung at a distance. You can’t run away, but you can’t ground yourself and stay either. Everyone! Everyone wants something from you, everyone is expecting you to play some kind of role — daughter, survivor, saviour — and you don’t know what to pick and choose. What decisions to make and how to make them.   And because of this indecisiveness, the half-hearted middle ground, you couldn’t save Taehyung’s mom.   “It’s because of your narrow mindedness that you’ve pushed yourselves to only one option.”   You turn and leave the room, slipping away before they can say another word.   If you choose happiness — the happy ending of Jungkook and Lucy with your survival and support, an ending where you will be able to stand in the background, the Devereux house will fall. If you choose to follow duty and selflessness — you will die and ruin their name anyway.   You’re not so sure why it’s so hard to make a choice. In the original game, the Duke and Duchess cut ties with you anyway. They threw Anastasia away when she needed them most.   But even with that resentment, it still hurts.   You exhale, escaping to the terrace and leaning against the stone wall to look up at the stars.   Your own words echo back to you and you wonder if you’ve narrowed yourself down to only two options. You wonder what other possible way you can have it all. If it’s even possible….   Or what fate has in store for you.

[sirtwentyofhousegoodmen]

Prompt: Arcturus at the birth of Sirius

November 3, 1959

"Pacing like a madman isn't going to make this go by any faster, boy."

Orion—dutiful as always—only nodded at the pointed remark from his father, eliciting a light sneer from the patriarch.

Honestly—not a hint of anger, nor even frustration at the jibe. Arcturus almost savoured the day when his son would finally tell him what he truly thought of him, but, rather like the boy Walburga was currently bringing into the world—it was slow to come.

As always, all the men of the black family were gathered in the drawing room, smoking cigars and drinking brandy. Cygnus was looking positively sloshed, no doubt because this boy that was being born was meant to remedy his own mistake in siring only daughters. Alphard was as inscrutable as always, damned vagabond. Pollux was red-cheeked and merry, oblivious to his son's misery, puffing on his cuban with the utmost gusto.

This was what was left of the Black Family.

He was starting to see some truth to all his grandfather's curmudgeonly ranting.

Orion's pacing grew all too wearisome after a few more minutes, and Arcturus found himself at his limit.

"By Salazar, boy—sit down!"

Orion turned to him, a shocked look on his face before acqueiscing. Arcturus didn't fail to notice the tense jaw.

Good. Let the boy stew a bit more—only a matter of time before he finally grew a spine.

The occasion was bittersweet for Arcturus. On the one hand, Orion's marriage to his abominable cousin finally producing something of worth was cause for celebration—on the other, it showed just how far the Black family had fallen.

All their hopes hinged on an infant boy—it was difficult not to be bitter about the fact. And with his brother Regulus's death just a few months before, it had put the Black patriarch in a foul mood that hadn't ceased since. Only Melania knew how to navigate his temper now, and even her subdued manner grated every now and then.

As if on cue, the aforementioned woman burst into the drawing room, dress slightly disheveled and bags under her eyes speaking of tiredness.

His poor wife—to have to manage twenty-seven hours of Walburga's screeching. He would get her a gift one of these days—perhaps that rare orchid she was eyeing when they went to Nott Manor. She'd never said much about it, but Melania didn't say much about anything. One had to read between the lines with her, and even then the woman's emotions were as mysterious as the day was long.

"A boy, dear—practically perfect in every way!" She beamed, then walked over to where Orion sat, shell-shocked at the news, and kissed him on the cheek.

"Well," Arcturus groaned as he stood—one of these days he might very well need a cane, his leg had been killing him these last few months. "Best not dawdle—let's go see my grandson, Orion. Unless, you wish for me to wait until after you've seen him first?"

Orion turned to him, then after a moment's hesitation, shook his head deferentially. "Of course not, father—you're more than welcome to see him with me."

For God's sake boy, anything! Call me miserable, tell me I'm a bastard, one sign of dissent to show you've a man's spine!

Rather than voice this, Arcturus merely harrumphed in dissapointment and followed Orion out of the drawing room, all the way up the stairs. The walk was—like much of their meetings—silent and uncomfortable, punctuated by the mutterings of the portraits as they went by.

Reaching the door of the room Walburga was in, Orion dallied for just a second before finally collecting himself and opening the door.

When they entered, Walburga was quite obviously miffed with her husband for allowing his decrepit old father to push him into coming along with him. Honestly, you'd think he was still in the nursery sometimes, yanking on his father's pant-leg for the slightest bit of attention!

"Orion," she greeted, smiling in a manner best described as murderous. She turned her flinty gaze to the elder. "Arcturus."

"Walburga," Arcturus nodded back. "I'm here to see my grandson. Or do you intend to hide the boy away forever?"

Her eyes narrowed, giving her smile an even more brittle quality to it. "Certainly not. Please, Arcturus," she emphasized the name, shooting her husband a glare for good measure, "Come meet our son."

Orion approached her warily, as if she were Mephistopheles himself, whilst Arcturus had no such compunctions and walked forward confidently to the bed.

When he caught sight of the boy, he smiled.

Black hair, aquiline nose, grey eyes—A perfect Black specimen. Perhaps Walburga wasn't the worst choice for Orion—Nightmare she may have been, she had little of the Crabbe looks aside from her eyes appearing blue in a certain light. Orion, on the other hand, looked more a Macmillan than some of his cousins who actually bore the name. Their son was a testament to Black genetics—bearing the name on both sides, as well as the looks.

Arcturus nodded, an approving gleam in his eyes as he took in his first grandson. "The boy's every inch a Black. Fine job, the both of you. You especially, Orion."

Walburga looked mightily offended at Orion being given extra commendations, seeing as how she'd just spent twenty-seven hours bringing the newest black heir into the world—but her husband either didn't notice or didn't care as he stuttered over his thanks for his father's first compliment in what must've been five years.

"Thank you, father." Orion turned back to the boy, all his focus on his son, and a smile that could be called tender growing on his face. "He's perfect, Walburga."

Her face softened at that, and she even allowed herself a small smile at her husband. "Would you like to hold him?"

Orion nodded, gleefully, before taking hold of his son as if he were made of the most delicate china in the world. He gazed down at the boy lovingly, smiling like a madman at every coo and fuss that came from the boy as if he couldn't believe he were real.

"What will you name him?" Arcturus asked, breaking his son out of his downright womanish fussing after allowing him a generous amount of it.

Orion's smile grew larger, if anything, and he stared up at Arcturus hopefully.

"Sirius," Orion said, and Arcturus felt as if someone had poured a bucket of cold water over his head. "For my grandfather."

"You didn't even know your grandfather," Arcturus said, half an accusation. Orion heard the harsh tone and flinched, caught completely blindsided.

"I meant to honour him," Orion replied, nervously.

"If you'd known him, you'd know he wasn't a man to honour or emulate in the least." Arcturus fired back, an anger and resentment he'd stewed over since he was nine years old bubbling to the surface.

"Orion meant it for your father," Walburga said, each word coming out through gritted teeth. "But I was the one who chose it—and I had your great-uncle in mind."

Arcturus blinked. "Ah, well then I suppose it's not too," he shifted his feet, uncomfortably, "bad a choice. Let me see Sirius then, Orion—or do you mean to hog him forever?"

Orion, snapping out of his hurt, nodded fervently and placed the boy into his father's arms, hovering over his back as if anticipating his fall.

Arcturus evaluated the boy closer, and he saw it—those eyes. Black they were, but he could see the impudence in them from a mile away. The baby, oblivious to his grandfather's test, reached up and yanked a hair off his mustache.

"Ow!"

Orion rushed forward and took the baby out of his incensed grandfather's arms, hushing its giggles as if worried his father would take even more offense to them.

"Impertinent little—," He sighed, running a hand over his face.

"Father, I—"

"It's not a problem, Orion," Arcturus replied, spitting out every word with the utmost venom. "I'd only suggest watching the boy in future—there's an impudence there that I like not."

Orion looked at Arcturus as if he'd grown two heads, but nodded. Walburga, in the corner, looked to be trying to muffle a fit of cackles with her pillow.

Impertinent whelp.