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druidwolf21 · 17 days ago

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Shipwreck part 2

Magnus the red/f reader

SORRY IT HAS TAKEN ME SO LONG

I've had a LOT on my plate recently and honestly, the bajillion drafts currently sat waiting for me are a liiiiittle overwhelming!

But here is part 2 finally!

I rewrote it a few times before settling in this!!

As with everything I share, this is not proofread lol

Mostly fluff, some smut at the end beneath the 💦 emoji so you can enjoy the fluff without the spice.

Although even if you skip the smut I recommend reading the last little bit just for a bit of extra context 👀👀

As always let me know what you think!!!

Cw: sexy time beneath the 💦 emoji, brief implied threat

@thisuserislilsilly @jaghatai-khock @moodymisty @beckyninja @lemon-russ @astrohymn @echo-of-damnation @kitty-chan33 @laura-naruto-fan1998 @cosmic-cryptid-from-beyond

A soft breeze carried the scent of fresh grass to you as it tousled gently through your hair, sweet honeyed pollen filling your nose. You smiled as you strolled the garden, running your hands along the top of the waist high hedges that lined the gravelled path and with each step you took, a faint flittering mist caressed your skin.

The garden was large, flower beds surrounded by low hedges were bordered by long paths that swept around in a cross shape, culminating in a marbled fountain in the middle. Each step crunched pebbles underfoot as you strayed from the path to wonder amongst the rainbow hued buds. Your long satin dress pooled around you in a puddle of purples and gold as you knelt to reach for a flower, caressing the soft bell of its petals as you brought it to your nose and inhaled deeply. The bloom was a vibrant red, the crevices of its core lined and flecked with yellow whilst the greens of its leaves were a vivid emerald. The perfume wafting from the blossom was rich and warm, like wine and cinnamon and you smiled as the scent brought forth memories of cold nights around a warm fire, sipping mulled ciders from heated cups. A firm hand on your shoulder pulled you from your reverie and you jumped slightly at the contact, accidentally ripping the flower from its stem as you twisted towards the contact.

"Magnus, you frightened me" you sighed, allowing a soft chuckle to escape you as you looked at the severed flower head settled in your lap, picking it up gently and turning it in your palm sadly.

"my apologies, my lady, I saw you settled in the flower bed and came to make sure you had not fallen" his tone was warm and light as he offered you his hand, lifting you to your feet effortlessly with a gentle pull. Your heart fluttered as Magnus bent and brought your hands to his face, pressing a light kiss across your knuckles, his eye never leaving your face as his lips grazed your skin. "No, thank you, I was just admiring the flowers, they smell wonderful" you felt breathless as he released your hand a rose back to his full height. "I'm amazed you can grow anything at all in this rock"

Magnus chuckled, waving vaguely across the garden. "Did you think me a liar when I told you about the gardens? This took barely a moment for me to make"

You followed his hand as he gestured, admiring the vibrant colours before returning your gaze back to him. "You? You made this? You planted this yourself?" Your eyes widened as you looked up at him in awe "you grew so many flowers? That's amazing!"

The man stilled, his single eye trailing your face as his smile faltered for a moment "I.. certainly 𝙢𝙖𝙙𝙚 them yes" he continued to watch you as you viewed the gardens with renewed vigor, thin opalescent mist curling around you in frail tendrils, before you looked down at your clenched hand and raised it up towards him.

"I'm so sorry, you must've worked so hard" you muttered, showing him the decapitated plant in your grasp "I didn't mean to, it was an accident, it was so pretty so I just wanted to look and..." he shook his head, thick red locks bouncing as he huffed. "It's only a flower, they live such short lives anyway.." he paused as you continued to look down at the quickly wilting petals, cocking his head in thought. "Much like humans I suppose. Such short pretty lives" he mused, reaching down and covering the flower and your hand with his own. "Both so pretty, being plucked by things much bigger than themselves to be displayed and admired, only to die so quickly"

You glanced up at the primarch's face, shifting uneasily at the sudden intensity he watched you with, a shadow seemed to cast over his face as his stare seemed to pierce through your mind and soul. "My lord?" The shift in his face happened so quickly you thought you'd imagined it, the intensity and harshness vanished, replaced by a relaxed smile and gently flushed cheeks. He knelt, dropping to one knee and cupping your cheek with his other hand.

"my apologies, little bird, I was thinking aloud. If the flower upsets you, I can fix it, would you like that?" He searched for yours, questioning as his thumbs ran over your soft skin. You leant into his caress, closing your eyes briefly and nodding "I would like that very much, Magnus"

You felt a warmth in your hand and your eyes shot open, he pulled away from you, and you stood clutching the flower in amazement.

The flower retained its vivid colour, but the once soft petals were now rendered in carved ruby, softly flecked with freckles of gold. The stem of brilliant emerald and jade felt smooth in your hand as you twisted it between your fingers, watching as the light refracted through the crystals.

"how did you.."

He turned away from you and stepped over the hedge, before turning and reaching out towards you. With a cocky smile, he helped you over and pulled you flush against him. "Pretty things are my speciality, little bird"

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

Sitting on the bench by the fountain, you felt the soft spatter of water droplets hit your back as you continued to admire the jewelled flower. Magnus sat beside you, long legs sprawled before him and a muscled arm lazily stretched behind you as he quietly watched you.

"is this something all primarchs can do?" You queried, finally setting the flower down on the rim of the fountain, following the soft ripples of colour it reflected into the pool before you returned your eyes to him. He shook his head and the muscles beneath his robe popped as he shrugged and shuffled in his seat. "No, this is something I learned, much to my father's disappointment"

You froze. "This is...warp magic?" Your eyes darted back to the shimmering plant, then back to the man now leaning towards you, single piercing eye trained on your face as his arm rose from the bench and draped fairly across your shoulders, calloused hand resting against your arm.

'does that scare you?"

You had been magnus' guest for 3 weeks now, and he had been the perfect gentleman. Your memories from your first day were hazy admittedly, but each day after he had come to your room and tended your wounds as sat by your bedside. He brought you plates of warm food and brushed out your hair as you ate, telling you tales of the imperium and answering your questions happily when you asked. But he never spoke of the emperor and he never spoke of his rumoured dalliance with chaos.

Were you scared?

You lent into his arm, running a small finger across the burnished skin of his knuckles. "No, I'm not scared of you, Magnus"

You felt his chest vibrate as he hummed, pulling you towards him until your body rested against his ribs with your head nestled against his firm muscle. You felt heat rise in your face at the sudden contact. You and Magnus had danced a fine line of gentle touches, kissed to fingers and the soft grip of his hand on yours as you walked. But this? Feeling the heat of his body against your own, feeling the powerful thump of his hearts. This was new.

Wasn't it?

"I am glad, little bird, I do not want you to be scared." He held you a little tighter as he spoke "your company pleases me and I would like you to be content. happy."

Butterflies burst into flight in your stomach at his words as you sat, soaking in his scent of warm spice and something else? What was that, burning? ozone? No, it was gone, there was only nutmeg, myrrh, cinnamon. You nuzzled into the silk of his clothing as you inhaled, grinning as he continued to grip you tightly.

"the warp should only be feared by those who can't control it"

You froze.

"can you?"

"...for a price"

You reluctantly pulled away from his warmth, blushing furiously as you placed a palm against his firm abs to steady yourself. Magnus refused to meet your gaze as he looked forward over the garden, the mist now dusting the tops of the hedges like a faint pearlecent spray. You slipped from under his arm, sliding across the bench as the primarch rose to his full height. The bliss you had felt just moments ago being pressed to his mass was now smothered under dread as he towered over you.

"what price?" You whispered, tears pricking your eyes as you searched his face desperately, recoiling slightly as he reached for you.

"what price, Magnus?"

He paused as he stretched towards you, his hand stopping inches from you. "Don't you trust me, little bird?" He hand dropped and he sighed. "Very well, I will show you" he rolled his massive shoulders with a Ｃｒａｃｋ and you gasped as he stood before you.

"is... That it? The price.... Was this?"

You looked up at Magnus, eyes widening as your gaze followed the gentle curve of giant wings. The feathers a kelidescope of colour as they ruffled softly with each movement. You rose to your feet and reached out a trembling hand, you brushed a finger along the keratin, admiring the way the dim light bounced from the feathers as they shuddered under your touch. A large hand grasped your wrist and you yelped as Magnus drew your hand away. Kneeling, he clasped your palm against his chest, The strong beat of his hearts vibrated through your bones as his large fingers wrapped softly around your wrists to keep you still.

"do I scare you now, my lady?"

"throne Magnus, no! I thought you were going to kill me!" You laughed, wiping away a tear that threatened to fall. "The way you were talking, I thought you were going to sacrifice me, not grow a pair of bloody wings!" He shook his head at your words, chuckling with you as you fanned yourself.

"No, my lord" you hummed, finally calming down. You pulled your hand away and brought both palms to his cheeks, smiling warmly up at him. "I think you are beautiful"

His face became unreadable, the pupil of his eye narrowing as the laughter died in his throat. Suddenly his hands were on your hips and your back pulling you against him as he kissed you. Melting into his touch, you closed your eyes and tangled your fingers through his thick auburn hair. You whined when he pulled away, chasing his lips for another heated kiss.

"forgive me, little bird, that was too forward" he began, dipping his head at you "I apologize"

You grasped his face and pulled him back towards you, leaning in to taste him again "don't be" you whispered "I want this"

He smirked, a dark desire flashing across his face impossibly fast before his mouth grazed yours once again.

"if this is what you want, little bird"

💦💦💦💦SMUT BELOW💦💦💦💦

Magnus grinned as he pressed a soft kiss against your neck, listening to your breathless sighs as he peppered your skin with gentle touches and nibbles. You'd accepted his wings with no pushing, and now you accepted his advances willingly. His hands kneaded the soft flesh of your hip as he moved back to silence your breathy moans with a kiss. Soon he'd show you his true form, but, this was a very good start. And this time, he had you willing and wanting, without twisting your pretty little thoughts.

You gasped as you felt Magnus nip at your neck, tilting your head to allow his access to the delicate skin as he sucked and nibbled. His lips soon returned to your own, his tongue licking you, teasing to allow him to taste you and you moaned as you allowed him in. His hands roamed your body, gently squeezing at your hips before firmly grabbing your ass. He lent back from you, pawing at your rear as you panted. "Let me have you" he purred, his fingers trailing up your back to find the zip of your dress. "Let me make you mine"

You nodded, too breathless to form words as he pulled the zip down and shrugged the delicate fabric from your body. Red blush flooded across your chest and cheeks as he devoured you with his eye, almost black with desire as his pupil expanded.

"still so beautiful" he muttered before taking a nipple between his teeth and sucking, rolling the sensitive flesh across his tongue and fangs. You head fell backwards, arching forward into his touch as you ran your fingers across his scalps.

Wait

Still? So beautiful?

You didn't have time to linger in the thought as his thumb trailed down your stomach and stopped at your clit, pausing for a moment before pressing down gently on your nub. You felt his mouth twitch as you shuddered at his touch, his thumb beginning to gently rub in circles. He released your breast and licked a trail up your chest and throat before pressing his lips to your ear.

"do you like that, little one?" He whispered, twisting his hand around to run a thick finger through your heat as his thumb continued to rub. "Does it feel good, little bird?" He pressed a finger slowly inside you, feeling your walls twitch and grip at his digit as he curves his finger inside you, pressing into that spot he remembered you liked as he gently dragged, in and out of your core. "Magnus" you panted, hands gripping his shoulders as your ground against his hand, the knot in your belly tightening with each thrust of his finger inside you "please" The knot got tighter and tighter, so close, nearly there. You cried out as you came, your chest heaved and your core spasmed as it rolled over you in waves, whining when you were left feeling empty as Magnus pulled his hand away. You blushed as he put his finger in his mouth, eye staring straight at you as he licked his finger clean. He grinned as you shivered, before standing and picking you up. He carried you the few steps to the bench, his lips locked with yours as he sat resting you in his lap. You ground against him, enjoying his deep grumbles as his hips jerked against you with every move you made.

The soft flutter of feathers caught your eye and you reached around his shoulders, running your fingers along the rainbow wing that sprung from his back. A deep groan erupted from him, encouraging you as your nails dragged along the feathers, tangling deeper between the quills. Your teeth found his ear, nibbling the lobe as you rubbed the pinions "Another price of warp magic, My lord?" You giggled, only to find your shoulder marked by his own teeth in response and he huffed.

"enough teasing" you whispered as you slid away and fiddled with the buttons of his robe, popping them open one by one and placing a soft chaste kiss every inch of ruby skin that was revealed. Finally resting on your knees between his legs as you undid the last button of his robe, you tugged at his trousers freeing his dick from the tight waistband. You grasped him softly, unable to fully grip around his girth, you slid your hand up and down his cock, thumb grazing his tip. You looked up at him with doe eyes as you stuck out your tongue and ran it flat along his length, relishing the sharp hiss of breath he took as you took his tip in your mouth and ran your tongue in circles around him. You began bobbing your head, swirling and flicking as you moved in tandem with your hand, flicking your gaze up to him as you felt his hand stroke your face. "Such a good girl" he moaned, admiring the way your eyelids dropped as you tasted him "so good for your primarch"

His head fell back and his fist bunches into your hair as he jerked his hips upwards to meet you. You gagged around him, eyes running as he fucked your mouth. The taste of salty precum lined your tongue and you gripped his thighs as you continued to gag on his thick cock, you could feel him twitch in your mouth and knew he was close.

Running a hand up his abdomen, you stared up at him until he met your gaze with his own misted stare. As he looked down at you, you thrust your head down as far as you could and hummed, vibrating the soft flesh of your throat and jaw around him.

Your mouth filled with ropes of cum as he finished, hot and thick in your mouth. Before you could swallow, he yanked your head back, looking down at you and fisting himself as he shuddered, threads splattering across your face and breasts as he finally came down from his high.

You opened your mouth, showing him the cum in your mouth before swallowing and opening again sticking your tongue out.

Magnus smiled, a tired content smile as he leant over in his seat and gripped your chin gently, turning your face left and right to admire the mess. "I like this look on you, little bird" he cooed before wiping you with the corner of his robe. You laughed and stood up, collecting your dress from the floor, tripping slightly on the deep furrows carved in the gravel.

Wait, were these always there?

You were swept up suddenly, cradled in strong arms as Magnus carried you back through the garden.

"we should visit the gardens more often, my lady" he laughed, bouncing you slightly with each step. You snorted and rolled your eyes "maybe you could show me something different next time? I'm curious to see what else you've managed to do"

"of course, little bird, I can show you anything your heart desires"

You buried yourself into his chest, sleep lulling you softly into its depths as Magnus' wings enveloped the two of you as he walked.

Around you, with each giant step, the garden succumbed, burning ashes drifting and dissolving into purple sparks as it faded back into the warp.

Nothing left but rock and ruin.

#warhammer 40k x reader #primarch x reader #warhammer x reader #warhammer #warhammer 40k #magnus the red x reader #magnus warhammer

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sweets-library · 1 month ago

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care and consequence

Shouta Aizawa/reader. hurt/comfort. wc: 7.9k.

READ THE CONTENT WARNINGS. DO NOT READ THIS IF THEY DO NOT APPEAL TO YOU. 18+ content warnings: spanking, improper use of a hairbrush, punishment, heavy use of daddy as a title, heavy themes of discipline and D/S dynamics

a/n: holy shit guys, the reception on that last one was actually insane, thank you all so much! i hope you guys like this one too, I'm sorry it took so long! i have a lot of personal life drama going on rn, plus I'm sick again :/ anyways, enjoy and strap in, its a long one! ao3

You had regretted coming to the bar about an hour ago, though you’d never admit it. The music thrummed in your chest, matching the relentless pounding in your head. Around you, people were dancing, drinking, and laughing, lost in their own worlds. As much as you wanted to join in, your body felt like it was rebelling against you. Still, you clung to the idea that one more drink might just do the trick.

Navigating through the chaotic sea of heroes, you pushed your way to the bar and ordered a vodka cranberry with a shot on the side. Your last drink had taken a while to finish, but this one? This one needed to count. The bartender turned away, and just as you started to feel the room sway, the door flew open with a booming, "WHAT IS UP, PARTY PEOPLEEEEE!"

Ah, Mic made it!. He had been unsure if he could, with the radio show’s schedule, but he must’ve handed the reins to someone else to show up fashionably late. You watched as he carved a path through the crowd, greeting everyone with that infectious energy, before you turned your attention back to your drinks. Downing the shot in one swift motion, you grabbed your cocktail, setting your sights on Nemuri.

You found her in conversation with Kamui Woods and Mount Lady, her laughter carrying over the din. Sliding up beside her, you felt the brush of her nails as she pinched your side with a knowing grin. Without missing a beat, she continued chatting, but you knew she had clocked you. You were happy to wait, sipping your drink and letting its warmth spread through you, barely tuning into the conversation until Nemuri said her goodbyes.

She grabbed your hand, giggling as she pulled you onto the dance floor, and you let her lead—hoping the music might drown out how unwell you felt.

As the tequila and vodka settled into your veins, the world around you softened into a hazy blur of neon lights and pulsing bass. The club was packed, bodies moving in sync with the heavy beat that rattled the floor beneath your feet. Strobe lights flickered overhead, casting quick flashes of colour across the writhing crowd, while smoke machines filled the air with a thin mist that clung to your skin. The music was loud, so loud that it vibrated through your chest, matching the heat rising in your cheeks.

You finally started to feel it, the carefree buzz you’d been chasing all night. The alcohol loosened your limbs, and you let yourself get lost in whatever dirty, hypnotic rhythm Nemuri was dragging you into. Around you, people shouted over the music, laughed too loudly, and clinked glasses at the bar. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, spilled drinks, and the faint hint of perfume mingling with something more electric. It was the kind of energy that pulled you in deeper, making everything else fade away.

A few songs passed in a blur of flashing lights and sweaty bodies. You floated from partner to partner, dancing with Thirteen, Snipe, and Nemuri again, before you found yourself twirled straight into the arms of Present Mic.

“Zashi! Hi!” you practically shouted, grinning at him with the same excitement that buzzed through the room. It felt like he was the only one who hadn’t made it to the party yet, and now, everything was perfect. You could imagine him being stopped by every person on the way in, catching up and spreading his contagious energy.

“Heya, baby, how’s it hangin’?” he grinned, pulling you in so close you could feel the bass rumbling through his chest. But even here, his voice cut through the noise effortlessly.

“Soooo good! I love dancing, I’m so happy you came! Thought you’d get stuck at the station,” you gushed, letting the sway of the music carry you from foot to foot.

He laughed and gave you a playful dip, sending you squealing in delight as the room spun for a brief moment. But when he pulled you back up, his smile faltered as you coughed into your arm, the noise cutting through the music like a reminder that not everything was as smooth as the party felt.

“Gave one of the interns the mic for the night. She was over the moon to take it,” Hizashi said with a chuckle, leaning in closer to cut through the pounding music. His usual energy seemed slightly tempered, though his voice still carried effortlessly. He lowered his tone as he added, “Didn’t think you’d make it out tonight. Shouta told me earlier you weren’t feeling so hot.”

At the mention of your boyfriend, you scanned the room out of habit, already knowing he wasn’t there. This kind of scene was never his thing; too loud, too crowded. Besides, he had patrol tonight.

“Sho’s just paranoid. I’m fine, see?” you replied, brushing off the comment with a lighthearted twirl under Hizashi’s arm. The movement made your head spin a bit, but you ignored it, flashing him a grin as you let go of his hand, intent on heading back to the bar for another drink. Before you could get far, his arm looped around your waist, pulling you back gently but firmly.

“Hey, you trying to leave me all alone out here? This party’s not even close to over,” Hizashi laughed, his voice rising just above the thrum of the bass. You joined in his laughter, not noticing how, with each song, he subtly steered you away from the bar. The colours around you swirled in a kaleidoscope of neon lights, flickering across faces and catching in the smoke-filled air. Every beat seemed to vibrate through your body, keeping you in a daze of music, movement, and heat.

As the hours blurred, so did the people. Dance partners came and went, their faces brief ly illuminated by strobe lights before they disappeared back into the crowd. But through it all, Hizashi never left your side, keeping a playful hand on your shoulder or at your waist as if he were your lifeline in the chaotic sea of bodies.

Then, a slower song melted into the speakers, and the mood shifted. The lights dimmed to soft blues and purples, and the frenetic energy on the dance floor calmed. Hizashi took the opportunity to pull you close, his arm wrapping around you with a gentleness that felt comforting against the heat of the room. Your head fell naturally onto his shoulder as the world seemed to slow down for the first time that night. The sway of the music was soothing now, and the chatter around you dropped to a murmur.

Couples paired off, holding each other close, moving in time to the slow beat, while others used the moment to catch their breath. The heavy scent of spilled drinks, sweat, and perfume lingered in the air, but here, in Hizashi’s arms, you felt an odd sense of calm. You giggled softly as he whispered in your ear, making quiet jokes about the unlikely pairings that had formed on the dance floor. His voice was steady and warm, grounding you.

But then, he stopped abruptly. The sway of his body stilled, and you blinked, the moment interrupted. Confused, you lifted your head to look at him, but his attention was no longer on the dance floor.

“Sorry, sweetheart, I think your song’s been played out,” Hizashi said softly, his voice taking on a tone that felt more final than playful. You lifted your head to question him, confusion crossing your face, but before you could get a word out, he spun you around; right into the arms of someone new.

Or rather, someone far more familiar than you would have preferred.

“Shouta!” you gasped, looking up to find him staring down at you, his dark eyes narrowed in that way that instantly made you feel small. His gaze wasn’t angry, exactly, but there was a sharpness in it that cut through the fog of your drunken haze. You straightened up, biting your lip as emotions flashed across your face, impossible to hide in your current state.

“I thought you had patrol?” you asked, voice tinged with uncertainty.

“I finished early,” he said, his tone even but firm as he wrapped an arm around your waist. His grip was gentle, but the intention was clear as he began guiding you through the crowd and toward the door. “Let’s go.”

“Wait, wait, I gotta-” you started to protest, trying to twist out of his hold. But Shouta cut you off before you could finish, his voice leaving no room for argument.

“I paid your tab. You can see everyone another time,” Shouta said curtly, his voice as firm as his grip around your waist. The finality in his words made your chest tighten, but you huffed anyway, stubbornly digging in your heels.

“I promised Nemuri another dance, and I was gonna get another drink!” you protested, though the moment the words were out, you knew they were a mistake. Shouta’s gaze sharpened, his eyes darkening as they bore into you. It was a look that made your heart skip a beat and sent a nervous tremor down your spine. Your feet shuffled on instinct, your earlier defiance wilting under the heat of his stare.

“We are leaving right now, little girl,” he said, his tone low and deliberate. The words slid over you like a command, impossible to ignore. His hand drifted down to your ass, the touch firm and possessive, sending a shiver through your body. He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your ear as he continued, “Unless you’d like to get a head start on your punishment in the bathroom. Here. And. Now.”

Your pulse quickened at his words, your breath catching in your throat. The heavy atmosphere of the club seemed to fade, the sound of the crowd growing distant. All that remained was the heat of his presence and the weight of his words. The tension coiled in your stomach, leaving you unsure whether to push back or submit.

“No… m’sorry. Let’s go,” you mumbled, your voice barely rising above the pulsing music, but your regretful look and the way you let him pull you along seemed to say enough. Once outside, the sudden quiet enveloped you, your ears ringing from the absence of sound. The contrast was jarring, but it was nothing compared to the weight of Shouta’s disappointment radiating off him like an invisible force.

He guided you to the car, and without even a hint of protest, you slid into the back seat. The cool leather felt grounding against your skin as he buckled you in silently, his focus unwavering. You could feel the tension in the air, thick and palpable, as he leaned in, resting his hand on the headrest. His expression softened slightly, a hint of concern breaking through his earlier sternness.

“Do you feel like you’re gonna be sick?” he inquired, his voice steady yet laced with a quiet urgency. You shook your head, trying to muster a reassuring smile, though the flutter of anxiety in your stomach made it hard.

“Okay,” he replied, his gaze steady on yours. “Start drinking this.” He handed you a bottle of water, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I want at least half of it gone by the time we get home. And if you think you’re feeling sick, just tell me, and I’ll pull over.”

The seriousness in his voice made your heart race. You nodded, taking the bottle from him, the cool plastic a small comfort in the heated moment. As you unscrewed the cap, you could sense the shift in his demeanour. He was looking out for you, but there was a firmness in his words that reminded you of the line you’d crossed.

“Okay.” you mumble, staring at his chin to avoid the intensity of his eyes. He sighed and closed the door before climbing into the driver's seat and starting the journey home. The ride wasn't long but it was dead silent and it gave you enough time for some of the alcohol to wear off and the reminders that you were sick to kick in.

Shouta, of course, knew you at the very least, had a bad cold. That morning, he had taken charge, insisting you call off work and ordering you to stay in bed. He had been so sweetly concerned and caring. He had meticulously arranged everything, ensuring you had enough food and medicine at hand. You could still picture him moving around the kitchen, checking in on you with a watchful eye, his brow slightly furrowed in that familiar expression of worry.

Throughout the afternoon, he had kept in touch, sending periodic texts to check on your well-being. Each notification was a reminder of how deeply he cared. The messages were gentle nudges, urging you to rest and take care of yourself. You could almost feel his presence with each ping, as if he were there beside you, coaxing you to indulge in soup and reminding you when to take the next dose of cold and flu medicine.

But as the hours slipped by and daylight faded into evening, the excitement of your friends celebrating the end of the semester began to tug at you. The allure of laughter and music beckoned from the outside world, tempting you to leave the cocoon of blankets and soothing remedies he had encouraged you to embrace. You hadn’t mentioned your plans to Shouta, knowing full well the firm stance he had taken. He had told you when he left for his night patrol that you were to be doing nothing for the rest of the night but resting and getting better.

In a moment of weakness, you had chosen to ignore his guidance, allowing the crippling fear of missing out to get to you. Now, as the consequences of your decision loomed large, you felt a heavy weight settle in your chest, a blend of regret and dread creating a terrible cocktail with how awful you were already feeling physically.

As Shouta pulled into the driveway, the rush of emotions overwhelmed you. The tears welled up, unbidden and hot, as the guilt of your choices crashed over you like a wave. You hiccuped, desperately trying to swallow back the sobs, but it was futile. When he parked the car and came around to your door, you barely registered his movements, lost in your own turmoil. As soon as he opened the door, he unbuckled you and gathered you into his arms, cradling you against him.

“Fuck, baby, you’re okay,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing, as he felt you trembling against him. “I know you’re not feeling too hot. Come on, let’s get you inside and into some comfy clothes. Does that sound good?”

You nodded against his shoulder, the gesture almost instinctual as the weight of your exhaustion settled in. With a gentle yet firm motion, he hoisted you out of the car, his strength reassuring. You instinctively wrapped your limbs around him like a koala, seeking the comfort of his embrace. He adjusted his hold, securing you against him effortlessly as he maneuvered to get the door open with one arm, not even considering putting you down for a moment. The night air was cool against your skin, but Shouta's warmth kept the chill at bay. As he carried you inside, you buried your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the scent of him.

He took care of you mostly in silence, his hands moving with a practiced ease as he guided your movements. Gently, he slipped off your heels, his touch tender against your tired feet. Without a word, he helped you out of your dress, replacing the once-glamorous outfit with the softness of your favourite pajamas. His fingers were careful as he wiped away the makeup you'd used to hide the ruddiness in your cheeks and the shadows beneath your eyes, his brow creasing slightly as he worked, focused but gentle.

When he pressed the cool glass of water into your hands, you drank obediently, the quiet rustle of him preparing the medicine a comforting sound in the background. As he handed you the pills, his eyes softened, a silent reminder that he was looking out for you. After you’d swallowed them, he guided you to sit down at your vanity, still working methodically, brushing away the remnants of the night.

The makeup wipe brushed over your nose, tickling slightly, and despite the exhaustion and the lingering tipsiness, a small giggle escaped your lips. You leaned up, catching his eyes in the mirror, and smiled mischievously, asking for a kiss. He indulged you, pressing a brief, soft kiss to your lips before continuing, his attention shifting to your hair. The tender motions of his hands as he brushed it through were almost hypnotic, lulling you into a sense of calm as he completed your nighttime routine for you.

A thought bubbled up, slipping out before you could stop it. “How did you know where I was? Thought patrol didn’t end till 4?” you whispered, your voice barely above a murmur as he turned you to face the mirror. Catching his eyes in the reflection, you saw a flicker of irritation still lingering there, and the weight of it made you shy away. You broke eye contact, your gaze dropping to the clutter of items strewn across the vanity from earlier in the night.

“Hizashi texted me when he got there,” he replied quietly, his voice steady but tinged with that edge of disappointment. You couldn't help but pout at the mention of it, feeling the sting of being caught, of letting him down. The weight of his gaze lingered on you, but you felt his concern just as deeply, even in the silence between you.

“Tattle-tale,” you mumbled under your breath, but before you could sink too far into your pout, Shouta’s fingers tipped under your chin, gently but firmly, guiding you to meet his eyes in the mirror.

“He wouldn’t have to tattle if you hadn’t been misbehaving, would he?” His voice held that familiar grumble, a mix of irritation and concern that made your heart skip. You swallowed, feeling the weight of his gaze and the undeniable truth behind his words.

“No, sir,” you murmured, looking as contrite as you felt. His expression softened slightly, and he let out a quiet puff of air, almost a sigh, before pulling you up from the vanity.

With his hand steadying you, he guided you toward the bed, but your legs still wobbled beneath you. Dizzy, you tumbled onto the mattress, a soft giggle escaping your lips as you sank into the plush blankets. Shouta rolled his eyes, but there was a tenderness behind it, and with practiced care, he shifted you to the other side and tucked you in properly, smoothing the covers over you.

“Wait, Sho... you’re not... are you mad at me?” you asked, your voice suddenly small and sincere, cutting through the haze of your tipsiness. His brow furrowed at the question, and for a moment, you held your breath, waiting for his answer.

“No, baby, I’m not mad. We’ll talk tomorrow,” he assured you, his voice softer now. He leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead, the warmth of his lips lingering for a moment before he straightened up. Rounding the bed, he moved to his side, slipping in beside you.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you knew that conversation tomorrow wasn’t going to be a pleasant one. But as Shouta’s strong arms wrapped around you, pulling you close against his chest, the heaviness of the night melted away. His familiar scent, the steady beat of his heart, and the warmth of his body drowned out any lingering bad feelings. For now, wrapped up in him, everything felt right, and you let yourself drift into the comfort of sleep.

The morning greeted you with a vengeance, leaving you feeling every bit as awful as you feared. Your head throbbed with a dull, relentless ache, your sinuses were stuffed to the brim, and your body felt clammy and weak, so much more wrung out than you had been jus the day before. Groaning, you burrowed deeper into the blankets, hiding from the sunlight streaming through the windows. Despite the warmth of the covers, a bone-deep chill had taken root, making you shiver as you curled in on yourself.

“Wake up, baby. You have to take some medicine.” Shouta’s voice, calm and resolute, pierced your cocoon of self-pity. You whined in response, a pitiful sound muffled by the blankets.

“M’sleeping. No thanks,” you muttered petulantly, half-hoping he’d let it slide. Usually, this was when you’d hear him chuckle softly, maybe feel the comforting weight of his hand on your thigh as he gave you a few more moments to stir.

Instead, the covers were suddenly pulled back from your face, exposing you to the cool morning air and making you gasp at the loss of warmth. The sudden brightness forced your eyes to flutter open, though they quickly squinted against the light. Before you could protest, Shouta’s hand was on your face, gentle and deliberate, as he smoothed the strands of damp hair plastered to your clammy skin. The touch sent a shiver through you, the tenderness soothing away your irritation.

His expression hovered between stern and soft, his dark eyes scanning your flushed, pale face with an almost clinical precision. You could feel the weight of his worry as he brushed his thumb over your temple. Despite your exhaustion, guilt pooled in your chest, mingling with the sickness that had you pinned to the bed.

“It wasn’t really a request. Come on, sit up.” His voice was calm, but there was no mistaking the firmness behind it. Before you could muster a protest, his strong hands slipped under your back and shoulders, lifting you with ease. The sudden shift left you disoriented, and before you knew it, you were propped up against the headboard.

Two pills rested on the palm he held in front of your face, his dark eyes steady and expectant. “Open,” he instructed, his tone leaving no room for argument. Something in the commanding gentleness of his voice had you obeying instinctively, parting your lips without hesitation. He placed the pills on your tongue, and you grimaced as you swallowed them with a few sips of the water he pressed to your lips.

Just as you moved to push the glass away, his hand caught yours, steadying it. “Finish this,” he said firmly, guiding it back toward your mouth. The weight of his worry lingered in the way his fingers stayed wrapped around yours, ensuring you drank more.

You managed another sip, your movements sluggish and reluctant, before he spoke again, his voice softening. “Are you hungry?”

You shook your head, too weary to form words, and he nodded in quiet acceptance. “Okay,” he murmured, taking the now half-empty glass from your hands and setting it on the bedside table. His fingers brushed against your knuckles briefly, grounding you in the moment. “You can sleep a little longer until the meds kick in. We’ll talk when you’re feeling a bit better.”

You gulped and cast your eyes downward, unable to meet his steady gaze. The words he didn’t say lingered in the air, unspoken but heavy, a reminder of the talk you’d hoped that you might avoid. Shouta, ever composed, didn’t press. Instead, his hand smoothed over your hair, the motion tender and familiar, as if to reassure you that his frustration didn’t mean he cared any less.

He leaned down, pressing a kiss between your brows, a soft, lingering gesture that made your chest tighten. It wasn’t fair how easily he could dissolve your guilt and stubbornness in a single moment of care. You couldn’t even summon the faintest trace of upset, not when his touch was so gentle, so grounding. Instead, your eyelids grew heavier, the pull of exhaustion impossible to resist. With a quiet sigh, you let yourself drift, surrendering to the lull of warmth and safety he left behind.

Time passed in a haze, unmeasured and weightless. When you woke again, the pounding in your head had dulled to a faint, manageable throb, and though your limbs still felt heavy, they no longer ached with the same intensity. The room was empty now, sunlight spilling through the windows in soft golden streaks that painted the walls and the rumpled sheets beside you. If Shouta hadn't insisted on taking some medicine earlier, the light would probably be giving you the worst of headaches, but instead, you were able to enjoy the warmth. Of course, Shouta was right, as always. It was no wonder you let him take the reins so often; he had a knack for knowing exactly what you needed, even when you couldn’t see it yourself. It went beyond simple intuition, it was deliberate and unwavering care. It was why you trusted him so deeply.

If you didn’t know that, if you couldn’t feel it in the way he cared for you, you wouldn’t be in this dynamic with him in the first place. You wouldn’t be sitting here now, heart pounding in the quiet aftermath, debating whether pretending to sleep a little longer might save you from the punishment just a little longer, or if it would only make things worse.

But even as your thoughts tangled with uncertainty, you knew you wouldn’t trade this for anything. For all the moments like these, where guilt and the weight of your mistakes pressed down on you, there was always the unwavering reassurance that Shouta would steady you. He’d take you in hand, reminding you in no uncertain terms just how much you mattered to him.

He wouldn’t tolerate behaviour that diminished your worth, not in his eyes, and not in your own. It wasn’t just discipline; it was care, deeply rooted and uncompromising. And when all was said and done, forgiveness would follow, that was never an uncertainty. With Shouta, there was no lingering doubt, no unspoken resentment, only the quiet, steady rhythm of love in its most honest form.

It was about more than letting go; it was about giving that trust to someone who cherished it, someone who didn’t just take care of you but found joy in doing so. And in turn, you found joy in being cared for. It could be terrifying sometimes, to put that kind of trust in someone, but with Shouta it had always felt worth it.

You sigh and slide out of bed, resigned to your fate. The chill in the air bites at your skin, and the sickness still clings to you making you shiver. You rummage through the closet until your fingers find the familiar softness of one of Shouta’s sweaters. It’s an old crew neck, worn and slightly stretched out, big even on him and perfect for wrapping yourself in his warmth.

Pulling it over your head, you pad out to the living room on bare feet. The sight that greets you stops you in your tracks, drawing a soft, dreamy sigh from your lips.

Shouta is perched on the couch, papers spread across the coffee table in neat stacks. A faint furrow creases his brow as he grades with careful precision, the rhythmic scratch of his pen the only sound in the room. One of the cats is curled in his lap snoring, and a ray of sunlight streams through the window, bathing the scene in a golden glow that feels almost unreal. For a moment, you wonder if you’re still dreaming.

His sharp eyes flick up, catching yours as you linger in the doorway. Before he can say a word, you shuffle over and flop down beside him, burying yourself against his shoulder and letting your eyes drift closed again. The familiar scent of him wraps around you, as grounding as the weight of his presence.

“G’morning baby.” you sigh, and his arm curls around you to tug you to his side properly.

“Good morning, my love. Feeling a little better?” he murmurs, his voice soft and low, vibrating gently against your ear. You nod, nestling closer into his shoulder, letting the comforting rhythm of his breathing soothe your lingering unease.

The two of you sit in companionable silence, the occasional scratch of his pen the only sound in the room. He finishes grading the last test on his stack, and you catch a glimpse of his expression as he marks something on the page. Oof. Poor kid.

You might have dozed off again if not for the fluttering unease in your stomach, a familiar mix of guilt and anticipation. The thought of the looming punishment makes it impossible to relax entirely, though Shouta’s calm presence keeps you from fully spiralling.

And then, as if he could read your mind, he sets the papers aside with a quiet sigh. The finality of it settles in your chest like a stone. He turns his face into your hair, his lips brushing against your temple as he speaks softly, a warmth and firmness interwoven in his tone.

“We need to have a talk, little girl.”

You bite your lip, the weight of his gaze settling heavily over you. A sigh escapes your lips as you try to find the right words. “I know. I’m sorry,” you murmur, your voice barely audible over the pounding of your heart.

Shouta doesn’t immediately respond. He pulls back slightly, his eyes scanning your face, assessing. The silence stretches just long enough to make you squirm.

Finally, he exhales deeply, sitting back and crossing his arms. His posture is relaxed, but the intensity in his eyes keeps you rooted in place.

“Why?” he asks, his voice calm but piercing.

Your stomach churns. You know the answer, of course, you do, but the way he asks makes your guilt multiply. He doesn’t raise his voice; he doesn’t need to. You glance down at your lap, your fingers fidgeting with a loose thread on your pajama pants, anything to avoid the weight of his disappointment.

“For… for not listening,” you whisper, each word sticking in your throat. “And going out when you told me not to.”

“That’s correct,” he says, his tone steady but no less cutting. “But more broadly, I’m extremely not thrilled with your complete disregard for your own health and well-being.”

The words land with a precision that makes your chest ache.

He leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his voice softening but still firm. “I love taking care of you. But part of that is making sure you take care of yourself when I’m not there. I need to trust that when I tell you to rest and recover, you’ll actually listen. Instead, you put yourself in harm’s way, and for what? A few hours of fun?”

His gaze locks onto yours, and the weight of his disappointment has you nodding mutely.

“And,” he continues, his voice sharpening, “I have never, and will never, tolerate you lying to me.”

Your head snaps up, a reflexive protest bubbling to the surface. “I didn’t lie—”

The glare he fixes you with stops the words dead in their tracks. It’s a look that leaves no room for negotiation.

“What did you say,” he asks, his voice low and measured, “when I told you to spend the night resting and recovering before I left for work?”

Your cheeks burn as you break eye contact. His stare feels like a spotlight, illuminating every guilty thought you’re trying to suppress. You shift uncomfortably, your voice trembling as you admit, “I… I said, ‘Yes, Daddy.’”

The silence that follows feels deafening. You dare a glance up at him, but his expression is unreadable. The weight of your admission hangs heavy in the air, and you shrink under the judgment you can feel emanating from him.

Finally, he sighs, the sound carrying more disappointment than anger. “You know what you did,” he says, each word deliberate. “Now it’s time to face the consequences.”

Your stomach twists, dread pooling in your chest. His tone is calm, almost gentle, but it carries a finality that leaves no room for debate.

“I wouldn’t normally punish you while you’re sick,” he continues, leaning back against the couch, his voice even. “But since you seem to think that being sick has no bearing on your decisions, I won’t let it affect mine either. Stand up.”

Your knees feel weak as you scramble to obey, rising unsteadily to your feet. Confusion flickers across your face- why not just pull you over his lap like usual? Why make you stand?

“Go and get the wooden hairbrush,” he says, his voice low and dispassionate, the command sending a shiver down your spine. “The flat, square one. And lose your pants on the way.”

Your gasp escapes before you can stop it, your hands instinctively clutching at the waistband of your pajama pants.

He doesn’t budge, his expression firm, his gaze unwavering. “You heard me.”

The room feels colder as you move, your steps hesitant. The gravity of the moment weighs heavily with each step you take toward the bedroom. Your heart races as you reach for the brush, the smooth wood cool against your palm. Sliding your pajama pants down your legs, you feel your cheeks burn with a mixture of shame and anticipation. You decide to take off the sweater as well, knowing Shouta would have you sweating soon.

When you return to the living room, brush in hand and pants abandoned, Shouta’s eyes meet yours. His gaze softens slightly, a flicker of care visible beneath the stern exterior, but it does nothing to ease the butterflies raging in your stomach.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, gesturing for you to come closer. You obey silently, beyond arguing at this point. There would be no getting out of this, Shouta cares too much about you to let you get away with this. You hand over the brush and he places it on the arm of the couch, and then you fold yourself over his lap obediently. Without another word he folds your shirt up to expose the entirety of your backside, and places his hand on it, making you squirm with dread.

“Safeword?”

“Red” you whimper, accepting your fate.

He doesn't hesitate any longer, steadily applying his hand to your ass with all the restrained muscle of a pro hero, just hard enough to make sure you know exactly where you belong. The first few swats land on your bare ass, and you already want to start crying. And then he starts talking.

“Let's go through each unfortunate choice you made yesterday, shall we?” he says, and you try not to tense up at his disappointed tone.

“First, you disobeyed me when I specifically told you to stay in bed while you weren't feeling well, and second, you lied to me and said that you would be home for the night. Third, you disregarded yourself and your health, which we will be going into great detail about with the hairbrush.”

As he laid out your actions, your ass got steadily reddened, and the tears started falling against your will. You fisted the fabric of the couch and willed yourself not to squirm, knowing it would only make things worse for you.

Shouta’s voice was calm but carried the weight of unshakable authority, each word landing like a stone in your chest. “Do you think I asked you to stay home for no reason? That I ask you to listen to me for my own amusement?”

Your stomach churned at his tone, the disappointment in his voice far worse than any raised voice could have been.

“You trust me to know what’s best for you, and in turn, I trust you to be honest with me. I specifically told you to stay home, to rest and recover. Instead, I get a text from Hizashi that you’re out, you’re drinking, and completely ignoring what I asked of you. What if he hadn’t messaged me? What if I had come home to an empty house, no idea where you were, and no way to ensure you were safe?”

The image his words painted made your chest tighten with guilt. You could hear the strain in his voice, the quiet upset that cut deeper than anger ever could. You knew how much this dynamic meant to him—not just as a way to care for you, but as a source of reassurance in a life that was chaotic and dangerous. Being a pro-hero came with enough unpredictability; this was one area of his life he could keep steady.

Even with that realization weighing heavy on your chest, you couldn’t help it. Against your better judgment, a pouty response escaped your lips, soft and stubborn, laced with defiance that you immediately regretted.

“I was gonna be home before you got back—” The sharp crack of his hand meeting your thigh cut off your words with a yelp, the sting blooming as tears welled in your eyes. His hand rested firmly on the offended area, grounding you.

“That is not the point and you know it. You dont get to have a bratty attitude with me about this, or the hairbrush is going to be followed by a long time out in the corner for you to fix it. Am. I. Clear.”

“Yes- ‘m sorry, I'm sorry sir.” you cry, your face soaked and dripping onto the cushion.

“Hm. As I was saying, this will not be happening again. You misbehave, you get consequences. For the next two weeks, you will be in this house and in our bed by 9 p.m. sharp. If I’m not home, I expect a picture of you in bed, and then you will put your phone in my bedside table.”

The shame of his words was almost as unbearable as the sting still radiating from your thighs. You sobbed into the couch, mortified at the level of supervision he felt you required. “Yes, Daddy,” you whimpered, your voice hoarse.

“I am not playing about this,” he pressed on, his gaze unyielding. “If I find out you’ve stepped foot out of this apartment, you had better have a damn good reason—or you’ll find yourself right back here, no excuses. If you can’t take care of yourself on your own, I will do it for you.”

You nodded again, your sobs turning into shaky, uneven breaths. The shame was overwhelming, and yet you knew he wasn’t done.

As the spanks land, the force behind them pulls a sharp gasp from you, and each strike feels like a wave of guilt crashing over you. His words pierce through the haze of pain. "I think this way you might begin to understand how serious your actions are. His disappointment lingers in your chest, making it harder to breathe.

The spanks stopped for a moment, and you gasped, your body trembling as you tried to catch your breath. Shouta’s hands, firm and unyielding just moments ago, softened as they rubbed soothing circles on your spine. His voice, low and steady, cut through the haze of your tears.

“Breathe, baby. Take a few deep breaths,” he murmured, his tone no longer sharp but filled with an unyielding care that made your chest ache.

You hiccupped, following his instruction as you sucked in shaky gulps of air. The relief of his touch warred with the knowledge that this reprieve was temporary. Your breath finally evened out, and your tears slowed, but they didn’t stop.

“Good girl,” he said quietly, though there was no warmth in his praise—just a steady, measured approval for doing as you were told. His hand drifted to your shoulder, squeezing gently before he continued.

“Now,” he began, his tone sharp once more, “let’s discuss the way you’ve been treating your health.”

Your stomach churned, and your heart thudded as the words landed. His hand left your shoulder, and you braced yourself for what was to come, dread building with every passing second.

The hairbrush came down with a crack, the sound cutting through the room and drawing a pained cry from your lips. Shouta didn’t bother to shush you; the punishment was meant to leave a lasting impression, and he doesn't want you to hide where you are at emotionally. The strikes weren’t as rapid as the earlier flurry of his hands, but each one was deliberate, the wide, heavy impact sinking deep into your already tender skin.

You sobbed with each blow, your cries punctuating the rhythm he set.

“I will never, ever stand for you treating yourself the way you chose to last night.” His voice was calm, but the sharpness in his tone felt like another lash, hitting somewhere deeper than just your body. “You were sick- you are sick- and the fact that you thought you could just disregard that to go party makes me think you don’t understand how seriously I take your wellbeing. Not to mention how seriously I expect you to take it yourself.”

The hairbrush came down again, and you twisted slightly, though his firm grip kept you in place. The dull thud seemed to echo in your chest, a physical reminder of just how much you had messed up.

“Every part of you is important, mind and body,” he continued, the cadence of his strikes steady and unrelenting. “One of our biggest rules is that you don’t disrespect yourself, and you know very well I don’t just mean self-deprecating words. I expect you to take the same care for yourself when I’m gone that I do when I’m here.”

The words hit harder than the brush, and your quiet whimper turned into a full sob. His disappointment was unbearable, an ache in your chest that far outweighed the sting of your reddened skin.

“Clearly, you can’t be trusted to do so on your own,” he said, pausing for a moment to let his words sink in.

The tears streaking down your face weren’t just from the physical pain; they came from the overwhelming guilt of letting him down. You knew how much he valued self-care, and how hard he worked to instill that same value in you, even when he struggled to prioritize it for himself.

You sniffled, hiccuping through your tears, and a treacherous thought flitted through your mind. Hypocrite. He barely looked after himself most days. Your attitude almost made itself known again before the next blow snapped you out of your thoughts, and you yelped, realizing too late that the silence had stretched on too long.

“Every day until you are one-hundred percent better,” he said, his tone unyielding, “you’re going to sit at that table and write me fifty lines, telling me exactly how well you’re going to take care of yourself in the future.”

You let out a soft wail of protest at the thought, but he ignored it, leaning in to speak into your ear.

“And trust me, little girl, you do not want to have this discussion again.”

And then, as suddenly as it began, it was over. The punishing rhythm of the hairbrush ceased, and the room settled into a heavy, tear-soaked silence. Your sobs, however, remained steady, shaking your body as it lay slumped over his lap.

Shouta’s hands shifted, their movements no longer firm and corrective but gentle, smoothing up and down your back and thighs. He didn’t rush you, letting you cry as long as you needed, his presence grounding you even as your emotions spilled over.

When your cries softened to hiccups, he gently helped you upright, maneuvering you so you were straddling his lap. Your arms wrapped tightly around his neck as you buried your tear-streaked face into his shirt, soaking the fabric with every breathy sob. He didn’t mind; his arms held you just as tightly, encasing you in a protective warmth.

“Okay, kid,” he murmured, his lips brushing the crown of your head as he swayed you gently. “Alright, you’re okay now. I love you so much, baby.”

His voice was soft, full of love and patience, and it was that tenderness that finally cracked the dam inside you. The moment you had enough air in your lungs, you blurted out in a desperate rush:

“I’m so sorry, Daddy! I’m sorry I fucked up—I didn’t mean to! I just—I wanted—I’m just so, so sorry,” you wailed, clinging to him like a lifeline. The words poured out of you like water from a broken dam, each one carrying the weight of your regret. You weren’t just apologizing for the mistake, you were apologizing for letting him down, for making him feel like his care wasn’t enough to anchor you. The thought of betraying the trust he put in you made the tears fall faster.

“Oh, baby,” he said, his voice thick with emotion as he hugged you even closer. “Okay, okay. I know. Thank you, babygirl, I know you are. You’re forgiven now, okay? You did so good for me, you’re all forgiven.”

His words were a balm to your guilt, soothing and grounding you as you took shuddering breaths, gradually winding down. Your sobs quieted into occasional hiccups, and he gently tilted you back to examine your tear-streaked face. Shouta’s soft smile held no trace of the earlier sternness. He reached over, plucking a tissue from the side table, and methodically wiped away your tears, along with the snot and drool that added to your humiliation. He discarded the tissue without a second thought, his focus entirely on you.

“Let’s go take a bath, baby, clear up your sinuses,” he murmured, his voice warm and soothing. He hoisted you into his arms with ease and carried you to the bathroom, grabbing two towels along the way. Setting them on the counter, he gingerly placed you atop them, your seated position making you just a little taller than him. He stood between your legs, his hands resting gently on your thighs, and studied your face with concern.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice earnest and patient.

You took a moment to check in with yourself, cataloging the aches in your body, the tenderness in your emotions, and the lingering sting of your punishment. Eventually, you nodded and murmured, “Yeah, ‘m okay. I’m just really sorry.”

His brows furrowed slightly, a flicker of sadness crossing his features. Leaning up, he pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. “I know, sweetheart. I believe you.”

He didn’t push for more, understanding how fragile you felt. Instead, he gave you space, letting you sit quietly while he started filling the tub. The sound of water rushing against porcelain filled the room, and he quickly stripped down before helping you out of your oversized shirt. His movements were efficient but tender as if he were afraid to overwhelm you.

Once the tub was full, he climbed in first and extended a hand to guide you in, settling you between his legs with your back pressed firmly to his chest. The warm water enveloped you, and his arms encircled your middle, holding you close.

“There we go, my good girl,” he murmured into your hair, his breath warm against your temple. The praise made you shiver, the tension in your body melting away as you nestled further into his embrace.

“Always my good girl, no matter what,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. “I love you so much.”

His words wrapped around you like the heat of the water, comforting and secure, and you let yourself relax completely. This was where you belonged—wrapped in his love and care, forgiven and cherished.

#aizawa thirst #aizawa/reader #aizawa x reader #shouta aizawa x reader #daddy k!nk #daddy issues

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azsazz · 2 years ago

Text

Bloody Knuckles and the Songs of Death

Azriel x Reader

Summary: This lovely piece stemmed from me thinking about how SJM describes Azriel’s voice in the High Lord meeting as “cold death.” It got me thinking that if he’s cold death what if reader is warm death? She is the last hug someone receives before their soul is entrapped in death’s icy snare. She’s the last breath exiting someone’s lungs, the heat of the final exhale passing through their parted lips. She’s the heat of their blood as it spills through split skin and that warm hand cradling their hands as they bleed out.

Reader is everything that Azriel is not. Opposite feelings but equal death in the end.

AKA: Half a rewrite of chapters 43-47 of ACOWAR where reader is now there as part of the Autumn Court, excited to meet Azriel. The other half are my own ideas.

Warnings: Major themes of death, ACOWAR spoilers, blood, gore, mentions of abuse, smut.

Word Count: 1,987

Notes: Sorry about the long summary, but I felt it was necessary to help understand where this came from before reading it. Yes, this will be multiple parts :)

_________________________________________

The Vanserras are late. Undoubtedly and uncaringly late.

You don’t see why it matters, anyway. You certainly aren’t one to concern yourself with matters involved in other courts unless you’re asked. But when Eris had come to you with a request on behalf of the High Lord of the Autumn Court, to tag along to some High Lord’s meeting – the first in nearly three centuries – you could hardly contain the feral grin threatening to carve your face in two.

For you it is a chance to play.

The Vanserra family is silent as you’re escorted through the lavish halls of the Dawn Court.

It’s incredible, what you’ve seen so far, glimpses from the windows of the High Lord’s palace. Your first time to the solar court, and you drink in everything that you can. The cobalt sky tinged by the rosy pinks and creamy oranges, the remnants of sunrise long into the day, the edges of the low hanging clouds gilded with golden light. Dewey freshness lingers in the air, lush with the evocative scents of rain in the countryside, the weight of the summer nearly upon it.

Inhaling deeply, your eyelashes flutter as you listen to the clatter in the meeting room as you approach, your senses nearly overwhelmed by all of the different scents winding together. There’s the one you’re most familiar with, the crisp wind and singed spices of Autumn, but as you part your lips to taste the other aromas in the air, you pick out the subtle tinges of the rival courts: sandalwood and coconut oil from the Summer Court, seawater and clean clothes billowing in the breeze from Day. The overpowering perfume of vanilla that coats your throat thickly followed by the melancholic neutral cold breath that stings your lungs is most definitely the Winter Court.

And of course, the intoxicating night-chilled mist wafting from the Night Court fae, who sit up straighter in their chairs when you enter the room following Beron, his wife, and his sons.

But even sweeter than that, underneath all of the niche and savory odors, is the scent of life.

You see they’ve brought a whole committee, the Night Court. Unsurprising for their High Lord, who always has one of his pets do his bidding for him, not a wrinkle to be had to be put into his pressed suit if he had to help it. Why get all messy when he could have someone do it for him?

You. That is who you are to the Vanserras. Someone to torture and kill for information, just like his spymaster, minus the protective shadows hovering over his shoulders like warped darkness that follows you around at night, always watching and always listening.

The difference is…is that you love death.

You are death…in a way.

Just like him, who sits next to the cocksure commander of armies, behind his Lord and–Lady, you now realize as you catch sight of their clasped hands, the gleaming ring settled snugly around Feyre’s left ring finger, a matching one on Rhysand’s.

Your gaze travels across them in an instant, and theirs over you. There’s a shift as they assess you, in line with Eris, following closely behind Beron and Amaretto. Perhaps they think you’re Eris’ mate. That would surely be something, you think. You can practically see the gears grinding in their minds as they scramble to figure out who you are, and you know it’s because no one has ever seen you before, Beron wouldn’t ever let someone close enough to recognize you.

You recognize the familiar glazed look they get over their eyes when they speak into each other’s minds, and then there’s a caress of claws inside of your head, gentle at first, but a slash when it’s met with nothing but resistance, your walls reinforced over years of practice. It’s a warning, a scare tactic, but you are anything but intimidated by the Night Court High Lord and his comrades.

You commit everything to memory in the quick once over you give, eyes eager to settle back upon the shadowisnger. The jeweled crown upon Feyre’s head, the female behind her with the near-matching facial structure. Lovely Mor is here, too, going stock still as her chocolatey gaze locks on Eris before she’s looking anywhere but.

Your mouth twitches into a wry smirk that the spymaster immediately zeroes in on, clenching his hands where they’re settled on his knees, his gaze fiery and his siphons flickering.

Azriel, the male who separates souls from bodies without so much as a grimace, a blink, a quiver to his perfectly straight lips.

He is breathtaking in more ways than one. The sharpness of his golden gaze as he glares at you from his seat, like he’s ready to wreak death upon you with those large, icy, massacred hands just itching to wrap around your warm throat, watch the light drain from your pretty eyes, the color empty from your lips, face, your body going slack in his grasp.

His wings. They look how you’d imagine an angel’s would, if they had betrayed the Mother and had been touched by flame, the delicate and purely white feathers singed and burnt from the skin and bones beneath, much like the pink and puckered scars adorning his fingers to his wrists.

The Reaper.

The Taker of Death.

But you are the Bringer of Death. The warmth of it all. The last hug one receives before the Reaper swoops their soul into his icy snare. You are the last breath exiting one’s lungs, the heat of that final exhale plating their parted lips. You’re the swelter of their blood as it spills through split skin and the burning one feels in their heart when they realize they’re in love and that searing in their stomachs when they feel sick.

You are everything that he is not. Opposites in feeling but equals in the end.

To you, death is a beautiful thing. Intriguing, evoking, fascinating.

To Azriel, death is anything but. A finite solution to seek information. Routine and cold and inevitable and lonely.

The violence simmering off of the Night Court party as you enter through the archway is not new, their harsh stares a reminder that you need to be alert, on your game, not itching with intrigue about the male you’d heard so much about.

Autumn Court’s presence alone is enough to make the Peregryns feathers ruffle, the remaining sons sneering at the Court with the most strained ties. The Vanserra offspring are a rowdy bunch, you’ve known that for centuries, have often been on the other side of the leer Pyrolas sends to Cresseida, earning a flash of teeth in warning from Varian.

Beron doesn’t bother to check them. Perhaps he likes having most of the other courts dislike him, letting his kin do as they please like half-wild beasts.

But Eris cares, a sweet soul trapped in a tainted family, of that you know. He is the one you prefer, the most emotionally intelligent, even if only in private. Your best friend, the one you’d run to after a long day of working for his father, someone who understands and you trust with any secret, with your life.

“Enough,” Eris murmurs and his younger brothers finally fall into line. All three of them; Pyrolas, Oakland, and Foxe.

Beron stops halfway across the room, hands folded before him. Even from where you’re positioned behind you know that he’s scowling at the Night Court attendees like they’re a pack of mongrels.

He is the oldest here, and the most awful, something that you and all of the other Courts can agree on.

Rhysand greets the Vanserras smoothly, eyes drifting over you as if you aren’t even there, though you know that he’s seen a lot with that fluttering glance. His power is heavy in the air, a silent rumble that serves as a reminder of the magic coursing through his veins.

As if he’d ever let anyone forget it.

“It’s no surprise that you’re tardy, given that your own sons were too slow to catch my mate. I suppose it runs in the family.”

Beron’s lips curl slightly as he looks her over, at the onyx clad crown settled upon her head.

“Mate–and High Lady.”

You had to give it to Feyre. You’ve seen many balk from Beron’s hot stare more times than you can count, but she looks everything that Rhysand has just said, High Lady, as she sits in her chair as if she’s the one running all of the overinflated egos in the room, spine straight, chin high, and face neutral in the same way that Azriel’s is.

She turns her gaze to each of Beron’s sons. Eris smiles, amused and aloof before Feyre’s sharp gray eyes flicker to you.

If Eris is smiling, you’re practically glowing, eager to see where this meeting will go, if you’ll get to play or not. Your power thrums beneath your skin, a fervent buzz begging to be unleashed.

The red siphon-clad warrior watches Eris like a hawk studying its next meal. Eris deigns a glance at the Illyrian general and inclines his head in invitation, subtly patting his stomach. Ready for round two.

You stifle the urge to roll your eyes at your friend. He’d told you all about what had happened on that ice when he and his brothers were chasing the female they hadn’t known was the High Lady of the Night Court, animatedly telling you of the battle you wished you’d been there to witness, and grumbling through the parts of the story when the Illyrian had landed a hit on him as you dabbed at his wounds with a healing salve.

You’d even been there to hold him when he whispered so softly about his youngest brother that you were half sure he was delusional from blood loss or that you hadn’t even heard.

You cringe when Eris’ attention shifts to Mor, knowing all about what transpired between the two centuries ago. His caramel gaze sweeps over her with a disdain that makes Feyre’s eyes narrow in anger.

The blonde only stares blankly at him. Bored.

You bite back the twitch of your lips and notice Viviane doing the same.

So more than just a few of you know what had been done.

Azriel sits so still in his chair you aren’t sure the stone-faced male is even breathing as you sit in your chair to Eris’ left, settling into the plush cushion that faces the Night Court members.

Thesean, your Dawn Court host, begins. “Rhysand, you have called this meeting. Pushed us to gather sooner than we intended. Now would be the time to explain what is so urgent.”

Rhysand takes his time, blinking slowly before he responds, “Surely the invading armies landing on our shores explain enough.”

“So you have called us to do what, exactly?” Helion challenges, bracing his forearms on his muscled, gleaming thighs. “Raise a unified army?”

“Among other things,” Rhys says mildly, in a way that irks you. If he has such pressing matters then why isn’t he getting to the point? “We–”

His words falter as power crackles through the chamber. Everyone falls silent and the scent of spring prickles your nostrils, evading your senses as it sweeps through the room on a pollen-filled gust. Something about it is too sweet, too flowery, too potent, nearly choking you as the beast himself prowls in through the doors, later than your court had been.

Tamlin.

He enters the room alone, like a crack of lightning, winnowing into the chamber, gaze directed at Feyre, smiling like a wolf.

You and Eris share a glance, his face impassive, cool, but you catch the amusement glittering in his copper gaze, the slight curve of his mouth as the air drains from the room and the shields surrounding every High Lord and their courtiers locks into place.

#azriel x reader #azriel/reader #acowar #acotar #acomaf #acosf #azriel #azsazz

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inked-night · 6 months ago

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At the precise moment Ellenia slipped through the crowd, leaving a trail of floral perfume and polite murmurs, the smile painted on Freya’s face vanished like mist at dawn. Her expression transformed into a grimace of disgust so pronounced it might have been carved in stone. Beside her, Rudbeckia de Borgia, Izek’s betrothed, held a wine glass with the grace of a lady… or so it seemed.

"I'll be frank, Rudbeckia" Freya began, her voice as sharp as a knife's edge. "I don’t think you’re the right match for Izek"

Rudbeckia, who had been in a contemplative silence (Well, she was actually evaluating the salon curtains, finding them excessively ornate to the point of bad taste), was forced to focus on the young woman with purple eyes. 'Is she talking to me?' She wondered, pointing at herself in a gesture so belated it almost showed dust settling.

Looking back, Rudbeckia’s life had always been a carousel of the absurd (She had spent her days dying and reviving in an endless cycle to appease The Entity! Of course her sense of normality had twisted like a pretzel!), but even she had to admit this latest turn of events was perplexing.

Just hours earlier, she was in the realm of Haddonfield, playing cat and mouse with that scoundrel Michael Myers (The rascal kept trying to impale Illyana on a hook!), while her companions, Cale, Shen Jiu, and Penelope, busied themselves repairing the last generator…

How had she ended up being catapulted to another world that, by some cosmic joke, turned out to be her first life? Not that she had memories of it, but still, who was the genius who brought her back? And why had they separated her from her beloved girlfriend and comrades?

Illyana, this poor Rudbeckia misses you! But fear not, Rudbeckia will find a way back to you.

"Do you think that because Izek treats you kindly, you deserve to marry him?" Freya spat the words with venom so subtle it almost floated in the air, while she poked Rudbeckia’s chest, hoping to provoke tears or at least a grimace of pain on her unperturbed face.

"Marry?" Rudbeckia blinked, surprised by the mention of such a commitment. Her mind, usually drifting in a state of blissful intoxication by the presence of her attractive girlfriend, accelerated at a dizzying speed. She opened and closed her mouth several times, trying not to appear completely clueless, though she was known to be slower than a snail in an obstacle race when it came to matters unrelated to Illyana. "Why would I marry anyone other than my precious, magnificent, and adorable Lyna?" The response came automatically, with a tone of indignation suggesting that the mere idea was blasphemous (And this coming from someone who had at one point shared blood ties with Myers).

Marry some Izek in this life? Never! Rudbeckia was resolutely loyal to Illyana. She had dreamed of her ideal wedding with Illyana more than once. Lyna, dressed in white, adorned with the most dazzling jewels in the world, and Rudbeckia, crying tears of joy, would cling to her future wife’s waist as she dramatically fell to the ground, overwhelmed by the honor of being loved by Lyna. Rudbeckia would try to kiss the ground Lyna walked on, but she, as benevolent as a saint, would pull her up by the hair (Yes, yes!) to calm her, patting her back and giving her looks full of sweetness and affection.

"W-What?"Freya froze at Rudbeckia’s torrent of words, unable to fully process what she had just heard. "Are you mocking me?" She retorted, gripping her fan so tightly the ribs creaked. "Who the hell is Lyna?"

"My future wife!" Rudbeckia proclaimed with such vehemence it seemed she had opened the floodgates of a dam that everyone (Cale, Shen Jiu, and Penelope) had decided to keep locked with padlocks and possibly tons of cement. The passion and love Rudbeckia felt for Illyana were so intense and cheesy they bordered on exasperating. "The woman for whom I would give my life! No, forget that, if anything happened to Lyna, I would raze this unworthy world to ashes and then join her in death"

Rudbeckia loved talking about her girlfriend. She could spend hours, entire days, rambling about any detail of Illyana, to the point it was worrisome how she could speak nonstop without taking a breath in those moments when you had the misfortune to ask her about 'Lyna'.

Cale thought Rudbeckia had a problem… but Rudbeckia had no problem! Nothing in this universe was worth or as fascinating as Illyana! Rudbeckia was born to adore that precious, ethereal woman!

"No, wait…" Freya didn’t expect to stutter, but she also didn’t expect this young woman, daughter of a conservative and devoutly Church-going family, to speak so rapidly about a woman, whom she described as: 'The Goddess of Goddesses, before whom all should bow and feel grateful if Illyana ever glanced at them!' "Stop… Are you even breathing!?"

"Look, look, I have pictures of her!" Rudbeckia, ignoring Freya’s frantic attempts to stop her, pulled out a wallet from nowhere (Do wallets exist in this world? No? Luckily, Rudbeckia always carries hers, filled with photographs she took with the full consent of her beautiful albino!) and unfolded it, showing images of an albino woman with long, wavy hair, vibrant fuchsia eyes, and soft features that seemed to hold all the calm and patience of the universe.

Freya could only watch in horror as the object extended to touch the floor, and not only that, she was sure the wallet had wrapped around a nearby column. What kind of sorcery was that!?

"And what about Izek!?" Freya tried to regain some ground against Rudbeckia’s verbal onslaught.

"Who needs that Izek fellow?" Rudbeckia paused her monologue for a moment, looking at Freya as if she was the one who didn’t understand anything. A smile lit up her face, almost glowing, forcing Freya to squint. (Freya could swear she even saw hearts floating around Rudbeckia!). "I was born by my mother, and I will die for Illyana, preferably being suffocated between her thighs"

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stardust-swan · 12 days ago

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Lalla Malika and Perfume ✨🪻💜

Perfume is perhaps the best known attribute of Lalla Malika, so much so that she is called "The Lady of Perfume."

But what's so important about perfume?

Well, Malika is an Arab spirit, and perfume and fragrance is important in Arab culture. And Malika in a sense is a personification of everything considered glamorous, beautiful and feminine in Moroccan culture - ornate kaftans and takchitas, detailed henna designs, gold jewellery, delicate sweets and pastries, elegant home decor, beauty products and hammam routines, and of course perfume.

In Morocco, perfume and fragrance have a high status. Incense, bakhour, candles, potpourri and musk are used to scent the home, while scented oils, creams, musk, herbs, attar and perfume is used to scent the body. Dating back to ancient times, fragrance has played a key role in beautification in Morocco. According to The Scent Trail by Celia Lyttelton, the master perfumer Serge Lutens observed of Moroccan perfumery:

As he watched the way the Moroccans perfumed everything, from their mint tea to their clothes and from their houses to their food, he had begun to think quite differently about perfume and thus about the making of scent. He told me that the Moroccans had made him an essential oil of cedarwood, which, I got the impression, made him very proud.

In Morocco they burn essences to make entire rooms perfumed, and very rich families actually eat perfume: they put a grain of musk in hot milk in the mornings and drink it, so that their whole body smells of scent from within—the body creates the perfume with just a petit grain of musk.

Not only that, but it has a connection to Islam. Good scents are associated with cleanliness, which is important in Islam, and perfume and incense plays and essential role in celebrations and gatherings in Islamic countries, ranging from Eid to weddings. The Prophet himself was known to be fond of perfumes and fragrances, and Islamic countries made significant contributions to the art of perfumery.

So Lalla Malika, who is connected to Islam, with one of her names even referring to the Hajj, and who embodies femininity, beauty, and abundance, naturally has a strong association with perfume and fragrance. One person said about her, "her spirit is like perfume."

How Much Does She Like Perfume?

I cannot stress how much she adores perfume. She's commonly described as smelling very good and leaving a pleasant scent trail behind her, and not only does she enjoy personally using perfume, but she demands her devotees wear it too, whether male or female. It's also an important part of rituals for her, and a must-have offering.

What's Her Favourite Scent?

She's mainly associated with lunar oud (oud qamari) and pure musk, which are arguably the most prized scents in Morocco, befitting of someone with such a high status. She's also been described as smelling of amber and fragrant flowers. Multiple sources say she enjoys both European and Arab colognes. Her favourite incense is described here.

What Perfumes Should I Offer?

Sources tend to emphasize that one should offer "branded" perfume, which is to say high quality perfumes from reputable brands. Perfumes from both Arab and European houses get offered, ranging from inexpensive brands like Asdaaf, Ard Al Zaafaran, and Lattafa, to more expensive brands like Versace, Dior, Mugler, Tom Ford and Gucci. They don't have to break the bank but they should be new and in good condition. It's not necessary but devotees often give perfumes in purple bottles or packaging as it's her favourite colour. Body sprays and mists are sometimes offered too.

How Is Perfume Offered?

If making a small offering, present a bottle of perfume on a tray along with some incense, some food, and a piece of jewellery. If going to a celebration, the perfume you give will be placed on one section of a table which only has perfume (and maybe beauty products) or on a tray with a selection of other perfumes which will will then be placed on the table in a ritual procession set to music.

Ritual Use of Perfume

Attendees of her taifūr will spray themselves and eachother with liberal amounts of perfume. They also sprinkle eachother with rosewater and orange blossom water, and burn incense, which is often used to scent their hair (holding it above the smoke so the smell clings).

Should I Wear Perfume?

Well, if you're a devotee, then yes, it's required. It doesn't matter if you're female or male, if you are devoted to her, you will wear perfume or cologne. Like Lalla Malika herself, her devotees are known for smelling good and leaving a scent trail wherever they go.

They have a special relationship with perfume, and it works differently on them than on most people. Perfumes that smell normal on most people smell strong on them, even after only using a small spray. Perfumes that are known not to last long will last for hours on them.

They are the kinds who always have incense burning in the house (and probably scent their clothing and hair with the smoke), who use rosewater and scented oils and creams after their hammam, and spray perfume first thing in the morning and last thing at night.

I heard that the perfume you wear needs to be changed every year even if it's still fresh but YMMV on that as it was just what one person said. The same person claims it's better if the perfume is mauve, and mauve (or purple) perfumes are commonly offered.

If you can't afford expensive cologne, it doesn't matter; she will provide for her followers. Keep her in nice offerings and she'll return them to you tenfold.

Examples of perfume offerings: 1, 2

#lalla malika #witchblr

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pinkmarmalade1 · 8 months ago

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Things to script for your PJO Drs!

1. That you either don't get attacked by a monster on the way to camp or you for sure defeat it

I feel like some people don't realize how many Demigods don't even get to camp due to this

2. That you have some sort of flashy ability that you were born with

I say this because then it kinda forces your Godly parent to claim you. Also, it's freaking cool to just be able to show up to camp and be like, "Hey, I just got here and I can do this!"

An example would be like, if you are a child of Lady Demeter, you can make plants grow

Or if your a child of Lady Iris, you are like abnormally fast

3. You were born an abnormal way

Kinda like how Lady Athena's kids are born from her thoughts mixing with a mortal's thoughts. This would be very good if you just so happen to be the child of a maiden Goddess. I feel like there are many creative ways to go about this

4. Your protected from being cursed

For obvious reasons, *cough* Lady Juno *cough* Frank

5. You know your way around camp

It will shock you how big camp is

6. You have a relationship with your Godly parent

Or maybe that your just their favorite Demigod child. Perks of being a minor God's child is that there aren't many of you, so you naturally have a close connection to your parent 😉

7. Your somehow protected from monsters when you leave camp

Because you gotta stay safe! Here are some ideas I can think of...

If your a child of Lady Hecate, obviously you can just hide yourself from monsters using the mist or a spell or something

If your a child of Lady Aphrodite, perhaps she gifted you with magic perfume that throws off your scent

If your a child of Lord Hypnos, maybe you tend to make monsters fall asleep mid attack or make them feel so lazy they no longer want to attack you

If your a child of Lord Hades or Lord Thanatos(Like me!), you could just have a very intense aura that makes monsters less likely to want to attack you. Since both Deities have ties with death, that could just cause monsters to become hesitant or intimidated

Okay! That's all for this one, I have some other things on my script aswell so I might make a part two! Happy shifting!

#percy jackson #pjo hoo toa #pjo #demigods #scriptwriting #reality shifting #camp half blood #ideas #percy jackon and the olympians

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fadedlovemp3 · 6 days ago

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are there any fragrances or perfumes that are really gentle for those of us who have a super strong sense of smell 🎤

noa cacherel is my personal rec for winter! its a very cold smelling white musk floral with a hiiiint of peach you get every so often. i used to wear it to lectures in college bc its light and wouldn't choke anyone out. its also quite cheap so it was one of my first buys for myself :')

you by glossier if you don’t mind a hint of patchouli it's like thee skin scent rec you'll see pop up a lot. light and gentle and the bottle is very trendy and glossier-esque.

a lot of things from CLEAN perfumes are going to be up your alley i think. i've only smelled fresh linens, but it smells like white dresses on a clothesline drying in the sun. it was pretty delightful to my memory. you might like soft laundry, skin, or the clean reserve skin from them as well. i think sephora carries CLEAN so you could go smell some of those irl and get an idea of them!

the body shop white musk is going to be verrryyy light, inoffensive, and linear. the issue is it has very little lasting power BUT it is going to be cheap so swings and roundabouts. the alternative is another cheapie, the og vintage version, which is jovan white musk. some people say it's the ultimate bar of white soap scent and others say smells like an old lady so....grain of salt lol

would also say maybe donna karan cashmere mist? some people comment it smells like old people lol but its a very soft musky scent and you could take a look at the flankers as well

when it comes to luxury scents i would probably say a drop d' issey issey miyake and maybe ocean di gioia from Giorgio armani? some of the margiela scents would probably be good too but i have beef with the replica line because they are so fucking weeakkkkk and if im paying 100+ for a bottle then it better have more lasting power than that lmao

i hope that has given you some stuff to research/think about! and ofc you can always check in at fragrantica if you want to see basically every possible opinion on a scent lmao

#thank you mic anon for ur patience lol #asks

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darklydeliciousdesires · 1 year ago

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Immortal Beloved - Chapter Nine.

A warm, heartfelt thank you to my readers for your continued engagement :)

Previous chapters - Prologue One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight

Tag list - In the comments

Words - 4,140

Warnings - 18+ only. Adult themes + vampire content throughout. Minors DNI!

“And so, I says to this fella, I says, right, listen here, mate! Any more out of you and you’ll be shitting your bloody teeth for a week, and you’ll never believe what he says to me, John. I tell ya now, you’ll never believe it, son. He stands there, right, fag dangling from his mouth, and he says to me...”

John didn’t give a damn what the fellow in question had said as they stood guarding the front gates of Bryn’s home, gladly watching the sun beginning to sink in the sky. From the first moment, he’d asked Tommy never to pair him with Mickey Two Suits, begged him, in fact, and what had his brother done?

…"so, there we are, right, having a scrap about it and then suddenly, this fucking umbrella comes flying out of nowhere! And it’s only the fella’s old dear, ain’t it, giving him a clobbering and dragging him home by his ear! I says to our Wilf, I says ‘eh, look at that! Thinks he’s hard enough to have a go at a Blinder and it’s his mom who has to run in and save his arse!’ What a night, John. Ya should have been there!”

“Mickey...”

“...and we went had a good ole’ knees up after, we did. Drank the Red Lion right out of whiskey that night, and you ain’t heard the best part yet, pal!”

“Mickey, will...”

“So, the landlord has this great, big Irish Wolfhound, right, and this group of lads are...”

“Two Suits! Holy fucking shit, will you shut up!” John’s exasperated tones matched his wide eyes, shaking his head. “Christ you don’t half yammer on, mate!”

Mickey pinked at the cheeks a little to have been – although lightly – admonished by one of his bosses, muttering his apologies and lighting a cigarette. He lasted all of twenty seconds.

“So, we off for a few Christmas Eve drinks up the pub once your lady wakes up? Christmas Eve at The Garrison, ain’t nothing like it, is there? Do you remember that one year when... bloody hell!”

This time, though, Mickey’s no doubt lengthy spiel was interrupted by a sight that made John’s heart flutter, Bryn suddenly appearing before them. “No, Mickey. John and I are to depart for Warwickshire, to a party hosted by Tommy and the lovely Grace.”

John had wondered how well Grace would take to Bryn, but after introducing them for the first time just three days before, he’d found the women had a very natural chemistry with one another. He was also pleased – for Tommy more than himself – that it had encouraged Polly to warm towards his soon-to-be sister-in-law a little more as well, since he and Grace were to be married in the New Year.

His aunt was not quick to warm to any women who came into the lives of her beloved nephews, especially not if she had good reason not to trust them, just as she’d had with both Grace and Bryn. For the latter, though, it had melted as soon as she’d seen something of herself within his ancient vampire lover, a woman who’d had her children torn from her, a woman whose pain she understood all too well.

Leaving Mickey to trudge down to the bus stop and travel back to Small Heath, John and Bryn went inside, the former pouring himself a whiskey while Bryn readied herself for the evening. She was affixing tiny little pearl adorned pins into her hair when he ventured into the bedroom, kissing her bare shoulder as she sat at her vanity.

“I thought you lot weren’t meant have a reflection.”

Him and that flipping novel he’d taken it upon himself to read. She rolled her eyes, turning to press her lips to his cheek. “Not everything Bram Stoker claims about us is true, you know.” Picking up her perfume, she spritzed herself liberally, the scent misting over her pale skin. “Although I must confess, being able to turn myself into a bat would be useful. If for nothing else than to retreat from awkward social situations.”

“Yeah,” he hummed, swirling the amber contents of his glass, “don’t think I’d fancy you half as much as a flying rodent. Maybe a bit still, like, but not as much as usual.”

Her look of incredulity had him tipping his head back, his laughter filling the room. “You are disgusting, John Shelby!”

“Still laughing though, ain’t ya!” Indeed, she was. His uncouthness, lack of filter and penchant for being completely inappropriate never ceased to entertain her. Truly, she had never met anybody like her darling John. She shook her head, picking up her kohl pencil and beginning to smoke her eyes sultry black. A little mascara and a twist of rouge to her cheeks and she was finished, speedily packing the rest of what she needed for their stay at Arrow House and whizzing down to the car to place her cases in, John going to ready Katie.

The child had been spending more time with him at Bryn’s since school had finished for Christmas, being cared for during the day by Bettie until Bryn awoke and spent time with her before bed. It had warmed his heart hugely to witness their bond forming, Katie furnishing the Christmas tree with her help, overhearing the bedtime stories his love would recite to her, the old Norse sagas his daughter loved to hear. Katie’s bedtime upon their arrival at Tommy’s house was no different.

“The crow went flying toward the North, croaking as she flew, “Let Hela keep what she holds. Let Hela keep what she holds.” That crow was the hag Thaukt transformed, and the hag Thaukt was Loki.

“He flew to the north and came into the wastes of Jötunheim. As a crow he lived there, hiding himself from the wrath of the Gods. He told the giants that the time had come for them to build the ship Naglfar, the ship that was to be built out of the nails of dead men, and that was to sail to Asgard on the day of Ragnarök with the giant Hrymer steering it...”

Standing in silent watch through the crack in the door, John smiled widely as Bryn recited a fairytale about Loki, Norse god of mischief to his spellbound daughter, the covers pulled up to her chin, Bryn’s hands gesturing as she spoke of the tale. At her core, she was such a natural mother, something within her so strongly maternal. The thought had never crossed his mind back when he’d first begun his courtship with her, but truly, she was everything Katie needed.

She was everything he needed, too.

“Now that’s a look of love if ever I saw one.”

At hearing Polly’s whisper, he turned, grin still fixed firmly in place as his cheeks coloured a little bit at being caught staring so adoringly at the scene. “She’s only known her just under three weeks and she dotes on that little girl as if she were her own.” Walking away from the bedroom, he pulled a cigarette out, lighting up. “Ain’t what you thought she was, is she?”

Polly lifted her chin, her eyes narrowing a fraction. “I don’t like to concede, but you’re right. She isn’t. Brynhild has surprised me with her nature. I never forget what she is, but I’m getting to know that what she is isn’t all she is.” Reaching for his face, she stroked his cheek, laying a pecked kiss upon the other. “I’m pleased for you, love. You look very happy.”

He smiled again, his handsome features lighting up the dim glow coming from the bedroom. “I am, Pol. Might not have been long, but I am.”

“Come on.” Opening her arm, she draped it around his shoulders, steering him down the corridor in the direction of the stairs. “Let’s go get drunk and eat too much food, have a good ole’ knees up.”

Walking down into the throng of people milling around the welcome hall, the mix of guests were mostly business, both legitimate and not so, family and friends, servers carrying trays of drinks and food, the laughter and chatter filling the spruce-scented air. John was just reaching for a whiskey when he felt a cool hand slip into his, Bryn arriving with him, taking a champagne flute from a passing member of the wait staff.

“How does it feel?”

“How does what feel, my darling?” she asked, pressing herself close to him as he released her hand, wrapping an arm around her instead.

“To be the most beautiful woman in the room?”

She sipped her champagne, eyeing him with a twinkle there in the hypnotic blue of her irises. “Oh, you presume yourself to be so very charming!”

His smirk widened. “Are you charmed?”

“I am,” she hummed.

“Then I’m fucking charming.” He kissed her head, his arm tightening around her. “Tell me about what underwear you’ve got on under that dress.”

“You know my thoughts towards underwear, my love,” she purred, kissing his cheek as they moved through the guests. “I don’t like anything that gets in the way of your mouth.”

A bolt shot through him, John closing his eyes for a moment. Opening them, he pulled himself back from the haze of lust to be greeted by an oncoming business associate, fellow bookmaker Kenneth Thompson.

“John! Good evening to you and your fine lady, here! How are you keeping?”

While he and her love got into conversation about the next race meets of the New Year, Bryn found herself beckoned over by Grace and Polly, gliding over through the throng of guests. It was as a young server passed her by that she caught the faintest whiff of it, a smell her nose never failed to detect. Her eyes snapped to the back of the redheaded girl’s neatly pinned tresses, watching her move from guest to guest.

“You’re on alert,” Polly noted when she arrived with them, seeing how Bryn suddenly appeared much less casual in demeanour. “What is it?” Although not knowing her for long, she’d familiarised herself with how the vampire carried herself, the minute changes within her normally quite stoic disposition. Polly Gray well understood when it paid to be observant.

“That girl,” Bryn began, pointing with her champagne flute. “Grace, how new is she within your employment? Also, is she local?”

“Very new,” she confirmed, her eyes following the cold, hard stare of her vampire friend’s eyes. “Everybody is, though. With us only officially moving in recently, the staff were hired just over a week ago. As for where she’s from, Tyneside according to her references. Why do you ask?”

“Thought I recognised her locally. I must be mistaken.” she lied, giving Polly a look that she read instantly. Tommy hadn’t filled in Grace over everything regarding Bryn, other than to obviously keep what she was well under her hat. Initially, she hadn’t believed him at all, laughing away under the impression that he was having her on upon their first meet. When Bryn had proved it by popping her fangs, she’d almost fallen out of her chair.

With Grace called away to continue playing gracious hostess, Polly moved Bryn into the corner of the room away from earshot of the other partygoers. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“That girl,” she began, her eyes flitting away to follow her before they snapped back to Polly. “She does not bathe often, for not only do I detect a fine scent of body odour, but I also smell Rasmussen on her. It is faint, but present.”

“You’re fucking joking me,” she hissed, eyes scanning the room. “I’ll get John and Tommy, let’s get this sorted.”

Immediately, Bryn gripped her arm. “No, no, Polly. We need not involve the men just yet. Let me watch her. Act as you normally would, begin to laugh at everything I’m saying.”

Polly’s faux, yet believable chuckle filled the air, Bryn affixing a huge smile to her face before launching into a real story, all the while watching the girl as she flitted from guest to guest. For all intents and purposes, they were having a wonderful Christmas Eve, with no suspicions over any infiltration to their circle.

Every so often, the serving girl’s eyes would find Bryn, studying her in confirmation of this, the vampire feeling her entire being hum on high alert. As soon as she exited the welcome hall, Bryn moved to follow her, ducking speedily into the shadows as she stalked her, the girl looking as if she was heading back down to the kitchen.

There was a pantry just to the side of the grand kitchen, a designated space where the butler would keep track of the household provisions at a small desk and put in the orders at the grocery, baker and butcher on a twice-weekly basis, Bryn remaining concealed from sight as the girl quietly made her way inside. She was just about to enter after her when John and Polly appeared.

“Oi, don’t you look at me like that, Brynhild,” Polly whispered sternly, noting the displeasure she was viewed with. “Wasn’t me who said anything.”

“She’s right, love” John spoke, touching a hand to her shoulder. “It was me who felt it.”

Of course, he would. John Shelby had so much of her blood travelling through his veins at that point, he might as well have called himself Brynhild Mark Two. Holding a finger to her lips, Bryn listened, hearing the serving girl make her request to the telephone exchange. Rasmussen.

Bingo.

“Mr Rasmussen, I hope I am not disturbing you.”

Before John or Polly knew it, Bryn was gone from before them, the butler’s pantry door flung open, both striding in to find the telephone cable pulled from the socket and a snarling Bryn pressing the girl down onto the desk by her throat.

“How much did he pay you to infiltrate?” she growled, her fangs bared, the girl shaking in fright as she found herself at the very wrong end of a powerful vampire’s temper.

“I-I d-d-don't know w-what you...”

“Oh, bloody spare us!” Polly exclaimed, closing the door behind them. “You can’t fool a nose like hers. She smelled them on you.”

“B-but I-I...”

Bryn’s gripped tightened. “I said, how much, child?”

“T-ten p-pounds.”

A lot of money for a girl who she estimated likely earned less than a third of that a week. “I will pay you treble that to call him back right now and tell him that I am not among the Shelby family. For I know that is why you are here. As my friend just stated, I can smell them on you.” She shook her head, her nose crinkling. “Poor, unfortunate girl. Perhaps if you bathed more often, you might have been successful.”

Nodding through her shakes, she felt on the verge of wetting her knickers in fear, watching the vampire as she looked to her companions. “Darling, plug the telephone back in.”

John nodded, eyeing the girl with distaste, Bryn going into her small clutch bag and pulling out three ten-pound notes. “Here. I will pay you this to deliver the message. That is all you have to do. Do you understand?”

“I-I do.”

Bryn beamed, but her smile carried not a trace of warmth to it. “Good.”

With the phone reconnected, the girl tucked her money into her neat little apron, taking the receiver and once again requesting the correct name to the exchange.

“Helen, we were cut off before. Now, what do you have for us, pet?” Edward asked upon answering, the girl not able to drag her eyes away from Bryn, shaking with fright at the faint sound of her rumbling warning growl.

“I’m afraid I have nothing.” She swallowed hard, taking a deep breath. “The woman you described is not within the guests. Just about everybody else notable is, but not any women with dark hair and a tattooed throat and chest, I’m afraid, sir.”

“Stick around, she mightn't have arrived yet. Like we said, it might be another. Sounds daft, love, but look out for people who are paler than usual, and who don’t eat or drink with quite the same gusto as others do, like.”

“Shall do, sir. I will report back tomorrow evening.” With that, the call ended, Helen finding herself on the receiving end of three very angry looking people. Well, only two were people. “What do I tell him tomorrow?”

“As long as it doesn’t involve anything to do with vampires being around the family, tell him whatever the fuck you like,” John spoke, moving to impose himself before her, reaching into his pocket to pull out his knife. “And if you do fucking breathe a word about her to anyone, we will find out, and bab, you don’t want to know what I’ll fucking do to ya. We clear?”

With a cold blade pressed against her cheek and the even colder glare of a vampire upon her, Helen nodded. “I shan’t say anything. I’ll just tell him there wasn’t any here. I promise, just please don’t hurt me.”

Returning the knife to his pocket, he patted her cheek with his hand. “Good girl. Now, go up and pack your bags. Now.”

“No.” Halting her with a splayed hand to her chest, Bryn stood in her path, shaking her head as she looked to John. “We must ensure she makes that call, John. If she doesn’t, then they will deduce that I am here and have dealt with her.”

She was right. “What do you plan on doing to her?”

Bryn pondered his statement for all of five seconds. “Fetch me some rope. We tie her to a chair in here and tell no one to enter. Then we come down here again at sundown tomorrow, let her make her call and escort her from the premises.”

“And what the fuck are we meant to tell the serving staff, why they can’t come in here all of a sudden?” he asked, perplexed.

Shaking her head in bafflement, a frown of light incredulity creased her forehead. “Darling, you run both legitimate and cooked books for a living; you’re better at mathematics than most of the fucking Arabs who created it. You’re also a goddamned Shelby, lying is in your nature. Do not tell me such mental calculus is beyond you.” Her eyebrows continued to rise, gesticulating wildly with her free hand. “Bloody make something up!”

Polly couldn’t keep the smile from her face at how Bryn had both managed to praise and admonish him at the exact same time, especially watching John not know whether to be annoyed or enamoured by the crisply delivered statement from his lady.

“I ain’t sure if I want to fuck you or slap you right now.”

“I’ll let you do both later,” she winked, nodding towards the door. “Rope. Now.” As soon as he left the pantry, Polly was in soft fits.

“Oh, my giddy aunt!” she snorted, lighting herself a cigarette while Bryn pushed a still terrified, but complacent Helen down into the wooden chair behind the desk. “Seeing you run circles around my bloody nephew like that is the only Christmas present I’ll need this year.”

Bryn smirked, taking Helen’s hand and popping her fangs, forcing the young woman’s finger to her mouth and piercing the tip upon the point of one of those long, sharp teeth. Helen winced, Bryn licking the drop of blood that swelled forth. “There is my insurance, should stupidity and luck be on your side and mean you somehow escape. I will be able to find my way to you instantly.”

With the way John bound her legs and arms to the chair upon his return, though, Bryn sorely doubted that Helen would be going anywhere, but took the phone with them just in case. “Please tell me that one day you shall delight my senses by tying me to the bed like that.”

He paused upon the staircase, raising an eyebrow. “You could get out of it in about half a second, though.”

“I could,” she purred, leaning close to flick her tongue against his earlobe, giving it a little nibble. “I wouldn’t attempt to, though.”

“You,” he began, waving a finger at her, “you need to pack it in, you do. We’ve got to go fill Tommy in over all of this and you’ve bloody gone and gotten me at half-mast as it fucking is.” He nodded downwards, Bryn seeing the outline of his cock beginning to tent his trousers, chuckling as she grinned.

“Well, my, my.” Leaning close, she kissed him, her lips all fiery honey upon his. “It looks like something is looking up this evening after all.”

Carrying on up the stairs, she left him standing there waiting to deflate again, shaking his head as he muttered. “Bloody insufferable temptress.”

“I heard that.”

“You were fucking meant to, bab!” he shouted, making the server passing him jump, John placing a reassuring hand to his shoulder as he grinned widely, the man continuing his trajectory. “God, I love that woman.”

As she stepped back into the throng of the party, Bryn heard that, too. She would never tire of it either, slipping her hand into his when he joined her after a few moments, fully calmed in the trouser department as they walked over to where Polly waited for them, opening the door to Tommy’s office.

“Grace specifically told me no business tonight, so whatever this is, make it quick,” he spoke, taking a seat behind his desk, looking up to see Arthur enter the room, neatly closing the door behind him and shutting out the noise from the party.

“Do not worry, Tommy. I have every intention of being perfectly concise so we may resume this wonderful evening you and Grace have put together for us,” Bryn began, Tommy nodding in acknowledgement of her praise, his eyes fixing upon her. “A spy sent by Edward Rasmussen infiltrated your serving staff. It was only because the dirty girl does not bathe quite as often as one should that I managed to smell their scent upon her, knew she had been close to them.

“She was sent here to look for me specifically. I apprehended her with John and Polly prior to her delivering news to Edward himself, intercepted the phone call she was shortly to make, forcing her to tell him all was clear. He expects her to call in again tomorrow to confirm that no vampire fitting my image, or any other for that matter arrived here at Arrow House.”

Arthur leaned around Polly, nodding to her. “You alright though, love? She ain’t burned you with no silver or nothing, has she?”

Bryn was touched by his concern. “I am fine, dear Arthur. Trust and believe if she had of attempted to wound me, your brother would have likely acted swiftly.”

“Wouldn’t fucking half have,” John muttered, pulling a cigar from his pocket and lighting up.

Tommy digested her words, drawing idly upon his cigarette. “Which serving girl was it?”

“Helen.”

“And where is Helen now?”

“Tied up in the butler’s pantry.”

He rose to his feet. “Good enough, Brynhild.” Walking around the desk, he placed a hand to John’s shoulder as he passed. “Fits into our world just nicely does your lady, John boy. We’ll deal with this tomorrow.” Opening his door, he gestured through the space, the noise of the merriment filling the air as his family filed back out. Bryn was the last to leave, Tommy halting her with a soft hand to her forearm.

“I’ll leave it to your discretion, whether Helen actually leaves the grounds or not tomorrow,” he whispered, his stare so strong Bryn felt it boring into the back of her skull. “Either way, though, she is to be gone and kept quiet.”

Bryn would not have survived for as long as she had, should she not have known well how to read between the lines. Smiling, she leaned to kiss Tommy’s cheek, gliding from the room to take another glass of champagne and slide in at her love’s side once more, the head of the family watching her as he closed the heavy office door behind him.

In offering his protection to Bryn, he saw well how the alliance benefitted him from her being close to them. Literally being able to smell the faint trace of an enemy upon a person was a skill he wished he possessed, but did not need to now that he had the most powerful vampire in England close with his family.

Tommy Shelby knew a valuable asset when he saw one. The fact that she made his younger brother the happiest looking man in the room didn’t hurt either.

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