#the difference between reading this the first time and now is vast

[a-maru-writesback]

Third time's the charm

(A Zayne Collection. 2 from my old blog and one new. You can read it as the same protagonist in different contexts or different protag altogether, as a sort of parallel universe. Each has a happy ending <3)

In it you'll find: The kind healer; wouldn't you agree, doctor Zayne?; Zayne finally confesses.

Warning: NSFW, MDNI, feelings

The kind healer

She sat beside the diligent man, a book in hands; the weight of it making the spine of the book lean on her lap. She had a beautiful embroided dress - gifted from the village she came from on the day she said yes to the same man sitting by her. There were hints of burgundy against the baby blue fabric; it was the piece she cherished the most, after her wedding attire; the laces were arranged in tight braids and decorated her shoulders and hips. They were what stood out from the rather lack of color and texture of the over all piece, but it had costed the seamstresses hours and hours to finish; so, she cherished it the most. It hugged her while leaving room for breathing and movement - both rather necessary in her daily busy routine. The angles ended in U shapes that represented her newfound status. She wore her attire with a certain frequency, as its keeping was easy due to the lightness of the fabric; perhaps that was why it flew past Zayne’s head on every occurance.

His eyes never left the endless sheets of medical reports; only occasionaly closing as to blink the tiredness away. The kindhearted North capital healer, Mr. Li - as everyone knew him by. Zayne with vivid green eyes that turned away from her first thing in the morning - as she knew him by. His eyes scanned every word as if drinking a different sort of nectar, inaccessible to her ignorant mind. But not once did he pay attention to her own scanning of words; words coated in an altogether different nectar. One that like honey stuck to her fingers right after she felt the deepest parts of her womanhood in all the lonely nights she felt the odd burning in her lower stomach and the nuisance between her legs.

He read like this every night; all throughout the day, only stopping his unstopable quest for knowledge when she shook his heavy-clothed shoulder softly, her calloused hand announcing lunch; and even then, he would dismiss her call, explaining he would have something to eat later. Without sparing more than a glance at her standing form. All that food in perfectly arranged logic now sat abandoned. She had started eating by herself - as usual. However, this time she had a strange urge to stand from this miserable table and destroy that perfect little logic. She wanted to set her arms free from her usual composed state and send every bowl, dish, glass and silverware flying to the tiles she so carefully scrubbed on Wednesdays and Fridays.

Words were lost to her; the characters’ lovemaking was lost to her; her mind was elsewhere, but there she was, appearing calm as ever. She sat there reading, but could feel a boiling anger and a bubbling loneliness rising; evaporating in tears that she tried to hide. Because no matter how much of his attention he devoted to his research; he could never ignore her pain. And she truly did try to hide, but the burning and the yearning and the wetness was too much for her to handle. With a dry sob, almost as low as a balckbirds’ twindle, she dropped the book and got out of the room. Her low heels made close to no sound as she escaped that study; trying to set as much distance from herself as possible.

Her legs seemed to know the direction better than her mind; perhaps guided by a desire in her heart. Whatever the reason for the current destination, she found herself heaving, grasping for air that refused to enter her lungs. With a clutched hand to her chest she bent, noticing how her hair had fallen from the careful routine bun - the same her mother had taught her when she was no more than ten and dreamed of seeing more than the vastness of the Southern dry lands. Sweat and tears mingled as she fought to steady her breathing.

Her notion of time was off, she could sense it by the echoed warbling of the Mountain Bluebird in the back of the property; the first hours of dawn had long passed. The frogs that always hopped to and fro seemed disappointed at the scene and were hiding from the lovely lake that was her favorite spot to unwind. A sick pit formed in her stomach - what had gotten into her; to storm out of her own house like that? Her own house, the one she put hard work into keeping at pristine condition - so much so, that Zayne’s mentor, the old healer, Mr. Noah would sit in the armchair on the side of hers and praise her care. He would say things she wished come out of her husband’s mouth. Her husband, her house. But was it her love, her home?

As she felt a bad taste on her mouth, she remembered the book, left open in her hush. “I’m tired of it”, she uttered between intakes of air.

It was not the concern for time and decency that had the healer looking up from his hunched position to witness his wife making a run for the back door near the kitchen cupboards. It was not curiosity for the reason that would make her behave in such a manner; in fact, it was his awareness of her unique condition. A fragile heart like the glass that held the pure white of the jasmines he sttubornly tried to keep alive and well-cared for. He had collected this one in the Southern regions; where he had picked up the habit of knowing all there was to know about the pretty flower. Yet, it wilthered every time; no matter if he regularly watered it in the right amount and took care as not to expose it to excessive sunlight. What could a fragile plant need to thrive? He was clueless.

What truly made him set a quick pace in search for his wife was the threat of her worsening; a wilthering that would deeply wound his pride as a healer - he kept telling himself so. The navy blue of his pants matched the one of his heavy blouse; the rustling showed his fastening pace. The bluebird ate a small yellowy fruit and then dropped it to fly away.

Not long after he made his way out, he saw a light blue shape crouched near the flowery lake. It was a bountiful spring that had brought much color to the sides of the pond; and as he got closer, the colors complemented her attire. He got to her level and inquired in a hushed tone whether she was fine. The lack of response made him look closer and notice her clutched hand. Right above the heart; the ever fragile heart. That seemed to put the healer on high alert, and he rushed to tell her to lay down and allow him to ascertain her condition. ‘Has it worsened, or is it just a sudden peak?’ He professionaly thought. Yet the small frown in his forehead felt detached from the usual cold façade of his.

Her breathing was rapidly normalizing, and her pained expression fading with the Spring breeze.

He took her body into his arms and walked back to the house. The entire time, he focused on the path ahead, slightly rocky - it was a surprised she had not tumbled in her haste. Crossing the back entrance, he made his way to the bedroom they would share on nights he could not physically nor mentally go on with his research. The room which walls sometimes carried a fragrance still unknown to him; sweet and inviting. Something his instincts recognized somehow, judging by the warmth that set in his lower belly. Usually a couple of slow breaths would be enough to settle himself and he would face a tormented sleep. Other times, it was absolutely unbearable and he had to visit the bathroom and take care of a very bulging problem.

Her face was hidden on a fold of his large blouse, her breathing steadier; she was like a burning pan. When she felt his arms releasing her frame onto the bed and setting the pillows, she turned away, to stare at the nightstand. “you know you shouldn’t make unnecessary efforts”, his voice bored a hole in her heart. She replayed the word unnecessary in her mind; each time it got bigger and bigger. Until it swallow her reason and she shouted at the air “I’m tired of it!”

It was a blurt of words like regurgitation, it felt good to get it out of her system, but the taste afterwards was bitter.

He stood there, bent middair as he arranged the pillows; his eyes now nowehere but on her face. His mind was fogged, the healer was out of words to say.

His logic ressurfaced, scampering to find a question that would reveal the truth behind all of this strange happening, whys and whats crossed his mind - as he thought back to his patients. However, he did not come up with any satisfactory inquiry. He was so good at this; why couldn’t he make out the question to get to the heart of the problem, so he could treat it?

The heart of the problem, he thought to be the fragile heart of hers.

She was frozen too. Much too afraid of his reaction towards her utterance. She was now looking at him as well. What would he be thinking, with that confused stare and that deep frown. Would he not want her in this house anymore? Was he considering returning her to the village so she could learn her place - and, Gods, be shamed as the wife who could not keep her marriage standing.

His heart. He felt it beating, raging at his ears.

She opened her mouth to utter an apology, half-expecting him to just forget everything and go back to his important, necessary work.

Had she not been sleeping well? Was she in pain? Was his wife suffering? And because of what; what was ‘it’ that she was tired from? Her housework? Her books? Him?

She was looking at him; but at the same time, she was looking beyond him. Just what was written in her eyes? Couldn’t he, a polyglot, an academic, a healer, read his own wife?

Her hands covered her mouth, and uncovered it; in a repeated motion. Should she apologize in a formal way, or in an informal way? Could she even pronounce the right words to sound well-spoken in front of him?

She then said the only words she knew when we want to apologize for not being a good person, “I’m sorry”.

He heard it; and his lips curled downwards.

'O, Gods, it is coming!' She thought with desperation. Her eyes bulging, and her movements of covering and uncovering, now, frantic. Suddenly she forgot how to breath.

What came were not words, were not distant glances. It was the healer’s unexperienced lips crashing on to hers.

The racing mind, the beating heart; all of it made him question his actions; his sanity.

Still, he let himself be taken by that new feeling. A texture he could not have put words to so new it was. It was not only a plump, warm and nice feel. It was not smooth like ice or velvety like plums either. What was it? It was soft, yes; and...

Her eyes shot open, impossibly open upon his action. She experienced this touch for the first time. A succulent touch, scorching after a day under the sun. A hot summer day when she could practically taste life blooming.

She knew it now. And she moved her hand to the nape of his neck, right where the ponytail started; she pushed it out of the way and felt his skin; hot under the hair and the heavy attire. She liked how close he felt. For the first time.

His brain melted; and alongside the puddle took all rationality; the moment her warm hands rested on his nape, he shut off completely. And could only think of drawing closer and closer until she and him were consumed.

Her own questions had been expurgated from her system. She sought only more of that euphoria.

He understood her need somehow, and followed what his body demanded - not his intelligence.

His weight worked a cage, or an all-encompassing blanket, on top of her. But she did not feel trapped by it.

She worked a cage of her own, letting her arms fully embrace his neck now.

All the doubts turned into a passionate energy that drove both to seek treasures, first-time explorers as their tongues dance an awkward dance. Not knowing why it felt so rewarding to be tangling her tongue with his, she continued.

He kept going as well, beginning to feel a similar heat in his groins as he had felt as the nightly memories come back to him. That fragrance, he realized the source of it was her. The most intimate part of her.

And so she realized why it felt so rewarding. He was giving her his full attention.

Her body invited his like when she invited her fingers.

And he accepted the invitation, moving in a grinding fashion, seeking the closeness. The motion did things to him he never thought possible. His nights have never provided him that intense feeling of belonging.

And then, it dawned on him. This was his wife. The woman he set his eyes on in one of his many field trips. The one who had smiled at him with sweet summer lips. As he kissed her, he realized, the texture was succulent. She was not one of his patients. She was his wife. His wife! He felt foolish, and broke off the kiss.

She was caught by surprise, she could still feel the ghost sensation hovering.

He was ashamed.

She saw a new emotion. Was it embarrassment? No, it felt more powerful. Was it shame?

And before his own rationality would interfere with pesky rational thoughts, he confessed “I’m sorry”.

Overwriting her own words with his; he had wanted to say he was sorry for putting so much work on her shoulders, for not paying attention to her beautiful attire, for not sitting at the table, for not keeping her company at night. For not being there for her...

Yet, she nodded. And kissed him fiercely.

─── ❄️☃️❄️ ───

Wouldn’t you agree, doctor Zayne?

“You can touch them if you want” she said, looking at the exhausted doctor with up and down deliberate glances. His hands were busy filling the patient’s report - the last of the night. And she had been waiting to leave with him since eight, perhaps extend the night with a nice, professional, friendly table for two in her apartment, maybe with the recently bought maple-scented candles and a nice glass of red wine.

Marking her beautiful eyes, he could see some signs of her terrible sleeping schedule. Leaning on the table, she looked at his hazel eyes with softness. He adored her, and loved how easy it felt being around her, as her friend. Noticing he made no movement, she rested her weight on the table, laying her head on top of her bicep - never losing sight of him. “Aren’t you tired of this… restraint, doctor Zayne?” She smiled, her eyes fluttering shut for a second as her brow relaxed further, sighing in a soft manner. Everything about her seemed soft tonight - no, it had always been so...

He pinched his nose for a second, in a habit she knew well - her poor, overworked darl-doctor.

She had no idea how done he was - done pretending, done holding back, done allowing her to be the only one showing affection so freely. But his protective nature did not allow him to recreate that fear in her eyes - it still consumed him. That afternoon still haunted his nightmares.

So, he tried to relax and kept busying his hands and mind with work - until he noticed her idly playing with one of his pens. She was a good hunter, with good hands; the pen danced across her fingers, perfectly landing after each spin, and Zayne wondered who had taught her that trick…

Yet, his eyes would ocasionally land on them; her now squashed breasts, protected by a low cover with a v cut. He swallowed dryly. He had to force his eyes back to that numbing screen. A sting made him force his orbs shut with a frown to his fluffy brows.

Without him realizing, she watched him with short, quick glances. The trick brought his attention back to her, and she remembered how it must have worked on her as Caleb’s fingers moved in an almost hypnotic way ‘of course I can teach you, pipsqueak’, he had that proud, boyish smile as her first attempts resulted in huge, amusing failures; she missed Skyhaven.

The leaning woman brought the pen closer to her chest, pretending to admire the heavy black shiny material; it must have been an expensive pen - then her nimble fingers brought it even closer and now it rested in the valley of her breasts.

She blushed as she looked up, expecting to see his eyes. But doctor Zayne was like a immovable mountain - one covered in thick snow.

The woman was getting frustrated, tired of being so open and him so closed off. She stirred, her body lifting itself from the table. The pen had slipped and nestled on the hem of her skirt.

Suddenly his eyes looked sternly at her; his fingers mid-typing. Conflict written all over his face, and as she put her hand inside her shirt to pick the long object back, his told her to stop.

She froze like a haze had hit her naked skin in the heavy winter, and she felt a light shiver across her spine. Zayne’s voice had that barely contained command, but his eyes - my god, his eyes were devouring her.

She approached him, one leg in front of the other, slowly and carefully, eyes locked on to his - those wild greens she wanted to never let go of, they reminded her of a tiger ready to tackle its prey and bite its neck deliciously. This time, he did not lose sight of her either - her own dangerous orbs reminded him of his desire and his mistake; his body fell back into the chair as he turned to her. She got closer and closer and closer until they were face to face, her hands trapping him by holding the handle of the chair.

She pressed on the cushion of it, and felt the pen sliding softly, crossing the line between acceptable and unacceptable - and she mused if her own personal trick would work as well as Caleb’s.

He was frozen too. His heartbeat seemed impossibly fast - he was almost afraid it was a sign of something else, but since he only felt the stiffening of a certain lower region and not of his arm, he considered himself somewhat safe. Somewhat, because as he gazed lowered from her breasts, the pen nuzzled against her crotch. The shape was deliciously inviting.

And now doctor Zayne - who had always been a decided man was stuck, lost in his own haze.

She bit her lip upon noticing how lost he looked; no more than a lost cat - it made her want to unleash the little monster that gnawed at her at midnight when she knew the world was asleep. The beast that kissed her inner thighs and made her move the dumb plastic across her lips, down and around her hard nipples, all the way to her stomach and end on her needy sex.

“Won’t you help me out, doctor… my hands are quite busy… and shaky right now. The hands of a surgeon are the most fit for dealing with small stubborn objects, wouldn’t you agree?” She spoke slowly, making sure he captured every sound that came out.

She could feel the pen stuck on the hem of her flimsy underwear.

Zayne wished he could hold on to something and cursed her softly for taking the arm of the chair away from his reach. His breathing was irregular, shallow. He gazed at her and something primal in his brain moved his hands from the crossed position to meet hers, sliding sluggishly up her forearm and bicep, until he reached her shoulders, and then, the back of his hands brushed on her collarbone and adored her body all the way to her hips, where he touched the front, feeling the pen. He swallowed dryly again.

She had soft, round eyes, letting him take his time.

But Zayne could not adore her truly - a god made sure of it. As his heart raced, he began to feel that painful, freezing sensation emerging from his pores; the cold reaching his fingertips and creating small, delicate fractals on her skirt.

If something could break Zayne was this scene, her scared eyes - in his mind, terrified of him -, staring down at his crime again. His hands were now closer to his heart; and the chair had slid a few centimeters away from her standing form.

“You should go and rest.” There was an undeniable panic in his tone - although he still sounded like doctor Zayne.

She was looking down, where he had been; and in her eyes, there was not much light, as her hands mechanically fred the pen from her enclosure. Laying it carefully on the table. Then she glanced from her shoulder, “you too”, her eyes devoided of the previous warmth - yet, still somewhat soft.

Did he deserve that softness?

With the click of the door, the cold felt unbearable. She had been so close to him - and he had lost control again. ‘Why, why, why, must it be this way’, he felt his deep frustration rising like a tsunami. He let out angry tears, pressing his closed palms to his eyes, nearly knocking his glasses off; he did not hold himself back now - no one was watching, so it never hapenned.

It had been so when he handed Josephine’s file... he thought it had gotten better - what a stupid thought, this sort of thing could only be magical thinking, wishful thinking. Maybe he needed to check in with his therapist earlier than scheduled. His eyes and bridge of his nose hurt from the pressing; and he forced himself to blink away the tears.

There, at the table, the pen stared back at him; black as the void. His shaky fingers moved to place it alongside his things on the drawer, yet how could he, that pen contained a part of her now - and that primal part won again; his heart raced once more as he brought it closer to his nose - her scent was light, but undeniably felt like home, brown sugar and vanilla, and something else that was entirely hers. It made him feel terrible, as if he was being a creep, invading her space; but he could not help; Zayne held the pen there for longer. The tears dried, and his thoughts took a different direction. He could not have her, nor have many things that reminded him of her - except for the few gifts. None smelt like her, though. He was quickly reminded of his small problem, as he tried to find a comfortable position on his chair.

No matter how much he attempted to steer his thoughs away from that danger, he could not. And so, doctor Zayne, the stoic doctor, fell for the trap and unzipped his linen pants and dragged his underwear down, feeling himself. His defeat made him even angrier and he gripped his member with his slight thick fingers - making himself jerk forward with the sudden assault, he was too sensitive.

Zayne palmed his hardness furiously until he felt drained, pumping until the last drop of cum, forgetting all about the world, his work and whatever else was out there - all his senses were commited to the image of her body so open and inviting to him; and her scent that he wished to ingrain in his memories like fire. He did not count how many times he had released on his hand - now completely lubricated -, he could only think of unchaining himself from that feeling that he was not allowed to express freely. He begged, nose flaring against the material, and lips puffed, desiring an imaginary kiss. A kiss would surely melt him into a puddle of nothing - he knew. Which is why he only dared to keep things safe in his fantasies; her hips going up and down as she welcomed him home, but he did not dare to imagine other scenario - even in the most private corner of himself - as picturing her soft mouth around his cock would feel too shameful, too below what she should be receiving. If he could wish something for himself, he would ask that she become his goddess, a benevolent; but dangerous deity that would bless him with her mere presence, her mere scent.

He folded as he felt actual pain from rubbing himself too many times, and had to stop; his body forced his hand to drop to his side, and he panted hard. He was on fire, his jaw was locked and his eyes kept losing focus every moment. No one could see him, and yet, he covered the top part of his face with his arm, pressing the glasses onto his nose marking it further against his marble skin.

A frustrated, painful groan came out of him like a needy moan; he felt pathetic, like a teenager seeing his crush for the first time. He did not want to calm down, he wanted to lash out, run after her and confess. Let her take control of him in her car - anything but contain himself again. Yet, he was quickly reminded of his curse, as his cruel brain tortured him again with that recent image, overlapping with the other instances. He wanted to let go, but he simply could not.

So, he did what he had always done, moved on from that moment; hard as it was. And cleaned every trace of his mistake. As the lights were out, he walked off the hospital with his head low, barely acknowledging the few nurses still on duty. In his car, he felt it drop on him again, and his eyes stung. His head went for the wheel, one, two, three times until his rationality took hold of him and prevented him from making any harsher moves. He remembered her words ‘restraint’, and wished he could say he would change. However, the strings that held him back felt more like heavy chains. It was pure muscle memory that drove him back home. His cold and lonely home; or should he say house?

He left his bag and dark coat on the usual spots and put himself under the shower; a quick, steamy shower. He knew steaming showers were bad all around, but tonight, he needed to be anything but himself - or he might actually lose himself.

His bed was perfectly made; and he walked in fast strides towards it, throwing the blankets off and lying with his wet hair on the remaining pillow. He felt it drench the soft material under him - soft as her... no, she was softer. Usually, Zayne would meditate about next day’s tasks, but right now he only tossed and turned, unable to forget her body, the way it felt as he touched her. His delicate yet sharp features in a tortured expression, small folds on his nose and forehead. He had nothing left in him, yet, as drowsiness took him, he could still feel everything. Her eyes watching him, soft, then seducing, and ending downcast. His sleep was plagued by images of her. And his curse. She had become an ice medusa who trapped him in her stare; and his heart clenched upon looking at the spike of ice that pierced her neck.

She was forever stuck in an expression of fear and pain.

As morning came, Zayne went straight to the bathroom, feeling as if he had swallowed that same void; something wrong with him. He stepped into the shower and let the cold water circle him. Cold, cold, cold. He opened his eyes and stared at his feet. His hazel eyes whispered distance, cold and loneliness; a round vulnerability he never dared to show anyone - not even her.

He was late. But no one questioned him, only Greyson who gave him a brief overview of a new patient that had arrived. And they discussed quickly about the best course of action, it helped Zayne to come back to his role, but nothing could truly erase her from his memory. The day was like a smudged painting. A quick meal helps him survive the rest of his duties, and Zayne is for the first time in long anxious to leave his workspace; to go back to his house and just-

He stopped mid-step, his hands trying to stay warm in the white coat, but failing, as his nerves got the best of the stoic doctor. It only gets worse as he locks on a very delicate figure, he did not even realise he was heading to the entrance of the hospital, when someone calls for him in a low voice. Zayne would know that small crack, that light croakiness, the sweet melody of her voice anywhere. And even if he went deaf, he supposed, if she whispered his name close enough to him, his skin would recognize it.

She had worry in her eyes, and as she approached him, it only increased, “are you-?”

He signals for her, with his extended arms, “come.”

Was he prepared to face her? What would he even-

She brought him back, “we need to talk-”, she looked at everywhere but him, “I’m really sorry for my behavior last night... I-”, she felt the words choking her just how she would often imagine her hands choking that pretty neck of his-

“It’s not something to be sorry for.” He proclaims, and notices the disappointment in her frown.

She cleared her throat, expelling the naughty thoughts that seemed to cling to her nerves. She was afraid they would make her do something careless like previously, and make him ashamed of calling her his patient, his friend.

“Of course it is, Zayne. I know about us... about your evol, and still, I keep insisting in causing it to go haywire... I don’t wanna hurt you...”

Hurt him? He stared at her in disbelief, his mouth hanging slightly open, “you couldn’t possibly... hurt me.”

She looked at him furious now, “of course I could... It’s painful, isn’t it?” She approached him carefully, lacking the danger of a confident beast she had showcased last night, the double meaning was written in her tone. “Sometimes, I swear I see you in a throne of ice... and you look so... wounded and defeated... and lonely”, she sounded far away from his office, her voice echoing in the cold walls of a tower.

Zayne blinked quickly, trying to wake up from some reverie; he knew what she meant, he often had the same vision... alongside a dreadful dream of a man in black coat. Someone opposite to him. Would that version of himself be braver?

“I’m the only who should be apologizing”, he finally said after a long sigh, “if I’m being honest, I think you already have an idea of me... and I can’t deny that’s probably true”, he tried his best not to let on how much this weighed on him, “I am a coward.”

She stood, her thumb in between her lips, not quite bitting, “I never-”; but Zayne was not finished, “I know I am, and I also know I’ve been feeding your hopes with all the talk of our past, and how I miss it.”

She dreaded his next words; the woman felt her soul crushing again, Zayne was going to reject her; he was going to rub it in her face that they were just friends, that he was her doctor, that she was just a girl he had helped in the past, the they could not possibly be... anything.

As he stood, she thought she could not be more afraid of a moment in her entire life, things her brain did not dare to recall, Caleb’s disappearance, the loss; this felt almost as scary.

Yet, he took that hand in his and held it in his cooling touch - as he turned it up, a beautiful and simple jasmyne formed the the shell of her hand -; the gesture brought a strangely nostalgic feeling alongside a smile to her anxious lips.

“You’ve been honest and straightforward with me, always”, the flower still danced on her palm, “and I’ve let you down in this aspect”, he folded her palm with his, the icy feeling went away, and only his nice warmth remained, “it’s about time I cleared myself up...”

She waited patiently for him, her lips trembling from time to time; “if you still wish to listen, I’d love to try and be honest” he said.

Zayne’s calm voice always had a soothing effect on her, he seemed ethereal, like nothing ever got to him; but now she was not so sure. He had questioned her a few times in the café ‘do you really think I don’t feel anything?’ And it never occured to the woman that perhaps he was trying to soften the way she looked at him - he was not always stoic and distant, Zayne was human too - and as obvious as this seems, sometimes it was easy to forget this simple fact.

He still had her hand in his “do you want to have dinner with me?” His voice came low, still testing the waters.

Her smile came back, “of course, Zayne.”

─── ❄️☃️❄️ ───

Zayne finally confesses

“Wait!” His strained voice did nothing to prevent the woman in black mini skirt from leaving.

The breeze outside was too cold for her to be roaming with that outfit.

Zayne took long strides and held her arm in a strong grip, effectively stopping her; but also ruining her balanced strides in the black heels. It complemented her tanned complexion quite well. “Sorry”, he muttered as her fiery brown eyes shot holes on his face. His lips quivered, he wanted to say something else, anything that would make her stay.

But she beat him to it; she always did, “you’re not my boyfriend, Zayne. Don’t try to tell me what I can or cannot do!” She spat between her teeth; the imperfect line of teeth that could bite his heart out.

“It wasn’t-“, he started; but a sudden jerk of her arm interrupted his sentence.

“Oh, I know all about it, Zayne. You always mean well… but just don’t!” Her fists were sealed, the knuckles losing some of their pigmentation as her frustration seeped through the seams. Her eyes avoiding his, the frown growing impossibly deeper, creating ridges where once there was a smooth surface covered by a slight sheen that he had no clue where it came from. “Not today. Today, I want to have a night out, get drunk, fuck some random guy and sleep like a log.”

His eyes shot open; her brash words had caught him off guard, “what? You can't be serious!”

There it was again, her eyes shooting arrows, bullets and missiles at him, “and who’s gonna stop me?” The words left her open mouth as more than a threat; it was a promise. No one would stop her.

“You need to take care of yourself. Your last report had a spike in-“ he stammered; unable to stop the words from urgently flowing through his thin lips.

“So what! If I die I’ll be back anyway, right? They made sure of it!” Tears fell as she shouted.

Passersby watched the scene in silent judgment; Zayne could only focus his attention on the shiver that crossed her shoulders at the very end of her words.

“That doesn’t give you the right to waste yourself…”

It seemed to be the last straw, as she physically shook him by the shoulders. Not enough to throw his balance; but enough to make his arm retreat.

“Are you taking this away too? Don’t I have the right over my body, my soul? What else do you want from me?” Her glance was beyond him; as if she was shouting at someone above him.

“This is the closest thing I have to dying. If you’ve seen how these men treat me, Zaynie, you’d understand… I need it; it’s my only rest.”

She no longer sounded angry; only weakened by some invisible weight. Her words stabbed his heart in a way no ice shard could.

“I’m... sorry. I know I’m not the best at this… but I want to be. I want to help you in any way I can. I want to love you in any way I can…” his hazel eyes locked in her shocked ones. He saw himself amidst a haze of tears.

“What did you just say?” A hiccup was the only remnant of her crying; she was now hugging herself.

“I said I love you.” He did not falter. Those words had been choking him since the first time they met after all those years; it kept him awake as his days flew by in med school; and every day in his office. And only now seemed to have enough power to surface through years of repressed feelings. The box was open, “I’ve always had you on my mind; sometimes, I could barely sleep thinking how you were; where you were and if you had someone… I wanted to let you know sooner; but-“

His attention must have slipped for a second as he spilled his heart to the woman he loved, for when he came to, her lips were smudged against his in a passionate kiss; a gesture of longing and desperation.

A kiss that left both chasing each other; and then parting ways in shocked expressions and panting mouths.

“I swear, Zaynie; you love me more that I do” she smiled sadly, but did not let go of his cheek, “are you sure you want this mess?” She looked earnestly at his eyes, as a lie detector would pay attention to the heart beats.

“Mess? I’d give away everything if I could stand with you through it all.” He held her hand in his and gave it a peck, one on each knuckle.

“I won’t allow refunds, do you hear me, baby panda?” He smiled at her pet name; since that day on the claw machine she had grown fond of it.

“Ditto.”

The breeze now carried a certain something of Spring. And both exchanged loving glances as Zayne’s car moved through the busy streets of Linkon.

(I removed the character's name (previously, Sam))

(Also, apologies for making Zaynie go through pain. Our baby doesn't deserve it.)

[pilferingapples]

if there was anything to do, and any "bousingot" to track out, it was in that quarter. From time to time, parties re-sole their old insults. In 1832, the word bousingot formed the interim between the word jacobin, which had become obsolete, and the word demagogue which has since rendered such excellent service.

LM 5.3.2

[sv3t1ana]

SYNOPSIS ᯓ The church was never meant to save you. Not when its priest speaks in honeyed damnation, not when his hands bless and defile in the same breath. Father Geto does not offer salvation, he takes, ruins, and owns. And when he forces you to your knees, shaming you as he makes you beg, you understand: this was never about redemption. This was a sacrament of sin, and you were always meant to be his offering.

PAIRING ᯓ Priest! Geto x Sinner! Reader

WARNINGS ᯓ VERY SACRILEGIOUS AND UNHOLY do not read if that is offensive or triggering for you. FEM READER, heavy use of Catholic imagery, religious corruption, verbal humiliation, religious guilt, forced confessions, power play, obedience training, defilement of holy spaces, he calls you "little lamb," throat fucking, oral (m and f rec.), choking, cervix kissing, spanking, multiple orgasms, he's ROUGH with you, leaving bruises, unprotected piv sex.

WORD COUNT ᯓ 5.1k

Stood before you was a long concrete stairway, a looming church whose spire split the sky like a dagger, plunging into the heavens. Heavy wooden doors stood solemn and unmoving, flanked by stone saints who watch with sightless eyes, hands locked in prayer, a type of devotion you have never been able to imitate.

You should not be here.

The thought pressed against your ribs, tightening like a vice, and yet, your feet do not stop. The night air thick, humid, laced with the scent of old myrrh and rain-soaked earth. It clung to your skin, beads along your collarbone, seeps into the modest fabric of your dress, simply plain, like covering yourself properly could undo the nights spent writhing beneath hands you didn’t know, moaning names you never cared to learn.

But this was different.

This name, one that had begun to carve itself into the marrow of your bones, was one you knew. One you whispered in the dark.

Father Geto.

Your first time seeing him you only meant to pass through. No interest in sermons, parables, redemption. But something about the way he spoke, the weight of his voice holding you in place, pinning you to the back pew like an insect trapped in amber.

It was sacred.

A voice that did not simply carry through hollow halls but commanded the very air itself to obey. Velvety, smokey, threaded with something unspoken. Something that sent a shiver skimming down your ponderous spine.

You had stayed longer than you should have.

His hands moved as he spoke, slow and deliberate, fingertips grazing the leather binding of the Bible, rolling the beads of his rosary between them. And you had wondered, shamefully, how those same hands would feel against your skin.

You had left before the service was over.

But you returned.

Again and again.

You told yourself it was curiosity, a passing interest in something unfamiliar.

But the truth lay in the way your legs trembled as his eyes flickered over the congregation, slow, knowing.

It lay in the way you began hearing his voice in the quiet moments between sleep and wake, low murmurs of orison that ringed in your ears, worming its way up the axons in your brain stem.

And now, here you were.

At midnight.

The doors creak as you push them open, coarse grains mulling the pad of your palm like the hatches themselves told you to turn around and never look back.

Inside, the church is vast and yawning, swallowing you the moment you step beyond the threshold. The heavy scent of incense lingers in the air, thick, cloying, a ghost of burnt offerings and whispered prayers. The candles flicker in their sconces, pools of molten gold bleeding over the marble floor, light guttering with each draft that slithered through the open doors.

Rows of pews stretch before you, silent sentinels whose dark wood polished by years of kneeling, pressing, pleading. They stand in perfect formation, disciplined and obedient. The altar looms ahead, bathed in a single column of light, a beacon amidst the shadows, offering no warmth but instead the illusion of salvation. The cross above it casts a long silhouette against the vaulted ceiling, and for a moment, it seemed to reach its hand toward you, beckoning.

Your breath was shallow, caught in the space between reverence and regret.

Your hands hover uncertainly, fingers twitching, unsure whether to clasp together in feigned piety or let them dangle uselessly at your sides. The thick linen of your dress shifts with every movement, sleeves billowing like phantom limbs as you continue stepping forward. The modest cut of it, once meant to conceal, now feels oppressive. The fabric weighs heavy on your skin, sticking to the curve of your back and pressing against your ribs like a second skin incapable of shedding.

The bowed ceiling stole the echo of your steps and hurled it back as you formidably moseyed ahead.

You do not belong here.

And yet your feet still carried you forward, past rows of empty pews, past the golden glow of flickering candlelight. The shadows swift to follow your movement, stretching long and lean. The saints carved into the walls stare at you, hollow eyes filled with repine meant only for you.

The confessional stands before you. A dark, wooden structure carved with solemn figures, martyrs frozen in suffering, expression turned downward as they, too, would bear witness.

Your fingers tighten at your sides, nails pressing crescents into the thick linen draping your hands. You shift when the air around you turns thick with candle wax, a potent gale entering your blood stream.

Staring at the confessional door, the handle was worn smooth, touched by countless hands before yours. Fingers curled in desperation, in shame, in hope that just maybe, there was something holy waiting on the other side.

But you know better.

Your breath is shallow as your eyes follow the rosary draped over the carved wood, its beads catching faint glimmers of candlelight. The memory of his hands ghosts over your skin, long fingers rolling those very beads between them during a sermon, deep and melodic voice sinking into your soul like a hymn you were never meant to learn.

You had watched them.

Watched how his hands moved as he spoke, controlled like it was all planned out from the start.

Watched and wondered, what else had those hands touched?

A shameful and unbidden heat curls in your lower stomach, throat tightening as you shift, pressing your thighs together, but the ache does not subside.

This is wrong.

But wrong had never felt so much like longing before.

Before you could talk yourself out of it, your fingers curl around the handle, pushing the door open.

The space inside is small, suffocating, lined with dark wood that swallows what little light dares to enter. The air is heavier in here, laced with something richer than just incense. The seat creaks as you lower yourself onto it.

Your hands tremble as you fold them in your lap.

And then, a presence. You feel him, before he speaks, before anything.

The weight of him is there, just beyond the partition like he was just barely tangible. The thin screen separating you from him does nothing to soften it, nothing to keep him from sinking into you like smoke through cloth.

And then, his voice.

“What would you like to confess, my child?”

The words are gentle, patient, yet they settle over you like a suffocating weight, locking your throat and pulling you under.

Your lips part, but no sound comes.

It is not just concern in his voice, it is not just priestly obligation, it is something knowing. Something akin to an invitation.

Something like a hand, reaching into the depths of your psyche and prying open what you had tried so desperately to keep buried.

You should leave, run, say anything but the truth.

But instead, you inhale.

And you begin.

“I… I’ve had impure thoughts.”

It’s barely above a whisper. As if saying it any louder might summon something even more unholy than what already lingers in this space.

There’s no shock or admonishment, just a quiet, thoughtful hum from the other side of the partition.

“Impure thoughts,” he repeats, slow. He’s tasting the words himself, rolling them between his teeth before offering them back to you. “And do these thoughts trouble you, my child?”

The word trouble feels misplaced, like what he’s really asking is something else entirely.

“Yes.”

Another hum, deeper this time. You think you hear the faint creak of movement.

“And yet, you are here,” he murmurs. “Seeking something.”

It isn’t a question.

A shiver crawls down your spine. You don’t answer, at least not immediately. Because you don’t know why you’re here, not really.

Not when you’ve spent too many nights indulging every desire.

Not when you’ve let hands you don’t remember trace the shape of you, lips press where they never should have.

Not when you should feel shame, but only feel heat.

“I let people touch me.”

The confession feels ugly leaving your lips, but you don’t stop. The dam is cracking, words slipping through the widening fractures.

“I let them touch me without love. Without care. And I liked it.”

The last part came out hushed, barely there.

And still, it feels deafening.

The church has never felt so cavernous, so consuming as you hear a slow inhale beyond the partition. It sets your nerves alight, something crawling up your throat.

“I liked the idea of confessing it.”

Your voice hoarse. Something inside you being stripped away layer by layer, exposed beneath his eyes even when you can’t see him.

“That’s why I came.”

Moments of silence pass, just listening to beads clacking together. You bite your lower lip and close your eyes honing in on the sound. The faint whisper of his breath, beads shifting between his fingers.

“You do not seek forgiveness,” he says, voice softer but no less firm. “You seek something else.”

You don’t answer because you can’t, because he’s right. Because you know deep inside, he knew before you ever stepped foot in this place.

Another shift, partition between you grinding faintly, as if he’s leaning closer.

“Go on,” he urges. “Do not leave anything out.”

Your stomach twists.

Because there’s still one confession left.

The worst of them all.

Your lips part, his presence pressing down on you as you mutter his name.

Breathless. Sinful.

The confessional door opens.

The hinges don’t shriek, they sigh, long suffering, they too bearing witness to something unrighteous. Light spills into the tight space, illuminating the heavy folds of your dress and trembling clutch of your hands. You should not look up. You should lower your head like a penitent sinner, kneel as the devout should.

But when you see him standing in the dim glow of flickering votives, something within you defies instinct.

Father Geto is framed in the archway like a saint in a stain-glass window, but he does not look like salvation.

No.

He is temptation draped in reverence, black cassock flowing like a holy shroud over broad shoulders, his long dark hair spilling down his back like the dark strokes of calligraphy on sacred parchment. The rosary beads you hear earlier hang from his fingers, slipping over his knuckles.

But it’s his eyes that undo you.

There is no mercy, no pity.

Only the quiet, unshaken authority of a man who has always known how this would end.

You are seated before him, hands limp in your lap, thick linen of your sleeves brushing against your sensitive skin like a funeral veil. You do not yet know if you are the deceased or the one delivering the last rites.

His gaze lowers, and he sees a woman wrapped in modesty but reeking of sin. A lamb that has strayed too far from the flock, too naive to recognize she is standing before the wolf. A body, breathless, trembling, clutching the fabric of her dress as if it could protect her.

And you see it, the slight tilt of his head and the barest twitch at the corner of his lips.

“Come here.”

Two words. A command wrapped in velvet.

Your body betrays your mind. You rise, knees weak and heart stuttering like an unseen force is guiding you. The hem of your dress whispering against the church floor like a prayer spoken through gritted teeth.

When you stand before Father Geto, close enough to see the slow shift of his throat as he breathes, he lifts a hand. Thumb grazing your chin.

“On your knees, little lamb.”

He just watched, studying you like an artist examining his canvas, like a priest watching a lamb kneel before the altar, waiting for the moment of surrender.

His finger hovers over your cheek before finally making contact, so soft, too soft, a touch at odds with the weight of his gaze. His thumb caresses your lower lip, the movement unbearably slow.

“Look at you.”

A quiet mumble, speaking to you like he’s addressing something delicate, something sacred.

“Tell me, little lamb, when you touch yourself in the dark, do you call His name? Or do you whisper mine?”

The heat of his palm cradles your jaw, tilting your face up and forcing your eyes to meet his. There’s no warmth in them, only certainty.

“Go on,” he coaxes, his tone an invitation to confess. “Tell me the truth.”

And you cannot speak, your throat is tight, restricting you from taking full breaths.

He exhales, slow and deliberate, shaking his head like he was in mourning.

“What a shame,” he says, fingers dragging lower, tracing the line of your throat. “So weak to temptation. So eager to fall.”

He sighs, but it wasn’t a sigh of disappointment, rather, satisfaction.

“Do you know what happens to lost souls who refuse to repent?”

His hand leaves your skin, and you feel the loss of it like an open wound.

“They beg.”

The shadows move, but not from a breeze. The flames tilt toward him, as if even the light itself is tempted.

“It’s such a tragedy, isn’t it?”

He closes his eyes, his large palm resting on the crown of your head, fingers sliding through your hair with the patience of a man offering benediction. His touch is reverent, deceptive, like he is anointing you instead of undoing you.

“That you never truly wanted salvation.”

His voice was almost tender, laced with finality, judgment, his verdict already sealed.

“Kýrie, eléison." Lord, have mercy.

The words fall from his lips like an incantation, a blessing. His fingers thread through your locks, holding you steady, watching as your breath hitches.

"Christe, eléison." Christ, have mercy.

His respire is almost mournful. Almost.

“But mercy was never what you came for, was it?”

His fingers tighten. Not enough to hurt, not yet, but enough to demand. Enough to remind you of your place.

“Stand.”

The word is quiet but it crashes over you like a tolling bell. You hesitate, legs unsteady, but his hand is already moving. Trailing down, pressing just below your chin. A silent order to obey.

Then his hand lands on the back of your neck, tilting your head down, bowing you before him.

“Confess.”

His thumb strokes over your nape, a mockery of comfort.

“Say it.”

Your lips part, but nothing comes.

You feel the shift just as you hear it, the click of his tongue. Disappointment.

“Do not waste my patience.”

You still, eyes wide as you stare at his feet pointing to yours.

“I- I didn’t come here for salvation.”

His grip soothes, then tightens. Approval, punishment, both at once.

“No.” His breath skims over your scalp. “You came here for me.”

He steps in close to you, hand resting on the outer part of your neck as his thumb skims your trachea.

“How disgraceful,” his hand moves, encompassing you entirely in his hold, squeezing just enough to remind you that obedience is not merely an option. “You come into His house, knelt at my feet, and admitted such a thing?”

He smiles at you, tilting his head, making himself look so loving as his hand moves back to the nape of your neck, tightening.

A sharp tug that makes your scalp sting, and your head is wrenched back, throat exposed, bare and vulnerable.

“There is no salvation for you.”

The words are a whisper against your skin, spoken between the slow stripe of his tongue dragging up the column of your throat.

Heat pools at your core, and his grip doesn’t relent. If anything, it tightens, a silent warning that you are his to position, hold, and keep.

Then his other hand moves, a slow descent dragging down the curve of your spine, fingers deliberate as they press into the linen of your dress.

“But perhaps-”

His fingers hook beneath the fabric.

“-you might earn absolution.”

A swift motion, and suddenly the weight of the dress is gone.

The air bites at your skin, and you’re left standing in nothing but lace. It was pale, delicate, laughable in its pretense of modestly.

Father Geto exhales, slow and measured, yet you see the way his eyes darken.

“How sinful you look,” his voice was mocking, but appreciative. His fingers drift, trailing over the lace of your hip, hooking his thumb under and snapping it against your skin. “Did you wear this for me?”

A pause, then a firm grip to your jaw.

“Tell me, little lamb.” His thumb strokes over your hipbone, your arousal pooling in your panties from his lewd touch. “Did you dress yourself like a whore to tempt me?”

The hand at your throat shifts, guiding your bare knees to the cold once more. The stone is unforgiving, digging into your skin as he runs a finger over your cheek with a smile on his face.

“Let me hear your prayers in another way.”

He deftly unbuttons his black cassock, fingers moving down, one button at a time, each pop of fabric exposing. The tension, the restraint, he could tear it open in one smooth motion, but no. That would be too easy, too merciful. Instead he makes you watch, makes you wait, makes you understand what it means to unravel.

He reveals a black clergy shirt with the sleeves rolled up, the stiff Roman collar still locked around his throat like a vow he intends to break. Below, a pair of black slacks drop, the outline of something far from godly at your eye level.

“In your mouth,” he commands.

You’re almost shaking at this point, arms hesitant as you reach out, letting his obscene, thick erection pop out. It was so impure, concealed by the illusion of propriety as you eye pulsing veins running up and down his length, reddened tip waiting for you.

And you did as told, using your thumb to spread glistening pre around, coating him in his own arousal as you used one hand, a hand that couldn’t wrap around his entire length, grip his base tightly, using the other to cup his balls as you took him in your mouth.

Slowly bobbing your head, letting your drooling mouth varnish his cock as you took communion. The gentle hands that worked him, delicate skin a stark contrast to a heretic like you, so depraved in the way you let him enter your throat.

You choked, gagged on him, letting your cries muffle in the way he completely filled your mouth, tip hitting your uvula, body heaving as he throat-fucked you.

He relished in the way your tiny throat constricted around him, so sacrilegious in the way you knelt before him, both the confessor and executioner that made you beg with lips and tongue instead of words.

He grits his teeth, furrowing his brows as you so desperately tried to cling onto reality, your tongue immobile under the beefy shaft stuffed in your mouth.

“Do you think He watches you like I do?”

And the way he looks at you is crazed, devious as he breaks every promise to his bishop, the grip at the back of your skull a sermon in ruin.

You cry out, pleading for him to let up as he smashes your face to his hips, your eyes welling up with tears at the constant barrage, throat fucked raw.

He lets up only right before cumming, opting to depart your maw with a wet pop! before painting your elegant chest rope after rope, leaving your mouth agape and letting your fallen tears mix with his seed.

This was a place where holiness did not bloom, instead leaving wayward lambs like you to plead for vindication with the altar of his desire bruising your throat.

You stood as he summoned you, bringing you in close as you felt his still throbbing erection at your abdomen.

His lips tasted like purgatory, a promise of suffering and salvation entwined as he devoured you. His teeth grazing your lip, hands exploratory as they gripped and clutched at every curve of your body.

Oh how blasphemous he was, disregarding the sacred and defiling the divine, turning a place of worship into a stage for sin. The alter, meant for holy sacrifice, now served a different kind of offering.

His touch was reverent, but not in prayer.

His hands did not bless, they claimed.

His lips did not preach salvation, but dripped with sin sweeter than scripture.

Your back lay flat on the cold stone, a stark contrast to the heat of his body looming over yours like a sermon given form, his touch a sanctification of something far more profane than holy oil.

He trailed kisses down your body, salaciously flitting his tongue out to leave wet stripes below your navel. You arched beneath him as though in divine rapture, spine curving against the table like the vaulted ceilings of the church itself. And when he leisurely peeled your panties off, letting them drop to the floor and parting your legs like the Red Sea, you understood what Eve felt before the first bite.

He settled between your legs, eyes glossed over separating your lower lips, taking in the state of your weepy pussy under his gaze.

He smiled, lowly chuckling to himself as he inhaled deeply before diving into your folds. He took your clit in his mouth, sucking, letting the edge of teeth graze your sensitive nub as you cried out, pulling gasps from you like a tithe, an offering laid at the feet of his mercy.

He inserted two fingers, probing your g-spot as he ravished you. The sounds of your sloppy pussy filling the once holy air, every thrust of his fingers a lesson in repentance with every moan from you an act of defiance.

“Is this what you wanted? To be devoured at the alter like a sacrificial lamb?”

You tasted like sweet, unrepentant sin. And he consumed you like sacramental bread upon his tongue, so devout, reverent, and insatiable. To say he’s obsessive is an understatement, drinking you like wine as he worshipped you with his mouth, his tongue tracing blasphemies on your clit as he let out soft grumbles against your pussy, each time making you squirm below his hold.

“Mmm. Even your cunt worships me. Clenching so tight, desperate to keep me. How pathetic.”

Oh how pathetic you were, coming undone when his teeth grazed your sensitive nub once more, gushing into the palm of his hand and dripping to the floor.

It was filthy how he made out with you post-orgasm, your thighs suffocating his head as you cried out like in prayer, each stuttering breath an act of worship.

He eased off, bringing his casual expression close to your face as he aligned with your entrance.

Inserting just the tip, he lifted one of your legs to swing it over his shoulder, his other hand busy burying itself in your lacy bra, bringing your breasts out to wantonly tease your nipple, taking the tender bump between his pointer finger and thumb just to pinch, squeezing tightly, and absorbing your moans in his mouth.

“You came here seeking absolution, didn’t you? Then ask for it.” His voice was measured, almost pitying.

Your breath is ragged as he grips your nipple, your weepy walls hopelessly quivered around his tip. “P-Please… please forgive me.”

Your hips miserably ask for more, twitching to feel more of him before he uses both hands to grip you still, smiling against your lips devilishly.

“Forgive you?” His thumbs press tighter into you. “For what, little lamb? Be specific.”

Shame burns hot in your chest contradictory. It was the way he coerced the sins from your lips, bullying you into humiliation as his hips denied you the pleasure you came here seeking.

“For desiring you,” you look at him pleading. “For touching myself at the thought of you. For wanting-”

His grip tightens more, cutting you off. He lets one hand off to grip your neck. “You soil yourself with sin and expect me to cleanse you?” He tsks, shaking his head. “No, you don’t want forgiveness. You want permission.”

His fingers tighten around your pulse, withdrawing the inch he volunteered your pussy.

“Say it properly.”

You wince, voice a strained whisper. “Father, please- cleanse me, punish me, make me pure.”

“Ah… now that is a prayer worth answering.” His lips curl, and he releases your neck while thrusting himself entirely into you, earning from you a choke as you tried so hard to adjust to his size. He abused your hips with his, immediately setting a frantic pace.

You were nearly toppling over, cries echoing against the cathedral walls, not in hymns, but something far more primal and honest as he offered no mercy, a gratifying ache as his engorged tip punishes your cervix.

He was so big, slamming into you continually it was almost cruel. Your walls trembled in pain, throbbing in irritation as he fucked you senseless, his body caging you like a confessional, his grunts a benediction, every sinful sound spilling from his lips a prayer offered.

You instinctively cover your mouth to muffle your wails, until he slaps your hand away.

“Scream for me. Let the heavens hear how far you’ve fallen.”

Even in ecstasy was he degrading you, stripping you layer by layer of dignity, of virtue, of any illusion that you belonged anywhere but here, where above the sorrowful faces of saints and martyrs bore silent witness to your desecration. Their painted eyes gazed down in judgment, candlelight flickering over their sculpted mouths frozen in eternal prayer, yet offering no salvation.

His hands bruisingly tight on your hips in a way that hurt so good, you tried swatting them away. He only escalated his grip, smiling at the way you grimaced.

“A sinner like you doesn’t deserve gentle hands.”

With that he dove his head in, immediately biting at the sensitive skin at your neck, making your back arch so beautifully, which only made him roll his hips deeper.

He wrings hallelujahs from your skin, not sung in choir stalls, but gasped in the way you clung to him tightly, scratching at the broad muscles under his shirt.

You came undone quick when one of his snaked down your body, coming to climax after pressing tap tap taps! on your clit, body writhing beneath him again, grunting into the shoulder you buried your head in, and trying so desolately to push on his abdomen, to stop the barrage of his hips.

But he never did, instead flipping you over so he could split you open from the back.

You truly were sobbing out, body boneless at this point as his cock split you in two, leaving large red handprints at your ass with every smack! he graced you with.

Whimpering, whining underneath him, yet you only got more aroused, thighs trembling each time he smacked you, using his nails to trail light scratches down your back. You should be ashamed. You should be begging for forgiveness. Instead you soaked in sin, clinging to the salvation only found in the way he tainted you.

“Pathetic,” he murmured. His hand smoothed over the curve of your back before scratching you more. “You sound like a bitch in heat. Do you even know how shameful you look right now?”

His fingers traced your spine, landing at your cheeks to spread you for him. “Dripping all over the floor of His house, have you no reverence at all?” His grip tightened, your body just something for him to mold. “Or is this your offering? Your ruin?”

he took another fistful of your hair, forcing your body up as he rutted his hips in a way that hit your g-spot so effortlessly, leaving marks and bruises in places no baptism could cleanse, his tongue licking the back of your ear to brand you deeper than holy water ever could.

Father Geto should have resisted, he should have walked away. Instead your scent clung to his skin, seeping into his lungs, and he couldn’t find it within him to care.

Not when you’re spread out before him like an offering, not when your breathless cries turn his stomach into a pit of fire. Not when you tasted like sin itself.

His vows were never stronger than this, never stronger than the heat of you, of the way you shudder like you were made for this. For him.

He likes watching you break. Loves it, even. The way your eyes disappear into your skull and abs clench, how your nails dig into his muscles like you’re begging for something neither of you can name.

And God forgive him, but the more you tremble and plead, the more he wants to ruin you completely.

His grip on your hair tightens, punishment, possession, and devotion all in one.

“Your body sings hymns for me alone.”

His thumb presses into your spit-slicked lips, dragging along your tongue before shoving it deep.

Right now, he is not a priest.

He is not a holy man.

He is nothing but a sinner, worshipping at the altar of your body, forgetting the taste of the Eucharist and relishing the taste of you.

He was panting, a sweaty fist-full of hair as you came undone again by his cock alone, walls constricting around him in the nastiest way that had him weak, teeth biting down hard on his digit while you rode out your high.

There was nothing he loved more than corrupting- himself most of all.

Sin never happens all at once.

It should have ended each time he caught you watching him from the back pews, lips parted, eyes wide with something that did not belong in a house of God.

Then came the way you lingered after sermons, how your breath hitched under his touch and knelt as his feet.

His vows are nothing but ghosts.

He should have exorcised you.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he welcomed you into the dark.

And now, here he was, spilling into you like a sacrament poured from an upturned chalice, flooding your body with the weight of his unholiness as his seed sprayed you, leaving your sore cervix aching. It pours into you like an unanswered prayer, thick and endless after spilling every last drop inside like he’s engraving his final confession into your flesh.

He lets you down with a hard plop! letting your body hit the cold stone table, bending down to smear his dripping release and your arousal between your thighs, dragging proof of your downfall against your skin.

You listened to the silence of the church, the suffocating stillness that offered no divine wrath, no fire from the heavens or thunderous condemnation, just laying slick and sore, the heat of his touch still branding your skin.

You should pray.

But you don’t.

You should feel shameful.

But you revel in it.

He looks up at the crucifix above you both, smirking. “Forgive me, Father, for I will sin again.”

[drchucktingle]

Chuck, how do you deal with people who are rude about you and your work? I write queer romance and I want to put my writing out there for people to read, but I'm a very sensitive person and I know it will be hard not to take insults personally and let them affect me. I don't want to let that stop me from expressing myself and sharing my art, but I'm scared!

very good question buckaroo. i am a good example of this as pretty much EVERYONE was rude about my work for many years calling it 'so bad its good' (it is just good) and 'terrible photoshop' (i think it has a great and instantly recognizable style) and 'intentionally stupid premises' (i dont think there is anything stupid about sex being fun and whimsical and playful). even these days the reaction of the VAST majority of buckaroos who discover chuck have this reaction AT FIRST, and then learn to appreciate the tingleverse in a more sincere way over time.

all that is to say BEING DOUBTED HAS WORKED OUT VERY WELL FOR ME. art that changes meaning over time can be very powerful, so if someones initial reaction to my trot is one thing and then it evolves into another thing, well that is just good art. while it can feel bad to get a bad review, i would say a bad review just means you have entered a realm of tension and change and discord and WE ARE TALKIN ABOUT ART BUD so that, in itself, is very exciting.

i think of what i do as 'punk writing', and a big part of that means pushing against preconceived sensibilities. not many other authors will proudly say 'there SHOULD be some spelling errors in my erotic shorts because i wrote it in a day and edited it once. that is the FEELING i want to create', but that is my way. by creating what is in my soul i KNOW i am going to bother some buckaroos and that is okay.

now i am NOT assuming you are also doing punk writing (that is okay of course we all have our own styles. what i am doing with tinglers is pretty rare), but it still stands to remember that there are 7.8 billion people on the planet of this dang timeline and some of them are bound to be bothered by your creations. that is not a problem, that is just part of baring your authentic self.

the other thing to remember is theres no REAL right or wrong in art. it can be analyzed in different ways and i tend to look at it in a way of comparing intention to result, but even THAT is not strictly correct. therefore any bad review of something you make is not actually BAD it is just someones information and feedback for you to take or leave. a one star review is just another opinion, it is no more right or wrong than your own opinion, and that is wonderful. it is freeing.

if i see a bad review of my own book, lets just say CAMP DAMASCUS for instance, i do not get upset because i know this: that reviewer is not wrong. camp damascus is five stars for me, but it is one star for someone else AND THAT IS OK. THAT IS THE WAY IT SHOULD BE. THAT IS GREAT ART. also MAYBE THEY KNOW BETTER THAN I DO. just because i wrote the book does not mean i am the authority on it, and the conversation and tension between those that enjoy something and those that despise it is a creative act. the audience engaging with your work is just your art emerging from its cocoon and saying 'here i am. lets see where i flutter off to now'

do not fear the river of this timeline sweeping away your creations and carrying them where it will. this is inevitable, but it is also beautiful and freeing. you cannot swim against it and that is okay bud, because YOU HAVE ALREADY WON. you have already created something and given a piece of yourself back to this timeline and that is a great honor and privilege. it is literally all there is

by creating ANYTHING you are proving love is real, and that is something to be proud of

[heliosunny]

Yandere lucky egg Welt Yang?

LUCKY EGG

Yandere!Welt Yang x Reader

[Lucky Egg Dispenser]

Just a silly game, a gimmick at best. You thought.

But when you received the egg, something told you this was different. The vendor said it would hatch in three days, but by the second night, something strange happened.

As you lay in bed, a strange pull dragged you toward the egg. It was unlike anything you had felt before—like gravity itself was bending around you, sucking you in. Before you could scream, your vision blurred, and for a moment, you were inside.

A vast void stretched infinitely in all directions. Stars blinked in and out of existence. The weight of the universe crushed against you, yet at its center, a figure stood. His silhouette was imposing, his glasses reflecting an unreadable light. His voice echoed through the space.

"So you’re the chosen one."

You barely had time to comprehend before reality snapped back. You gasped, now back in your room, the egg still resting on your desk—silent, unchanged. Had that been… a dream?

By the third night, cracks raced along the shell. Light spilled from within, painting the dark room in a golden glow.

He stepped out.

As the egg cracked open and the light faded, you expected something to be fragile, small, and needing care. Instead, a person stood before you, composed, and radiating an aura of wisdom. He adjusted his glasses, his expression calm, his deep voice broke the silence.

"I must apologize. This is likely unexpected for you."

His tone was gentle, polite, so carefully measured, like he had already accepted this new reality without hesitation. He examined his surroundings before looking back at you with the weight of someone who had lived countless lifetimes.

"I am Welt Yang. And it seems I was meant to come to you."

Your mind raced with questions.

"Why are you fully grown? How did you come from an egg? What happens now?"

The next few days were surreal. Welt adapted seamlessly to your home. He moved through your space with quiet grace—reading books you had long since abandoned, and speaking only when necessary.

When you tried to ask him about his origins, he would smile.

"I have existed before, in many ways, in many places. But here, now—this is where I am meant to be."

You noticed the small things first.

He always positioned himself between you and the door, as if instinctively protective.

His gaze followed you—not in a way that felt invasive, but like he was memorizing every detail.

When you spoke, he listened too well, as if dissecting every word, every emotion behind it.

----

You weren’t sure if shopping was something Welt would enjoy, but you figured it was necessary—he had come from an egg, fully grown, with nothing but the clothes on his back.

The city was a blend of modern technology and old fantasy, towering skyscrapers laced with enchanted neon signs, trains that floated along invisible tracks, and adventurers in sleek, reinforced gear heading toward dungeons to farm points for their next upgrade.

As you walked through the bustling shopping district, Welt remained calm as always. His gaze lingered on technological displays, arcane artifacts, and the strange blend of magic-infused machinery.

"This world is fascinating" he murmured, adjusting his glasses.

You led him into a high-end boutique, a mix of modern fashion infused with enchanted materials. Welt didn’t resist, but he also didn’t seem particularly excited—his approach to shopping was practical, efficient, yet undeniably elegant.

He ran his fingers over the fabric of a long coat, analyzing the enchantments woven into it. "Durability enhancement… a fine choice."

You encouraged him to pick what he liked, but he only sighed softly. "If I must, I will choose what is necessary. But if it pleases you, then… I shall wear what you prefer."

You didn’t enter dungeons often, but you figured Welt might want something useful—perhaps a weapon, a device, or something enchanted for protection. To your surprise, he was far more interested in books. He browsed an ancient tome filled with combat theories, occasionally nodding as if confirming information he already knew.

"You have dungeons here… fascinating. Are you well-versed in combat?" he asked, glancing at you.

You shrugged. "I can manage. But I’m no expert."

"Then perhaps I should accompany you next time. I’d hate for you to get hurt."

The store was packed with enchanted trinkets, weapons, and gear for dungeon explorers. You reached out to grab something—a sleek, rune-etched device—but in your distraction, you misstepped. The uneven flooring caught your foot, and in an instant, gravity betrayed you.

But before you could even hit the ground, a soft yet firm force caught you mid-air.

A low, familiar tap echoed through the store—Welt's cane against the floor. A subtle distortion rippled around you, as if space itself had bent to his will.

You were weightless, suspended just inches above the ground before gravity gently readjusted, setting you back on your feet as if nothing had happened.

"I would suggest being more careful. But… I suppose I shall always be here to catch you."

---

One evening, you returned from a dungeon, exhausted. You barely managed to set your gear down before sinking onto the couch.

You didn’t expect him to say anything—Welt wasn’t one for unnecessary words.

Instead, he simply walked to the kitchen. The soft clink of porcelain, the quiet hum of a kettle. And then, moments later, he set down a cup of tea beside you. You blinked up at him.

"Drink"

You hesitated, then took a sip. The warmth spread through you, soothing, grounding.

And then, rather than returning to his own space, he stayed.

Not speaking, not hovering—just there, reading, sipping his own tea.

---

The marketplace was full of people—merchants shouting their wares, adventurers bargaining for supplies, enchanted displays flashing prices in shifting runes. You had been here countless times before, yet today, the crowd felt denser. You were focused on a shop window, eyeing a sleek new dungeon scanner, when the sudden shove of a passerby knocked you off balance.

A pressure settled against your lower back, keeping you upright.

"Careful" Welt's voice came, steady as always. Slowly, he withdrew his hand from you.

You turned to him, half-expecting a comment, a lecture on paying attention. But he only adjusted his glasses, nothing more.

"Didn’t expect the market to be this crowded today."

Welt hummed in agreement but didn’t step away. If anything, he shifted slightly—positioning himself between you and the chaotic stream of people passing by.

Another person brushed too close, and this time, Welt moved again, subtly steering you toward the safer edge of the walkway.

You glanced at him, a question forming on your tongue, but he spoke first.

"Shall we keep moving?" His tone was neutral, polite—as if he hadn’t just repositioned himself to guard your every step.

You nodded, falling into step beside him.

He was always paying attention. Always watching out for you.

And for the first time, you wondered—just how long had he been doing this?

----

The dungeon loomed before you—an ancient structure half-swallowed by time, its entrance pulsing with an eerie glow. You had been inside dungeons before, but never without a solid reason. This time, Welt was with you. And this time, you didn’t know what was waiting ahead.

The party of twenty adventurers stood at the entrance, murmuring strategies, double-checking equipment. A mix of veterans and newcomers, all here for the same reason—to farm, to survive. You adjusted your gear, your grip tightening around your weapon.

A hand lightly tapped your shoulder.

"Are you ready?"

You turned to him. He was dressed in sleek, reinforced attire, different from his usual formal wear but still undeniably his style.

"As ready as I’ll ever be." you replied.

His gaze lingered on you for a moment before he nodded.

The moment the dungeon gates sealed behind you, chaos erupted.

A tremor shook the ground, and before anyone could react, a force split the party apart—an unseen magic carving an impassable wall between you and the others. The stone beneath your feet shifted, rearranging the dungeon itself.

You barely had time to process what was happening before a deep, guttural growl echoed from the dark.

Your Battle: The Abyssal Maw

The chamber you had been forced into was massive, its walls lined with dripping black stone, pulsing like a living thing. In the center, a hulking creature uncurled itself from the shadows—a beast with jagged obsidian scales, eyes like molten gold, and a mouth lined with spiraling rows of fangs.

Your instincts screamed at you to move. The moment its claws lashed out, you barely dodged, feeling the wind of its attack slice past you.

"Tch—this is bad."

You had fought before. You could hold your own. But this thing was different. It moved with terrifying speed despite its massive frame, and the magic-infused air weighed you down, making every movement sluggish.

You launched a strike, a well-placed slash aimed for its exposed side—but the moment your blade connected, a pulse of energy repelled the attack, sending you skidding back.

"It’s reflecting damage?!"

No. Not reflecting. Absorbing. The wounds you had managed to land were already closing, as if the dungeon itself was sustaining it.

Then, the floor quivered beneath you—black tendrils shooting up, aiming to ensnare you.

You dodged too late.

A sharp pull yanked you downward, the abyss-like tendrils tightening around your limbs. The beast's maw opened wide, its next attack coming straight for you—

Welt’s Battle: The Chrono Tyrant

Elsewhere in the dungeon, Welt stood alone.

His battlefield was different—a massive, circular chamber lined with golden clockwork mechanisms, gears the size of buildings shifting with ominous precision. The air thrummed with magic, time itself feeling… distorted.

And standing in the center, a creature of regal terror.

Its form was humanoid but grotesquely elongated, draped in flowing robes made of shifting sands. A golden mask, cracked and ancient, covered its face, and in its skeletal hands, it held a massive staff with an hourglass embedded within.

With a mere flick of its wrist, the entire world slowed.

Welt’s body reacted before his mind fully processed it—his movements suddenly delayed, weighted. The Tyrant had activated its Temporal Field, distorting the flow of time in its favor.

Welt exhaled, adjusting his grip on his cane. "Hmph. A manipulation of time? I see… then I shall correct it."

The Tyrant struck first, golden chains of pure energy snapping toward him. Welt tapped his cane against the ground, and gravity warped.

The chains veered off course, thrown aside by an invisible force—but not entirely. A second chain materialized mid-air, twisting against the very rules of space and catching Welt's coat.

Time bent.

A vision flashed before him—a glimpse into a possible future. A strike to his left. A trap forming beneath his feet. The slowing of his pulse.

He adjusted.

His footwork shifted, moving not just in reaction, but in expectation. His power countered the Tyrant’s own—where it sought to manipulate time, Welt adjusted space.

The battle was not one of brute force.

It was a war of who could rewrite reality first.

As you struggled against the Abyssal Maw, as Welt confronted the Chrono Tyrant, one thought echoed between you both.

"Where are you?"

Because if you had already fallen—

Then neither of them had any reason to hold back.

Welt did not rush.

Even as the Chrono Tyrant screeched in defiance, the golden hourglass embedded in its staff fracturing, even as the dungeon trembled beneath his calculated strikes—he remained measured.

The moment he had seen through its abilities, the battle had already ended. With one final tap of his cane against the air, the very gravity of the chamber shifted.

The Tyrant lurched, its elongated form crushed under its own weight, ancient mechanisms groaning as time itself unraveled. Gears halted, sand reversed, and in one final, distorted wail—it shattered.

He had no time to linger.

His cane tapped against nothingness, and as if the air itself had become solid ground, he walked.

Not forward—up.

The laws of physics bent to his command as he ascended through the dungeon’s fractured space, his coat billowing in the unnatural wind. The dungeon itself was warping, sections of its structure breaking apart from his influence.

And then, he saw you. You were still struggling.

The Abyssal Maw was relentless, its black tendrils tightening, its body regenerating faster than you could wound it. Your breaths were labored, your body aching from the sheer force of resisting its pull.

It was only then that you felt it.

Your head snapped upward, and there, standing above you, as if gravity itself had ceased to matter, was Welt.

His cane tapped once against the empty space beneath his feet.

"KNEEL."

The very air shuddered as an unseen force crashed downward.

The Abyssal Maw collapsed. Its massive body slammed into the ground, the weight of existence itself crushing it into the dungeon floor.

And you, despite your resistance, were forced down as well. Your knees hit the stone, your breath stolen by the sheer magnitude of the gravitational pull.

Everything was on their knees before him.

The Abyssal Maw let out a strangled, guttural roar, but it could no longer move. The force holding it was absolute.

Welt descended then, slow, deliberate, his polished shoes touching the dungeon floor with elegance befitting a king. His shadow loomed over the beast as he approached, and then—one final tap of his cane.

The weight increased.

The beast’s body cracked.

Its form imploded into itself, crushed under its own mass until nothing remained but a whisper of the abyss.

"Are you hurt?"

What had once been a party of twenty was now reduced to a handful of survivors. The rest—gone. Some torn apart by unseen forces, others crushed beneath collapsing structures.

The dungeon had never been this brutal before.

You and Welt stood among the wreckage, taking in the eerie stillness that followed the battle. It wasn’t victory—it was survival, and barely at that.

Then—a new presence.

You turned.

At the far end of the ruined battlefield, half-shrouded in shadows, stood her. A girl. Purple hair cascading like silk, eyes gleaming with an unnatural glow. No expression. No hostility. Just… watching.

Yet—the sheer pressure of her presence sent a chill down your spine.

You gripped your weapon instinctively.

Welt, however, stiffened in a way you had never seen before.

And then—a flood of something.

Memories. Not yours. His.

You saw it in the way his hand trembled against his cane, his usually composed expression shifting into something unreadable.

A whisper of a name—long buried, long forgotten.

But this was not the time.

"Retreat," Welt ordered, voice steady despite everything. "Now."

You ran.

And for the first time in your life, you saw Welt Yang retreat—not out of weakness, but out of understanding.

Because whatever she was—

Even he wasn’t certain he could win.

Welt led the retreat with calculated precision. Not a single wasted motion, not a glance back—just forward. His grip on his cane was tighter than usual, his breaths controlled but heavier.

The survivors—those few who remained—followed, their footsteps unsteady, half-limping, half-running through the shifting corridors of the dungeon. The walls trembled, reality distorting in ways it shouldn’t.

Behind you, there was no pursuit.

No sound.

But the presence of her remained, like something watching from beyond a veil.

Welt felt it more than anyone.

Memories that did not belong to the present flooded him. Visions of battles fought in another time, another place. The cold sensation of déjà vu, of knowing something yet not remembering why.

"Welt!" Your voice snapped him back.

The exit was so close. The dungeon’s magic was shifting—trying to keep you in. Welt’s mind worked fast. He saw the exit crumbling before it even happened, understood the physics of collapse before the first stone fell.

"Keep moving!" He ordered.

A single tap of his cane against the air. The dungeon’s gravity twisted, shifting against itself. For a brief moment, space folded—a shortcut carved into reality. The survivors didn’t hesitate. They dived through the opening, one by one, escaping just before the structure sealed again.

You followed, but just as you passed the threshold, you turned—Welt was still inside.

The weight of memories, the presence of her, the strain of controlling the very dungeon itself—it slowed him, just for a second.

And in that second, the dungeon walls collapsed toward him.

"WELT!"

Another tap. A shift in space.

And then—he was beside you. The dungeon sealed shut behind him.

You barely had time to breathe before the survivors started counting their numbers, checking wounds, assessing what was lost.

Welt, however, was silent.

"Welt?" You asked, cautious.

For a moment, he did not respond.

Then—he exhaled. "It seems we have more to investigate."

----

Welt had always carried a calm vibe, so steady that it makes you depend on him. Even in the face of overwhelming odds, he remained unshaken.

But now, he was burning up. His body, usually so composed, lay fevered beneath the dim glow of your room.

You had done everything you could. Cooling cloths, potions, even magic-infused remedies. Nothing worked.

The nightmares never stopped.

Then—the system board appeared.

It flickered into existence before your eyes, its interface an unnatural light against the darkened room. A choice.

[Welt Yang is unresponsive. External interference detected. Do you wish to enter his consciousness?]

Your fingers hesitated.

Then—you pressed [Yes].

The world blurred.

And then, you fell.

Inside Welt’s Dream

You landed on solid ground—yet it felt… wrong. Like the weight of existence was shifting beneath your feet.

The sky above was fractured, shards of light and shadow twisting unnaturally. The air carried a heavy, suffocating stillness.

And ahead—Welt.

But he wasn’t himself.

He stood at the center of the dreamscape, frozen. His form was both him and not him, flickering between past and present. His eyes—haunted.

And then—a whisper.

"You should not be here."

Not from Welt.

From the dream itself.

A shadow shifted at the edges of your vision. Something watching. Something waiting.

But you had no time to hesitate.

You stepped forward. Toward him. Toward whatever had him trapped in this nightmare.

You approached carefully, the unstable ground beneath you shifting with every step. Welt remained frozen, caught in a battle you couldn’t see—a war within his own mind.

But then—a red-haired girl appeared.

She stood not far from Welt, her expression unreadable. As if she had expected you.

"You came for him."

Her voice was soft, almost gentle. Not a threat, not an enemy—something else entirely.

The dreamscape shuddered. Reality here was breaking.

Welt let out a sharp breath—a flicker of consciousness, a struggle to return.

You didn’t hesitate. You stepped between them.

"Let him go."

The girl tilted her head.

"You think I am keeping him here?"

The dream pulsed. Your heartbeat quickened.

You could fight. You could force her out. But something told you she wasn’t here to destroy.

She was a presence of the past.

"He doesn’t belong here anymore."

For a moment, she just watched you. Then, she smiled.

"Perhaps he doesn’t."

The dream began to crumble. The world around you brightened, the suffocating weight lifting.

And as she faded, dissolving into the cracks of memory, her final words echoed—

"Take care of him."

A final whisper. A final glance at Welt.

Then—she was gone.

The moment she disappeared, Welt gasped, collapsing forward.

You caught him.

The dream shattered—

And the two of you woke up.

You stretched as you got up, ready to cook something—your body needed food after everything that had happened. But just as you turned toward the kitchen, you felt a gentle pull on your sleeve.

He wasn’t looking directly at you, his gaze fixed somewhere past you, his grip light yet unwilling to let go.

"Stay."

You hesitated.

But then—your stomach betrayed you. A low, unmistakable growl broke the silence.

Welt finally let go. "Go on, then," he murmured. "Take care of yourself first."

Even as he let you go, you could feel his gaze follow you until you disappeared into the kitchen.

As you sat down with your freshly made meal, you let out a satisfied sigh. Finally, food. You scooped up a spoonful, about to take your first bite—

And then, in a blink, it was gone.

You stared at your now-empty spoon in confusion before following its trajectory—right to Welt, who had the audacity to be calmly chewing after swiping your food.

"Welt!" you exclaimed.

He barely looked fazed. With a small, deliberate motion, he tapped his cane against the floor and adjusted his glasses.

"To think of it," he mused, completely ignoring your glare, "I shouldn’t waste food, should I?"

Oh. Oh, he did not just say that.

"That was my food!" you huffed, scooting away protectively with your plate. "You literally said you weren’t hungry!"

Welt simply tilted his head slightly, watching you with a faint, unreadable smile. He looked way too satisfied with himself.

"Thank you for the food." he said.

You narrowed your eyes.

"Fine. Next time, I’ll just have someone else cook for me."

The moment you said that, you felt it.

Welt didn’t outwardly react, but something changed in the air. His fingers tightened slightly against his cane, his shoulders going just a bit too still.

"Someone else?"

You shrugged, missing the way his gaze darkened ever so slightly. "Yeah, maybe a friend or—"

The sharp clink of a spoon being set down cut you off.

You turned to see Welt calmly placing the stolen utensil beside your plate. His expression was still polite, still composed—but something in his eyes told you that he was absolutely not amused.

"I see." He leaned back slightly, "Perhaps I should make sure you have no need for… others."

Before you could question that slightly ominous statement, you sighed instead, choosing to ignore the weird tension he just created.

Looking at him now—this grumpy, elegant, thief of food—you couldn’t help but think about everything you had been through together. The dungeon, the sickness, the nightmares… and somehow, here you were.

You softened a little.

"From now on," you said, nudging his shoulder lightly, "I’ll be in your care."

The tension that had wrapped around Welt instantly unraveled.

For a moment, he just stared at you. Then, his entire demeanor shifted.

Gone was the faint edge in his voice, the almost possessive glint in his eye. Instead, something gentler took its place.

He sighed, a small, nearly invisible smile tugging at his lips.

"Very well," he murmured, voice softer now. "From now on, I’ll be in your care as well."

[thenameswinterfics]

SCIAMACHY

Fandom: House of the Dragon Pairing: Cregan Stark x DragonDreamer!Reader Settings: Season 2 and post season 2 Summary: As the second child of King Viserys Targaryen and Queen Aemma Arryn, your father arranged your marriage to the young Lord of Winterfell, Cregan Stark, in the guise of an arranged marriage that would strengthen the bond between your Houses. But you are haunted by visions of a bloody war shaking the Seven Kingdoms, and the seeds of your doubt are sown when your sister's claim to the throne is challenged. Word Count: 4,4 K Warnings: Angst, mention of death, mention of grief, mention of character(s) death(s), mention of child loss, mention of sibling loss, major spoilers from the book "Fire and Blood" (if you're only following the show please do not read this fic). A/N: I'm back! (sadly for you) This is my very first fic I've written for the HOTD fandom and the very first fic of Cregan. I'm nervous, maybe even more than when I posted my first Sihtric fic, probably because the fandom is vast. It came out different of what I've planned in my head and I lowkey hate the last part, but I hope you still could enjoy it! A special thanks to @foxyanon and @zaldritzosrose for helping me with clearing my outline and for the title, and for her and @legitalicat for the quick beta reading.

Dedicated to my beautiful Cregan wife @sylasthegrim

ENGLISH IS NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE. I APOLOGISE IN ADVANCE FOR MY GRAMMAR AND VOCABULARY MISTAKES.

Header & dividers by @zaldritzosrose

READ IT ON AO3

Sciamachy: (n), a battle against imaginary enemies; fighting your shadows.

An unfamiliar chill ran down your spine as you walked through the dark corridors of the Red Keep, the place you were born but never called home. The soft crunching of the snow under your boots was the only sound you could hear as you juggled in the darkness, the faintest light in the form of rays filtering through the cracks in the walls and allowing you to see a little. 

The sight was vivid, far too vivid, and all you could do was rub your eyes vigorously, hoping that when your vision cleared you would find yourself surrounded by the crackling fire and warmth of your room in Winterfell, the place you were sent against your will but would be forced to call home once you became its new lady. 

But no matter how hard you tried to clear your vision: you would still recognise the long, oppressive corridors you had walked as a child, emptied of the countless soldiers of the Kingsguard that guarded it. Each step became an echo of the memories you thought you had buried with time, but which rose to the surface like a breath of fire from the dragon's jaws. 

You could still hear the voice of King Viserys, the father who despised you from the moment you took your first breath, guilty of stealing your twin brother's life and living in his name. A father that neglected you for not being born as a man.

You could still hear the voice of your sister Rhaenyra, sweet as honey and warm as a mother's embrace you had never known. You were the little sister she always wanted, the glimpse of freedom amidst her duties to the Crown and the relief from the pain of losing a childhood friend. And it mattered not that you were the quietest of her family, avoiding banquets and receptions in the throne room and sneaking out whenever you could, collecting the brightest bugs and muttering meaningless words, flinching when someone touched your hand: you were still her perfect little sister in her eyes. 

And her love was all you wanted right now. 

Your bittersweet thoughts were interrupted by a loud roar from outside, the sound so loud it made your head spin and your stomach churn. You quickened your pace, hoping to find a larger crack in the wall to see what was happening outside. And there you found a vision that made you freeze.

You saw two dragons, an older one and a younger one, chasing each other across a stormy sky, their dragon scales glowing under the lightning and thunder as their bodies pursued each other in a majestic yet macabre dance. It seemed an innocent game between them, but the claws and talons of the older dragon prevailed over the younger, and you watched helplessly as he fell to the ground like a comet from the sky, swallowed by the sea.

You walked on, your eyes never leaving the scene outside, wanting to help the little dragon disappear into the water. But the more you crossed the corridor, the heavier the air you breathed became, and roars of pain, of burning lands and clashing swords filled your ears like a cursed chant. 

You covered your ears and closed your eyes, stopping your journey towards the throne room. When you opened your eyes again, you saw a room far different from the one you were accustomed to: the vibrant and noisy ambience turned into a ghostly one, the faint rays of moonlight illuminating the Iron Throne. A bloody crown, Jaehaerys' crown, lay abandoned on the throne, rivulets of blood running down to your feet, two dragons lying restlessly behind it. Two children stood before it, their backs to each other, holding each other's hands; you could feel their tortured gaze as they watched the bloody chair, and your heart broke at the sight. 

As you approached, trying to touch the crown, soft footsteps made you turn and you heard a wolf howling in the distance.

And then you woke up. 

Duty is sacrifice. It eclipses all things, even blood. All men of honour must pay its price. 

These were the words that came out from Cregan Stark's mouth as he escorted Jacaerys to the Wall. They were a testament to how the men of the North were bound by his rigid code of values and honour, and how none of them had ever forgotten or wavered from an oath. 

And when the Stark were called upon to renew their allegiance to House Targaryen, nothing would make them waver.

His father Rickon had already done so when he was summoned to King's Landing and bent the knee to Rhaenyra Targaryen, and a few years later it was Cregan's turn to renew the oath by accepting King Viserys' offer of marriage to the new lord of Winterfell. The young wolf had recently been freed from the regency of his zealous uncle Bennard, and an arranged marriage to a Targaryen princess would strengthen the bond between the two houses since the times of Aegon the Conqueror and Tohrren Stark. 

But when he saw the melancholy in your lilac eyes, Cregan realised that politics was nothing more than a sweet lie masking a more sinister purpose: you were no longer welcome at the court of King Viserys, no matter how much your sister begged to keep you under her protection, or how much Alicent Hightower dared to show a glimmer of mercy. You would have been a young dragon raised by a pack of wolves, and as his future wife it would have been his responsibility to look after you.

And now he was called to be sworn to House Targaryen again, on the brink of a civil war that could involve the North in Southern affairs. 

“The realm will soon tear itself apart if men do not remember the oath sworn to King Viserys and to his rightful heir,” Jacaerys announced solemnly, walking through the narrow corridors of the Walls, Cregan at his side. The Lord of Winterfell was holding Ice over one shoulder, the sword as heavy as the title inherited from his father. 

“Starks do not forget their oaths, my prince,” Cregan retorted, occasionally bowing his head to some members of the Night’s Watch, “But you must know that my gaze is forever torn between North and South,” he added, a hint of heavy responsibility in his voice. The threats in winter were much greater than in summer, with the Night's Watch and the men of Winterfell stepping up their activities on the Wall, ready to turn back any outside threats. Furthermore, it was rare to see the intervention of the North in matters concerning the South, but Cregan could not ignore that oaths were broken. And traitors had to pay for it.

“War is coming to the whole realm, my lord,” it was the Prince of Dragonstone’s turn to retort back, “Whilst your men plan to raise guards against wildlings, the Hightowers plan to usurp the throne. My mother’s claim has been compromised, and little I believe your lady wife could turn her gaze away,”

The words that escaped Jace's mouth left Cregan in a state of astonishment, his brows furrowing and hardening his already stern face. He had never expected the prince to use his wife so cleverly, even though she was a trusted member of his house whom he had sadly never met in peaceful circumstances.

“The Queen has not forgotten the love she has for her sister, and King’s Landing will welcome her again once my mother succeeds in keeping the realm united,”

“My lady wife has her sister's fate very much at heart,” Cregan continued, his gaze softening a bit at the thought of you, “and you arrival put her in a state of worry, my prince,”

The two young men then stood on the Wall, looking out over the untamed land, now covered in white snow. A biting wind whipped around them as Cregan explained how such powerful creatures as the dragons refused to cross the spaces beyond the Wall, highlighting the dangers of the unknown that folded these lands, while he and Jacaerys negotiated the number of men willing to aid Queen Rhaenyra's cause. Cregan himself knew the importance of keeping an oath to a man's moral integrity, and while his duties were tied to the Wall and the threat of the wildlings, he could not ignore the dispute over the king's word. 

“My lord,” one of Cregan’s men arrived, forcing the two young men to interrupt their conversation, “Urgent news from Dragonstone,” 

The Wolf of Winterfell took the parchment in his hands, and from the brief glance he shared with one of his men, he knew the contents were far from frivolous. He let the paper slip from his hands to read the message, and a sense of astonishment struck him like the chill of the North: his lips curled into a grimace, his eyebrows furled slightly as his grey eyes scanned the words printed on the paper. He could have thought it was an unfortunate joke, but the seal of House Targaryen only confirmed what he had read: 

"Prince Lucerys Velaryon has met his death at Storm's End, slain by Prince Aemond Targaryen.”

Cregan lifted his gaze to rest on Jacaerys' brown eyes and watched as the young prince's face contorted in confusion, then grief as he glanced at the parchment in Cregan's hands, and hot tears watered his eyes, streaming down his sharp face until two small rivers crossed their path on his chin. The young lord watched helplessly as the Prince of Dragonstone staggered backwards, clutching his chest in a tight fist as if trying to hold it together; it was a sight familiar to Cregan, for he had also lost his younger brother and remembered the same sense of helplessness creeping through his veins. 

But as Jacaerys collapsed in grief, a new weight hit Cregan's chest, a sense of dread blossoming in the centre of his stomach as he steeled himself for what was to come. 

He would have to inform you and to bring the news of Lucery’s death. And it wouldn’t be easy.

The bright orange sun hid behind the imposing mountains of the North, its last rays illuminating the tops of the peaks and tinting the snow a soft pink. As the light faded, a few amber rays filtered through the windows of your chambers, illuminating them with a soft glow - the gentle warmth of the sun blending with the heat of the great fire in the centre of the room, accompanied by the soft crackle of the wood.

You sat quietly at the foot of your bed, embroidery hoop in hand, watching your son Rickon play with his wooden toys beside you. A few handmaids moved about your chambers, preparing the large table for the dinner you and Cregan would share that evening. Your lilac eyes rested on the small figure of your son, who returned them with a broad smile. But as you raised a hand and gently rubbed his swollen cheeks, you were seized by a sense of unease. 

It had been a long time since you and Cregan had been married, and from the first night you spent in Winterfell your mind had been haunted by dark omens hovering over your family name. Glimpses of what had happened in the past and what would happen in the future passed before your eyes like dancing shadows, sometimes appearing even when you were fully awake. You could still hear cries for help filling your ears, dragons fighting in the sky with claws and breath of fire, and sinister whispers plotting an overthrow of power, the image of your father's bloody crown on the throne still vivid in your mind. 

The people of Winterfell had always regarded you with suspicion, for you were far from the Targaryen princess they had always imagined. But Cregan had never dared to question your tastes, however strange they might sound, and whenever the duties of lordship allowed him a moment's respite, he would gladly accompany you to the far reaches of the North and catch whatever bugs you wanted. In winter, when the temperatures were too harsh and the bugs were nowhere to be found, he would wrap his great arms around your form and listen to your strange rhymes as he gazed into the fire. 

Your prophetic dreams ceased after you gave birth to Rickon, but they returned when a raven came from Dragonstone with grim news: the death of your father the King, the usurpation of your sister's claim by the Hightowers, and the loss of Rhaenyra's only daughter. Fear settled in your heart as you remembered the figure of the young dragon swallowed by the waves of the ocean, and you wondered if even innocent children would fall victim to this dangerous game of power. 

The doors of your chambers swung open and Cregan appeared. The handmaids greeted him with a nod of respect, and you gave him a small smile as you watched Rickon rise and reach his father, who scooped him up with his free hand and kissed his little forehead.

But it was when he looked at you that you realised something was wrong. His eyes, softened by the sight of you, held a pain that seemed to be fighting him. It was as if he were carrying a burden too heavy for him to bear, heavier even than his duties as Lord of Winterfell, and the sight surprised you: you had never seen Cregan so troubled by anything.

"Leave us alone," your husband's voice echoed in the room, once again wearing his mask of severity, "I need to have a few words with my wife in private,” 

The handmaids bowed their heads and quickly left the room, one of them holding Rickon in her arms. There was an unspoken tension in the air as Cregan cautiously approached you and sat in front of you. He had always been an attentive and protective husband, showing a side that differed from the stern image he gave his men.

“You seem quite troubled, husband,” you spoke softly, your voice faltering slightly. Cregan replied with a heavy sigh, covering your hands with his larger ones and rubbing them with his calloused thumbs.

“Dreadful news came from Dragonstone, my love,” Cregan said in a hoarse voice, choosing his words carefully, as if talking to a wounded puppy, “Your sister, the Queen, lost a child again,”

You felt the ground beneath your feet, surroundings had become as muffled as your husband's voice as he recited the contents of the parchment:

"Prince Lucerys Velaryon has met his death at Storm's End, slain by Prince Aemond Targaryen.”

Feeling like you were about to pass out, you rolled over onto your side and gripped the wooden footboard in a tight vice. You immediately covered your mouth and looked down at your feet as your mind slowly processed the news, but the shock was so strong that no tears came. Your mind raced back to the dream you'd had weeks before Jacaerys' arrival, seeing pieces of a puzzle you couldn't quite understand until now: Lucerys was the dragon that fell from the sky, and Aemond was the other one who sank his jaws into his flesh.

You felt Cregan's worried gaze on you as one of his hands moved to your arm, rubbing it gently in a soothing way. “It pains me to see you so devastated, my sweet wife,” he spoke quietly, breaking the wall of silence between you, “but you must know that House Stark will stand against-“

“I need a moment, please,” your trembling voice interrupted him as you found the strength to stand at your feet, your thick robes swooning with every step you took in the room. You paced back and forth, one hand rubbing the bridge of your nose while the other supported your lower back, grief and confusion mixing in your head as you felt like you were about to succumb to madness: for a moment you wondered if Rickon would fall victim to the Dance as well, but no bad omen was attached to him and that brought you a moment of peace.

Your restless walk ended as you approached the large window of your chambers and saw Vermax flying restlessly outside. It pained you to see such a magnificent creature as a dragon so distraught over the loss of his kin, and it pained you even more when a flash of his fate crossed your eyes as you saw the dragon dancing among hundreds of arrows.

“It is said that dragons can feel their masters’ emotions,” a rough voice came from behind, and you saw Cregan looking outside like you, “They feel their pain, their turmoil, and they share the same grief.” 

“He is preparing for his last flight,” you murmured quietly, turning your head slightly and locking your lilac gaze into his grey one. You felt Cregan’s hand resting on your waist, allowing him to pull you closer and join your foreheads together. 

"Winter is coming, my love, and I need my men here to defend the Wall," he spoke softly, closing his eyes for a moment as he felt the warmth of your skin against his, "but House Stark will pledge its support to Queen Rhaenyra by sending her thousands of Greybeards to fight in her name. Your sister's claim will be upheld and your nephew will succeed her," 

"Jacaerys will never be King of the Seven Kingdoms," you confessed defeatedly, looking down at your feet, "the only kingdom he will see is of sea and salt. He will never see his mother sitting on the Iron Throne. I have seen it,"

Your words brought a heavy silence to the room and you both withdrew into your thoughts. You saw how quickly Cregan and Jacaerys had bonded, how they spent their days hunting and drinking together while they negotiated the terms of war. Luke's death would not be an accident, and you hoped your words would reach your husband, that he would understand the destructive force dragons could be once they went into battle.

Instead, Cregan's only words were his arms wrapped around you, sealing your body in a protective embrace. He whispered words of comfort, kissed your temple and promised victory over the usurpers.

But deep in his heart, he knew it would not be easy.

Grief and anger were the emotions Cregan felt as he rolled the parchment in his hands, his eyes darting over the words written in pitch-black ink. He cursed himself for not believing the signs of your dreams, for thinking that fear had created them for you. But even this time you were right.

The Battle of the Gullet had been costly for the Blacks, and the death of Jacaerys Velaryon was a low blow the queen would not forgive her usurpers. It was Cregan again who had the task of bringing you the unfortunate news, and his eyes would forever be haunted by the sight of your grief: he saw you holding Rickon as the news of blood and cheese reached Winterfell's ears, and those same dull eyes came back to you as you leaned against the wall at your nephew's death.

Not even the news that King's Landing had fallen into the hands of Rhaenyra and Daemon could ease the paranoia you lived with, but it only served to fuel your dark prophecies. Few letters were exchanged between Cregan and Rhaenyra, with the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms constantly asking for her beloved sister and inviting her to return to court and serve if she wished. But Cregan always refused her invitation. 

For the truth was that you were safe in the great lands of the North, surrounded by nothing but the love of Cregan and Rickon, far from that viper's nest that was the Red Keep. It took time for you to adjust to the harsh cold of Winterfell and the coldness of its people, but your calm and gentle nature opened a breach in the heart of his hardened lord, and with it, the people began to love you. 

The night was cold, and the heat of the fire was not enough to protect them from the blizzard raging outside. Cregan could not sleep, tossing and turning, hoping that the Old Gods would grant him some much needed rest. It was only after tossing and turning on his side for the umpteenth time that he saw you awake too, your platinum curls falling gently to your shoulders and your lilac eyes gazing absently at the small bed where Rickon rested. 

The young wolf wrapped his naked arms around your waist and pulled you close, his chest pressed against your back, the layer of your nightgown the only thing separating your bodies. "Sleep seems to have left you too," he said in a harsh voice, his lips brushing against your neck. You closed your eyes and let out a shuddering breath. 

"I have no reason to be asleep, dear husband," you replied absently, the softness of your voice melting his heart. Cregan knew that your mind was far from him, and he feared that your prophetic dreams had imprisoned it again. He let out a long sigh before speaking again.

"A raven came from King's Landing in the morrow," he spoke quietly, keeping his voice low so as not to wake Rickon, "your sister will be pleased to welcome you to the capital and give you all the honours of a Targaryen princess,”

He felt a small chuckle escape your mouth and lowered his head, resting his newly bearded chin on your collarbone, "If it is your wish to reach her, I will order some of my men to arrange a safe journey south for you." Cregan went on, his voice faltering at the thought of leaving you alone while Rhaenyra dealt with her opponents. But you were his wife and the light of his eyes, and if you wished to regain your lost time with your sister, he would accept it without objection.

But the slight shake of your head surprised him, "It wouldn't change anything. Rhaenyra would be dead the moment I reached King's Landing, and the gods know what horrors await there.”

Cregan's brow furrowed, and for the first time he seriously considered the words of your prophetic dreams: if the Dragon Queen was indeed about to die, what would happen if he left his wife alone in the grasp of the Greens? A shiver ran down his spine, anger boiling in his chest at the thought of you being taken prisoner by Aegon the Usurper. 

"That will probably not happen," the Lord of Winterfell scoffed, tightening his grip as if he secretly feared you would disappear in his arms, "You have nothing to fear, my dear woman. Your sister is Queen now. Once the usurpers and the breakers of the oath have paid for what they have done, there will be a reign of peace and prosperity. 

"It will not be her," you murmured, rolling to the other side to face Cregan. You leaned your hand against his cheek as you looked at him with your melancholy eyes, "Rhaenyra is the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, but a crown of ashes will adorn her head and a cloak of fire will wrap her body.”

Cregan leaned into your touch, but he could not quite relax at the grim revelation you gave him: he wanted to find comfort in your presence, but your words were as hard as boulders, carrying a heavy weight he wanted to lift from your shoulders.

"I can hardly see it," he murmured, his voice tinged with doubt, "Rhaenyra is a strong woman, gathering as many noble men as she can for her cause. The kingdom will be stable under her leadership."

You shook your head slowly again, your eyes filled with sorrow, "But the Dragonfire is stronger than she is, and what she has built will crumble with her," you paused for a moment before continuing, "A throne of iron swords will give way to a wooden one, and only when the cripple breathes his last will a child step in, wearing Rhaenyra's crown like a burden.”

Cregan closed his eyes and tightened his grip, a mixture of emotions flickering across his face as he slowly digested what you had told him. He had learned over time that your dreams were not mere hallucinations of a daydreaming mind, but a prophecy destined to come true, no matter how hard you tried to alter the course of events. The deaths of Jacaerys and Lucerys were living proof. 

“I swear on my honour that I will keep raising my banners for the rightful queen, no matter how gruesome our fates will be,” Cregan retorted, lowering his head more until your foreheads met again, “What will be of us?”

"You are bound by your honour and will fight for Rhaenyra until your last breath, my love," you murmured, absently tracing circles on his cheek with your thumbs, "The wolf will cry in the dragon's nest, and his wolf will be heard in the darkest hour. And only when order is restored will the wolf return to his pack."

Cregan stood in silence, his chest rising slowly as he held his breath, the realisation dawned on him: the intense activity on the Wall and the organisation of the harvest had always prevented him and his men from making a proper march on King's Landing, hoping that the Greybeards he had sent would be enough to fight for Rhaenyra's cause. But your words have confirmed that his men will march on King's Landing, and he hopes to find a less devastated city than the one his wife has described.

“Cregan,” your gentle call awakened him from his thoughts, his head resting on your hands, “promise me you will come back to me and Rickon. Swear it,”

The young wolf stood silent for a moment, his eyes drinking in your beauty: it would be painful to leave you behind, but if your prophecy came true, he would be forced to honour his oath and fight for his queen. And so he took your head in his hands, closing the distance and sealing the promise with a long, bittersweet kiss, tasting of farewell but full of hope.

“I swear it.”

If you've come this far, thank you so much for reading my fic! Hope you enjoyed it! Please, leave a comment if you want to be added in the taglist or be removed.

Cregan Stark Taglist: @sylasthegrim @legitalicat @zaldritzosrose

[kujiba]

【MAY THE LAND CONCEAL YOU DEAR GRACE】

୨୧ — ꒰ gn!reader | they/them prounouns | Sagau | cultish behavior

A/n: Heya! This is now a pov of what is happening to other nations across teyvat before and after the arrival of the reader! + Aether and paimon

Nations present: Mondstadt, Liyue, Inazuma

One / two / three / four / five

MONDSTAT, is where the creator had first landed and spreaded their blessings through the people's hearts and minds, of course. That did not exclude the archon of freedom himself, Barbatos.

Barbatos used to accompany (Name) through their vast journeys, being able to witness how life is formed within his own eyes, (Name) only using the palms of their hands that basked the people with warmth and comfort sending peace throughout the nations. He'd idolize and fanboyed over them for days and days without ever getting tired nor bored of talking, creating poets or songs just to spread their fame and story farther into the world of Teyvat.

Whenever (Name) requested someone to sing a melody for them, Barbatos was always the first to come knocking at their door with his iconic and trusty lyre he always held dear to him.

But now, their god had left and never came back for thousands of years. Barbatos, now taking the name of Venti would sit on a thick branch hanging off a tree and play a soft melody like he used to do countless days ago. He wanted to feel that comforting aura and vibe again while the tip of his fingers strummed the strings of his lyre, he wanted his god to be by his side forever till the sun would stop blazing, but now it likely didn't seem to happen anytime soon.

...

A blonde traveler and fairy came by today.

The Traveler helped resolve the issue with Dvalin and defeated some abyss mages behind the act, but alas. Good things would always come to an end since they left to go to the neighborhood nation, Liyue, ruled by the god of contracts, Morax.

Things come and things go, that was what Venti learned a long time ago from a dear companion of his. Yet, only after a few months of the Travelers departure, something new and unexpected came to his land.

A breathtaking person with the face of divinity along with an strong yet calming aura that seemed to heal any stressa a person had built up for years in a matter of seconds. That was just what Venti needed at the time since he was reminiscing of the past making him feel a bit down.

The winds were different today and Venti knew that, he felt an immense mount of nostalgia just by being at the presence of the stranger that was just a good distance away from him.

It wasn't just him that noticed it but some hilichurls, slimes, and other types of monsters curiosly went towards their direction but not too close that the person would be alarmed by the amount of monsters closing in on them.

But unfortunately his eyes didn't quite catch where the particular person went after that, much to his disappointment.

Just then, a papered letter fluttered down onto his thigh safely. Confusion crammed Venti's head while he tried to make sense of the letter that neatly laid on his thigh

"How weird"

He adjusted his sitting position better to a more comfortable and laid back one and then began carefully flipping open the letter to read it's contents on the paper.

Venti's eyes trailed along the words written on it and a sly smirk appeared on his face, An invitation to inazuma? Why not.

Liyue, had just finished a fight between osial and the people with the help of the adeptus. Of course, the main star being the infamous blonde traveler himself that took a big part in defeating the sea god.

"After all that fighting, Paimon wants to go and eat a whole buffet!" Paimon and Aether walked through the lively streets of Liyue with a relaxed attitude and vibe. Paimon chimed in "After this we'll have to go through Inazuma! But it would be tricky sinc- Traveler?" Paimon looked at Aether in worry, he had always been silent but today he seemed more down than usual.

"Is something wrong? Paimon will try and help!" Paimon reassured Aether to try and make the blonde feel better even for a slight moment.

Aether shaked his head and offered and forced small smile "It's nothing Paimon.. It's just, I still hadn't found any leads on my sister.." Aether grumbled to himself with bitterness occupied inside his mouth, everywhere they went somebody would be requesting help. It wasn't bad to help but for him to help people with such simple tasks who could do it on their own perfectly fine was.... Tiring.

Aether looked over to Paimon who smiled at him brightly, floating around him for a moment "Don't worry! Paimons sure there would be loads of leads to your sister! Teyvat is a pretty big world after all" Paimon placed both of her small hands behind her back and gave him a closed eyed smile. Soothing Aether a bit in the inside.

As Aether thought over his memories over the past months he stopped at a particular one. The conversation that he had with Amber when they were still at mondstadt. (referring to ch.1).

In the past, he would frequently feel someone taking over his body and controlling it, at first he was genuinely scared and terrified but after a while, he got used to it and didn't react when he randomly would wake up in a random area. It didn't cause him any harm since every time he did got his consciousness back all the monsters would be defeated and all would be left was loot for him to collect.

So why did he kinda felt something was missing after all this time? Was it because he didn't get possessed anymore? He must've gone insane then if he missed getting possessed.

But he had to admit.. It felt kinda nice, like someone was watching over him from afar and being his guardian...

Sure it would abruptly just take over his body in such random times that it would also caught him off guard, but sometimes he would wake up sitting down on a rock while there was a beautiful mix of copper and ruby at the sky before him.

Aether had mix feelings about this stuff, but he could confirm one thing inside his head; 'Whatever is out there is helping me out, Thanks.'

"Traveler are you coming or what!" Paimon shouted from a distance making Aether snap out of his monologuing "Be right there."

...

A youthful man with long silky brunette hair tied into a long low ponytail, he wore a brown and amber waistcoat that evened out his figure perfectly paired with slim black trouser, black dress boots and dark gloves. On his hand was a cup of green tea perfectly brewed to the right temperature where you could see little steams floating above the cup of tea.

The previous god of contracts who now took on the name Zhongli to mask his identity and blend along with the mortals residing at the Liyue Harbor. He brought his cup closer to his lips where he then blew off the steam and modestly took a sip, savoring the flavorful tea.

Infront of him was the relatively popular, Iron Tounge Tian who told and portrayed the numerous adventures and stories of the stone god to a crowd of people sitting down on a table.

Zhongli took one sip of his tea... And then another?

His amber eyes looked at the clear sky above, today wasn't that cloudy anymore after the fight with osial, aside from that there was something different and he felt it spread throughout every vein and bone inside his Body.

...

Morax was the complete opposite of himself in the present. In the past him and Barbatos would frequently fight over (Name), stating the other was spending way too much time with them. Their quarrel would mostly end with (Name) karate chopping the back of their necks so hard that they were in a coma for 143 days, both nations suprisingly not turning into a frenzy since (Name) multi tasked like a Chad and kept the people in line over the days Morax and Barbatos was unconscious.

In those days of course (Name) was not alone in keeping the people safe. Xiao, one of Morax's most beloved adeptus would be by (Name)'s side at all times, getting frequently flustered whenever they teased or praised Xiao since he would frequently save (Name) from any dangerous activities.

Morax had tried persuading (Name) into signing a contract of 'companionship' with him for eternity, But (Name) called out on his bullshit and told him what he wrote on the paper was like a marriage contract instead. This led Morax to experience the seven stages of grief, much to his disdain.

To (Name), Morax was an important companion to them, often helping and assisting them in their needs and teaching them ways they didn't knew existed inside the laws of Teyvat. But to Morax, what he felt was deeper and more complexed than what (Name) never thought to think of. Truly, he was a massive simp for (Name) only in the past (still is tbh).

But you should never get too attached to things that won't last forever. Morax's world crumbled before him when he had been informed that (Name) went missing and was never found, yet he refused to believe that. So for the past thousands of years he patiently waited at Liyue Harbor for their arrival, already planning on telling them a dozen of stories when they return back to his embrace.

And even now, as a mortal named Zhongli, he patiently waited at his usual spot where they would chatter for days non-stop, as if the world around them passed by so quickly that they couldn't grasp it in time.

Ah, his tea is running low.

Just as he was about to pour his cup to its fullest a snow white letter gently flew towards his tables direction. Zhongli acted quickly and catched the piece of paper in time out of instinct in his previous days.

Golden amber eyes inspected the words neatly written by pitch dark ink, his brows perking upwards by what was told.

"Huh, a request to meet at Inazuma?"

Zhongli muttered in a low voice, skeptical at first but then had a light bulb appear at the top of his head "Then... You must be there too right?, my dear companion."

Inazuma was a nation which locked away their people's freedom, ruled by the Raiden Shogun and their 'grace'. The people had believed that their 'grace' was the true one, not like the others who had been an Imposter all along. The two rulers had come to an agreement to proceed with the Vision Hunt Decree, where in people who had attained a vision would be immediately stripped away from its blessing.

And today was a special one. Their 'grace' had invited people around the world to join in a ceremonial festival, where people would savor the taste of their nation's meal's and drink to their hearts content, this joyfull festival was all thanks to their benevolent 'grace'.

This bold act was just to spread word throughout the world to further increase their 'grace' fame. Of course, their 'grace' never mentioned it to anyone but to themselves.

And like mice falling into a trap, less than a day Inazuma had been packed with various different individual's as they thought this was just a simple festival hosted out of the sweetness of their 'graces' heart.

And to their luck, a certain blonde traveler with his fairy companion had just arrived on boat. Their 'grace' had made sure to be on the Traveler's good side since they posed as a natural, distinguished tool for them to use.

Everything was going as planned for them.

...

So why did you have to appear infront of their 'grace'. you, who is the only true creator and God of this world stood before them.

Their grace...

No.

The Imposter looked at you dead in the eyes, as if saying 'why are you here?'. This wasn't supposed to happen, but you left them no choice, the Imposter had prepared for this kind of situation anyway.

A god can't exist if they're not breathing anyway.

"Don't look at me like that. I'm doing you a favor."

A woman wore a lilac colored kimono, her face having purple eyes and gradient light blue pupils, her braided hair reaching the same level as her calf which had a lovely shade of dark violet that becomes lighter at the ends. That woman's name is Beelzelbub.

Beelzelbub sat floating in her domain the Plane of Euthymia, created by her own consciousness. Her vessel the Raiden Shogun must be managing perfectly at Inazuma right?

...

Beelzelbub also known as Ei, couldn't shake off the feeling that something was wrong for a while now. She felt that something similar to a disaster was approaching on her doorstep, and she disliked everything about it.

Her plum eyes gazed at the voided sky above her, memories flooded into her mind one by one, each having a special place buried deep inside of her heart that she had hidden for a while now.

"I wonder if I continue to search through eternity, will I ever meet you again?" her words came out as a soft whisper, a message towards her grace that she deeply cared and valued for. Ei's mind was driven to many questions but all of them meeting a unfortunate dead end.

Ei was sorta like (Name)'s bodyguard hundreds of years ago, her along with Makoto would frequently visit their abode to tell tale's about youkai, the gods residing in inazuma and how Ei effortlessly massacred them all with her signature move, the Musou No Hitotachi.

But their grace didn't push her away or seemed even the slightest bit uncomfortable, yet instead they would encouraged her to share more of her bloodied stories, and that's what she loved about them. If purity was a person, then they must be standing before her right now.

Still, Ei wasn't exactly known as the 'sharing' type. She and Morax would frequently be on the verge of creating a catastrophe in their nation's whenever it came to who would get their grace's favoritism more.

But their target immediately took a huge turn when their eyes landed at Barbatos who was by their grace's side, yet he seemed to get a little way too close to their personal liking.

Their grace being a polite being didn't seem to mind Barbatos clinging onto them 24/7, you know who did mind the anemo archon's actions?

A pissed off geo dragon and a woman preparing to slice him in half using her blade.

Rumors had been reported that Barbatos body was buried but only left his head uncovered near Windrise as punishment for his actions towards their grace. A day after this took place their grace had personally came to save Barbatos and scolded the two archon's which left their expressions full of shame..

not because they were scolded but because they should've just thrown the anemo god into the abyss.

Ei softly smiled at the nostalgia hitting her hard, reminiscing the days were war had never took over and left countless of innocent lives taken. The uneasy feeling flowing through her body never leaving her mind, what could be the reason why she felt like something was wrong outside?

...

A certain someone had entered her territory, this feeling caught her off guard and slightly made her lose balance, it wasn't worry nor unease but a feeling she always felt when their presence was right next to hers.

"You'd arrived so soon? I would've waited more centuries for you."

Her feet touched the ground. It wasn't a doubt that they had finally came, she had secluded herself all this time to meditate and keep her soul away from erosion. But she couldn't help but wonder how would they look like now? It didn't matter either way.

Since she would love you no matter what form their grace took over.

...

【Follow my command】

Screams of terror engulfed the whole area with bystanders backing away from the body which oozed out a metallic crimson liquid, yet red wasnt the only liquid that seeped through their body.

A golden fluid mixed through with the crimson one, producing a beautiful yet horrid scene.

【You are one step away from successfully reincarnating.】

A/n: hehe... Orv.. Hehe

[blueberrypancakesworld]

The fathers of Rome

Marcus/Geta/Caracalla x wife!reader

warning : fluff, comfort, crying, kissing a bit emotional, birth, family issues, written before the movie came out characters may be different

Summary : Two Emperors and the general of the army all had important duties and responsibilities but by the grace of the gods and with devotion of love the three most influential men find themselves with the news of a pregnant wife. Each of them has a slightly different approach to taking care of his pregnant wife and the birth, because a birth could always go wrong and the gods were rarely merciful.

info : I wanted to write something sweet for the three of them and I know that they could be good fathers (if you romanticize a little bit) now have fun reading and have a nice day.

masterlist

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Marcus Acacius

It was thought that the battlefield was his home and the sword was his wife but few knew that in a vast field of olive trees and wheat fields stood a large villa in which a woman lived with a small household and prayed between her altars to the gods that her beloved husband would return home safely.

A story of a leader of the army of Rome and his wife a former oracle who met him, foretold him his future yet his eyes, his voice and his being would not depart from her own prophecies.

An initial love of safety in times of peace, she appreciated his protective nature in a world that belonged almost entirely to Rome, danger still lurked everywhere. He, in turn, was captured by her grace and care, this devotion to those in need or to himself when she waited on him to heal his wounds and the two felt safe and complete together.

A husband who rushed home on horseback so fast he rode to her from the support posts when the emperors called him back the sleep was won she saw the shadow on the horizon from the balcony and even mounted her horse to meet him, ,,My heart" he embraced her each time still seeing the dirt and emaciation on him after being away for months sometimes years.

His hands closed around her, an embrace, a heartfelt kiss, tears in her eyes when she finally saw him again before they rode back to the villa together, she helped him bathe and wash her before he pulled her into the water himself, not wanting to leave her side and unable to do so for too long, he had missed her, not only her lovely eyes, her voice that he loved to listen to, her hair that he ran through and her hands that he clasped every time he wanted to be close to her but couldn't in public.

But with such intimacy comes love and with love comes desire, desire for each other, desire for each other's bodies and this desire was pursued many nights and on some bright days they were also close until he had to leave again, for the next raid not knowing that only two months after he was gone he received a letter with scrawled writing full of excitement.

A letter that moved him to tears when he read it for the first time, ,,I'm going…to be a father" he mumbled to himself in his tent above and above he realized that love for each other would grow into a life, a little baby that would look like both of them and a big smile stayed on his lips as he hurriedly wrote back to her expressing his joy and his heart, how excited he was himself, how proud he was of her and how much he loved her and praying to the gods that the battle would be won quickly.

The letters changed from weekly to daily as her pregnancy progressed and he received drawings of what she looked like, along with dried flowers she was growing that were made into tea and tinctures to help her body.

The couple were happy with words, kisses seemed to spread across the infinity and she was sent a piece of clothing by Marcus and remembered that he would return to her and their child.

Everything went well until he received the letter that she would go into labor in the next few days, the war took longer than expected, but it was the first and only time he gave his sergeant the lead and started the journey back on his own responsibility, which would take several days, but he had to go to her the fear and worry that something could go wrong that he would lose her or that the child was not healthy.

Fear and worry clutched at his heart as he drove his horse faster and faster as fast as he could back home where he burst through the front door and heard the screams of pain that scared him to death calling her name, he hurried up the stairs to the shared bedroom where he found her crouching by the bed, apparently lying down would lead to complications.

,,Love I'm-I'm here everything will be fine" he murmured hastily pressing kisses on her hand which she immediately grasped painfully and screamed again as she tried to get their child out of her, he could still see the love for him in her tear-stained eyes on her sweat-smeared body they were both covered in blood from the death of the battlefield and the birth of new life as she continued to push and the midwife helped her too.

She screamed out his name her pain and Marcus became more and more afraid of losing her with every pain she had as she continued to hold her giving her courage and hope when his own hands trembled as he heard the ,,I can see the head my lady keep pushing" from the midwife who did everything she could to make the birth as easy as possible.

,,You can do it my heart I'm here push again" he whispered to her as she looked at him in pain he saw the fear and yet the deniability that he was with her before she let out one last scream and he heard a bright scream next to blood splattering on the floor, a bright scream that echoed and seemed never to stop.

,,Congratulations, a healthy baby boy!" the older woman announced, dabbing the newborn baby lightly before wrapping him in linen so he could be held better, while Marcus helped his wife back onto the bed, covering her lightly and giving her a long kiss, ,,I am so very proud my darling," he whispered placing a kiss on her head, before taking his son in his arms, those light, dark hairs on the delicate head belonging to him but the pretty eyes were hers.

His eyes filled with tears of pride and reassurance as he stroked his son and gave her the little bundle she clutched, ,,A piece of love from both of us," she uttered, crying with happiness as she looked into her son's curious face and he chuckled at her as the two parents spent the next few hours together on the bed with pure happiness as the little baby went from laughing with gurgling laughter, to crying and finally falling asleep exhausted in the equally exhausted arms of his parents.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Emperor Geta

The younger but stronger emperor of Rome, the warrior and leader who did not subordinate himself and enjoyed the Coloseum. A young man whose golden lure was not the only thing that seemed to be gold, he bought and made whatever he wanted, be it new armor, a sword, an army or even slaves that he could kill or do anything else with.

But in his life, his only blood besides his older brother Caracalla, there was only one marriage predestined by his father that he should marry her.

Pretty, coming from wealth and power but not a woman he had chosen, it was like fate, his father had decided like a god on the life of his son but it had been like that for some time now and as much as the couple was celebrated in public, the false smiles and hand-holding of the inner circle was seen through, they were both torn.

As much as they tried to understand each other and she appreciated his gift of attention to Rome, as much as he thought she was pretty and appreciated her patience as a true virtue, they never seemed to be in the same mood. There never seemed to have been a thread of fate.

,,Can love ever arise from a loveless duty?" she had once asked him when he wanted to retire in the evenings, avoiding her to occupy himself with his important things that his older brother wasn't interested in and always finding an excuse to avoid her.

She saw the guilt disappear from his eyes in the blink of an eye, saw him straighten the rings on his fingers before he replied with a ,,Love comes from the heart… a duty from the words of others" before he left her room and avoided her for another night, a night that followed one after the other until one day they attended his brother's wedding, Caracalla also married a highborn woman and gave the Roman Empire its first heir, as it should be - it was all just a matter of time.

A fact that Geta also knew, even if with a smile his bright eyes wished nothing but death for his sister-in-law, a plague that she and his brother would have to endure,

,,I want to see you in my chamber after the feast and that is not a question" he murmured to his wife who looked at him with an uneasy look, she had seen the looks, knew what was going on in her husband and yet in a horrible fate she felt the duty in her heart she had to bear him an heir.

The festivities dragged on for a long time, but with wine that overwhelmed her senses she distracted herself from what was going to happen, what he was going to do just because his place in the order of precedence would be changed, she followed his words, made a simple excuse and retired to her husband's room.

She had also heard the wine on his lips as that night began with a kiss, senses dazed by wine and yet there was still a kind of tenderness in his touch despite his hatred, she still held him close to her heart, something she clung to as hope.

A hope and love a lust she would not have expected from him overcame the nights of nights she saw for the first time his jealousy coupled with love,.

,,I know you are trying my love" he told her again and again his hand placed on her tree day after day she seemed to realize if she was pregnant until the day one of the midwives and his healer confirmed she was pregnant and a few tests brought the uncertainty to an end.

She still couldn't believe it was true, she felt his arms around her body and words of praise but double-edged words coming at her as Geta looked at her with a look that told her he had never felt more love for her than now, ,,My Empress pregnant with my heir" he murmured and immediately let the news spread everywhere rubbing it straight into the face of his brother and especially his sister-in-law who was not yet pregnant.

The time after that was filled with happiness and yet paranoia, he was only more attached to her, paying attention to everything and having the room for the child decorated with her taste, choosing the furniture and the colors, ,,The room of the future emperor," he announced to her as she leaned on him and saw the room with pictures of heroic deeds and old legends showing victories.

,,A truly impressive room," she admitted and felt her hands relax on her now round belly as time passed, the moons and suns came quickly and her pregnancy increased, the closer she got to the birth the more excited Geta seemed to become, insisting on being present the whole time…an insistence she kept, only a few moons later her contractions came and the palace was filled with screams and weeping.

Geta shouted at the midwives and healers to kill them all or he would kill them personally while he supported his wife with words and did not flinch when her bloodied hand reached for him, ,,You are doing very well I am with you dear, with our son you will make it" he told her again and again kissing her forehead and giving her hopeful kisses until he shouted more death threats until the news came that it was almost done.

The last screams were full of pain and she clung to him even more, the pain increasing with the thought that had plagued her for months and her heart stopped when she heard the voice of the midwife saying ,,My emperor it's a…girl" and the room slowly fell silent, only the shrill cry of the baby could be heard, a baby without the right sex, a girl no heir.

Her heavy breathing and the tears rolling down her cheeks as he pulled away from her with a jerk, she was supported by her midwives who helped her onto the bed and took care of her as best they could while she watched Geta take her daughter in his arms and turn his back on her, not seeing how he looked with this "disappointing" birth.

,,Everyone out now!" he shouted making the little baby cry again and yet everyone complied, ,,Geta I'm-I'm sorry" she started trying to get to him when she heard a sniffle and paused, at first she thought it was the baby but it giggled and a clearing of the throat was heard before he turned to her.

Her worry vanished when she saw his expression it was pride, it was appreciation it was happiness, ,,The future of the empire an empress from the love of her parents…she will become a goddess" he murmured and came to his wife in bed put the baby in her arms and gave the little girl a kiss on the head while he held his wife's hand and gently stroked it.

He was not disappointed he had gotten something so much better, he had gotten love and a wife who was everything to him a family of his own the only imperial family of ancient Rome.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Emperor Caracalla

The elder son, the first emperor to rule with his younger but much more suitable brother, a pair of brothers who ruled together and brought Rome to the top of the world with its army and its strength, but above all a young man with a woman at his side.

A woman, the Empress of Rome, beautiful, handsome and caring, popular with the people and not underestimated in politics because of her own country of origin and family…but a young woman without children.

A woman without children from an age when she would not be empress she would take other jobs nor have a choice but an empress was not a politician, a warrior or even a farmer an empress was and should always be a mother first so it has always been but not with her.

The wedding was moons ago and even if it was a little difficult at first their hearts were close she loved her playful husband who was always loving to her and had a penchant for entertainment of any kind.

As long as Carcalla wasn't bored, he knew that his brother was concerned with everything else, including politics, for which he had little taste when it wasn't a matter of attack or execution, she could only entertain him by acting, playing or playing in the arena, and as much as they both enjoyed it, she became more unhappy.

,,Your smile is fading, don't you like it? I can hire a new actor or buy new slaves right away," the blonde immediately offered and waved the troupe out so he could talk to his wife who had been laughing all evening, her hand detached from her belly and handed him the parchment he had skimmed over in the morning.

A parchment with the emperor's seal, a message from his brother that Geta had taken a wife of his own on a state visit, ,,The betrothal and wedding, what's with that, starlet?" he asked, tossing the paper carelessly aside before rising and going to the table of fruit and helping himself to the grapes.

He didn't understand the seriousness, the worry or even what it meant for the future, not that they hadn't slept together often, the wedding night had been consummated and they had often shared the bed but it had never led to anything, she rose from her chair and went to him, taking his hand and seeking his gaze.

,,Cara. ..you're still the older one, a duty is on me and I don't know if I can ever give you…an heir" she said the lump in her throat almost cutting off her voice hoping he would understand.

She saw the humor fade from his face and he considered before he gave an almost stunned expression and grabbed both her hands hastily, squeezing them and locking them in a hasty kiss over and over until she broke away to catch her breath, ,,Please I-it may well be me…all this he may be the politician but I am the elder, the first and you do your duty every day you are with me.

,,I leave no room for doubt, do you understand?" he demanded and she found his hopefulness, confidence and euphoria truly inspiring that a small smile crept onto her lips before he took her in his arms the imperial couple found themselves together again that night, taking help from potions, tinctures and many other forbidden practices that they hardly left the bedchamber together for the next few days.

It was clear to everyone what was happening behind the closed doors but after trying and trying this hope was to pay off with her first discomfort and the first change, ,,Congratulations my Emperor you are finally pregnant" the healer announced as he listened to the results of the test and her report, her tears wetting the tunic of her husband who hugged her and twirled around and was all the more pleased.

The news also pleased the people and even when she saw the looks on Geta's face and his wife she knew she had done her duty she would give Rome an heir, she had not disappointed Caracalla, ,,You can never let me down everything will go well the gods are with us" he told her reading she put up stowage in the child's room and her own for the next moons so that she was protected and the child inside her.

The protection seemed to help Geta until a point, and everything seemed to go well until the day of the birth, when blood and tears covered the floor, ,,What's wrong with my wife?" Caracalla who was holding her hand on the bed but the dagger at his side seemed to slaughter anyone who did anything wrong.

He kissed her hands and fingers, tried to cool her forehead with cool cloths and tell her again that she was doing well, ,,It seems that the Empress is pregnant with twins," said one of the midwives who had already brought out the size of the belly and the prolonged birth.

It was news she needed to cry out and Caracalla was filled with joy which he only showed when she continued to scream and push with the help of Caracalla who got into a kneeling position and the moments of pain merged until the first child was pushed out, ,,A boy!" the midwife shouted and took care of the little creature while the younger one continued to hold on to her husband.

The blonde gave her a proud kiss on the head, ,,Do you hear that? Our son love you can do it I am here" he murmured over and over until another cry from her side and a second bright cry told them that it was done that night a boy and his sister were born, Caracalla proudly and happily held the little babies and immediately spoke to them while praising them over and over.

The little family was not only complete but was now a little conversation of their own for each other, they had brought themselves together through love and received two sweet little gifts because they believed that their love was stronger than anything else.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

@morallyinept

@parvanovel -> I konw pregnancy is one thing but it's fluff so have fun :)

@sweetpascal

[st4rgiirll]

first i love you

s2!jj maybank x gf!reader

creds: roseraris for dividers!

the sunrise painted kildare island in shades of gold, and for once, jj was awake to see it. he sat at the end of the dock, legs dangling over the water, his usual bravado stripped away by the early morning quiet.

you found him there after waking up to a cold bed, with no protective arm around you. you knew where he’d be, he always sat by the water when his thoughts got too loud.

“couldnt sleep?” you ask, settling beside him.

you lean your head on his shoulder, you felt his head rest on your own.

“nah.” he replied, his signature half-smile playing at his lips. “too much thinking. dangerous activity, i know.”

you smiled slightly, pushing his side lightly. after months of being together, you’d learned to read between the lines when it came to him, to understand when his jokes were armour rather than humour.

”want to talk about it?” jj was quiet for a long moment, his eyes fixated on the horizon where the sun was climbing higher in the sky.

his fingers fidgeted with the bandana tied around his wrist - one you’d given him months ago when he’d cut his hand trying to fix his bike. he washed it and kept it, asking you to tie it around his wrist and of course you obliged.

“my old man showed up yesterday,” he finally said, his voice barely about a whisper.

“started spouting the same old shit, ‘bout how im just like him, how i’ll never amount to anything.”

your heart clenched. you’d seen the shadow his father had cast on him, how deep those wounds ran. “jj…” you started, but he shook his head.

“that’s not even the part that kept me up.” he continued, finally turning to look at you. his blue eyes were intense, vulnerable in a way you rarely saw them.

“what kept me up was thinkin’ about how different everything is now. how different i am. ‘cause of you.” your breath caught in your throat.

jj maybank didnt do serious conversations, didnt bare his soul unless something was really eating at him.

“you make me want to be better.” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “you make me believe i can he. and thats…” he swallowed hard.

“that’s fucking terrifying.”

“why is it terrifying?” you asked softly, despite already knowing the answer.

“because i love you.” he blurted out, then immediately looked away, as if bracing for impact. “and everyone i’ve ever loved has either left or hirt me and i cant… i cant lose you too.”

the vulnerability in his voice made your heart ache. this was jj maybank, the real one - no swagger, no deflecting jokes, just raw honesty from a boy who’d never been taught how to love or be loved properly.

you reached out, gently turning his face back toward you. his eyes met yours, uncertainty warring with hope in their depths.

“jj maybank.” you said firmly. “i love you too. and im not going anywhere.”

the smile that broke across his face was like watching the sun come out after a storm - brilliant and a little disbelieving. before you could say anything else, he pulled you into a kiss that tasted of salt air and promise.

when you finally broke apart, he pressed his forehead against yours, letting out a shaky breath. “say it again.” he whispered, and you could hear the smile in his voice.

“i love you.” you repeated, feeling him pull you closer.

“one more time?” you laughed, the sound carrying across the water.

“i love you, you idiot.”

“good.” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. “‘cause i love you too, and i plan on saying it until you’re sick of hearing it.”

“i dont think that’s possible..” you smile, nuzzling your face into him.

the sun was fully up now, turning the water to diamonds, and jj’s arms were warm around you. you stayed there together, watching the island wake up, both understanding that something had shifted between you – something as vast and deep as the ocean stretching out before you.

and for the first time in his life, jj maybank wasn't scared of falling. he was already caught.

[alcrego]

Digital walls, but walls

I encourage you to have a seat and read this little 'essay' I wrote back in 2014 if you really want to understand what I'm doing today. I would be really grateful and I'm sure you'll have a much better understanding of my whole work.

Digital walls, but walls

On the way to space and public art | came across the digital walls. They can be "painted" but they also have the function of limiting, of delimiting, of separating...

A change of paradigm has been happening for some years now with the arrival of the internet, which has completely changed some aspects and concepts that have to do with the world of art and more specifically with urban art or public art. From the beginning, this type of art has been carried out in public places with the aim of being observed by anyone on the street and thus making it free, accessible and free from any premise or institution when it is created. (not considering the "warlike coexistence” with the advertising).

The appearance of the Internet has changed it. A vast majority of the art is seen online on a screen, what questions that the street is the natural canvas of this art discipline. While it is for the one who creates the piece, it is almost never for the one who looks at it. Public spaces are no longer just physical, in the same way that the plastic arts are no longer just plastic.

Due to the access to technology and its cheapness, nowadays it is inconceivable to think of art without considering the whole digital sphere, whether as a tool, a method of creation or of dissemination. But at the same time, all these centuries of art history condition the understanding of art, sometimes acting as a burden in terms of understanding what art is.

The dragging of already preconceived ideas and the weight of the genetic inheritance makes us repeat concepts about what art is and was. In the face of such a rapid change of paradigm, it seems that we find it difficult to understand that this whole new digital world is still the world. Both virtual and augmented reality are also reality, but the fact that it is appreciated through a screen sometimes causes it not to be considered as something artistic or even real. Thinking that way we could say that looking at a piece of art on the Internet does not have its complete experience, since we are not seeing it in the place for which it was devised, and neither are we perceiving it in a direct way, but with a screen as an intermediary. But at the same time, I think about all the content that we consume today with these devices - movies, series, photographs, news, and even art, current and classic - and not because of that we think or say that they are unreal.

At this point, where the analog space merges with the digital space, a new artistic expression is born that is entirely digital, where the final piece is born and ends up in the digital realm. Conceived through digital tools and deposited in the public digital space. These pieces of art suggest skipping the step of "existing" first in the ‘real reality’ to reach directly the virtual reality, which is also reality, and once from there, to have an impact on the analog reality.

It would also be curious to reflect on the parallelism between urban art and digital art, since, being in public places, both are susceptible to being stolen, altered or appropriated by other people for different purposes. And also, on the idea of anonymity, always used by urban artists to be able to work in the street without risk of infringement, and now also used in the digital environment. Either by often using copyrighted content that we find on the web (street 2.0) for an artistic purpose or by the "erosion of sharing” in which at some point someone does not credit the work, but it is still shared. In this case there should be a new word to define those people that everybody knows, but nobody knows who they are. “Famonimous" characters or the concept of "famonimity"; people or artists who are known precisely because they are anonymous.

Since the beginnings of urban art, the idea was to use public space to express oneself freely, but we must bear in mind that public space is nothing more than the remainder of the space divided by the private, the "leftovers" after the developers pass, the worthless places left open to the common people by institutions, etc., etc..... With the change of social, technological and artistic paradigm, urban art has been normalized and is now used as a method of decoration of places in poor condition, as a complement to a public road or simply as a means of open artistic expression as it has always been. Because if the initial objective was to make art accessible, direct and open to everyone, that idea has moved to the internet and, in some ways, the radical idea of urban art would no longer have that sense.

Therefore, if we understand urban or public art as a type of art accessible to everyone, free of charge and without any kind of condition, | believe that digital art fulfils this role today, since it inhabits all public places, whether analog or digital. Urban art needs this digital sphere to be able to expand and be visible. Because nowadays most urban art is seen through screens, not in the place where the piece has been created, which makes all these works more accessible to everyone at any time. And so, the ’paradox of the graffiti artist’ is born, the one who expresses his freedom in the walls that imprison him. These walls generate private spaces and what is outside them is considered public space by the mere fact of being spaces where people pass through. But it does not mean that this public space is open to intervention. Every public space is under the supervision of a privative entity, whether it is a municipality, a company or simply, the property of an individual. Public space does not exist, neither in the ‘real reality’, nor in the virtual one. It is always subject to something superior that manages it.

Within this dilemma, augmented reality becomes another alternative to the path of public art. It gives the possibility of creating art in public spaces, only seen on digital devices, and using the ‘real reality’ as the piece’s canvas. Until recently, photography and/or video were methods of capturing reality. Now, with this change of prism, these disciplines moved from being the purpose itself, to becoming raw material for the creation of other new artistic expressions. In this direction, | want to focus on the gif format. This format is strictly digital, so it gives us the option to edit, to add movement to pieces that, before, condemned to live still. We can spread in on the Internet and make it accessible to everyone at any time. When adding augmented reality, the two concepts intertwine, urban/public art and digital art, what gives rise to new artistic expressions that call into question deep rooted concepts such as museum, art and reality.

There are already many centuries researching, testing and creating the same type of art, whether sculpture, painting.... Except for the birth of new "isms" within these disciplines, it gives the impression that they are exhausted. At this point it would be convenient to think about the idea of unique work, copy, forgery, recreation... Thinking about the evolution of art we must consider that all new progress is born of the technological options that occur in each era. Nowadays, the difference is that progress happens every day, very fast, and it seems that it is difficult (or unwilling) to understand this change because of the speed of it. This cultural and genetic heritage blurs our vision and sometimes prevents us from conceiving new artistic expressions as such, since there are no previous references to support them.

But, at the end of the day, every new artistic expression, in its beginnings, was not art. "Science develops ideas that come from art that is inspired by science.” The world of classical art enjoys an aura of untouchable deity because when we are born it has always been there, but we cannot forget to think for a moment with perspective that all this classical art was created mainly by the entities of power of each era: kings, church, political powers...

This is why today (without underestimating the technique and the work of the artists) these types of classical art enjoy an invulnerability as, in the end, it was created by and for the power itself.

Then, this type of art collides with the urban and/or public art, along with digital art. In the public and digital space those who decide what is "art" are the people.

I am sure that the first Cro-Magnon who used a tuft of horse hairs instead of his own hands to paint was seen as an art/magic/belief apath.

Now we live in a new paradigm shift, but in this case it is not local or national, it is global and immediate.

A. L. Crego, 2014.

[michanvalentine]

I just read a post here on Tumblr. I don’t feel like making some elaborate speech—because I’m lazy. And honestly, it would be pointless.

All I’ll say is this: in a massive game like BG3, reducing a character to a single narrative arc—especially an evil one, and especially when the vast majority of first-time players tend to take the hero path—would be a huge mistake.

If that were the case, Astarion would make no sense in any heroic playthrough and would just get staked at the first opportunity. Or maybe a little later, especially if you’re playing consistently. All morally ambiguous characters in BG3 follow the same good/evil final pattern: either they stay on the path forced onto them by others (almost always abusers), or they break free and carve out their own.

It’s literally the theme of the game, for fuck’s sake—you don’t need a degree to get it. Even the song “I Want to Live” is about that. They’re designed to reflect the player’s choices and playstyle, to be adaptable so that everyone—especially players who are morally thoughtful—can enjoy them and face meaningful dilemmas.

I honestly can’t understand this need to strip Astarion of all his nuance, inner contradictions, strengths, and his potential to be something else—and flatten him into some monstrous, evil being who wants nothing but blood and power. It’s so frustrating.

I mean, seriously—the devs and writers busted their asses to deliver an immersive, complex, and emotionally layered experience, and despite all of that being crystal clear in the game, people still insist on chopping off pieces of it to make a version of the character that fits their narrative—but which is, in truth, just a mutilated shell.

And no, this has nothing to do with which of Astarion’s arcs is better, cooler, or more “valid,” for the record. People can play however the hell they want.

What it does have to do with is the absurd assumption that he has no alternative to ascension. That he has no duality. That he isn’t as adaptable as the others, and that he’s some kind of monolithic character who—unlike literally every other character in any media ever—has no arc of transformation, no narrative development, no complexity.

And that’s such a ridiculous thing to even think, especially when you consider that Astarion is one of the companions who clearly received the most attention from the dev team. Seriously, at that point it’s just another slap in the face to poor Wyll, who’s out there being completely forgotten.

Sometimes it feels like Astarion fans themselves throw out bullshit takes just to piss off other Astarion fans. I’m relatively new to the fandom and this stuff still leaves me speechless. There’s a difference between talking about preferences and headcanons, and talking about facts.

People even go as far as speaking on behalf of the devs—what they supposedly intended or didn’t intend during the design and writing process. Like… really? You’re in their heads now? Everyone’s a Mind Flayer when it suits them, huh?

[the-moon-files]

so... my interpretation of guide!reader may be vastly different from others but with my vast assimilation of yours and others content, this is my variation of the one I like envisioning involving concepts such as yours (Humans are NOT Hylians and Guide!Reader) so this is my official start to the ramblings *DEEP INHALE*

when I read the post about reader losing their sord and just punching the monsters and it is working along with the other links being amazed

I imagine that because of the fact that hylian's are so light that they didn't put that much into the growth of physical arts

they can punch and kick fine but that's more so used for scraps agents one another, rather than in fights against monsters

hylian's don't have enough strength or weight to have it be worth it on the battlefield

its much more worth their time and energy to learn things like swordsmanship or artery, and be nimble

but guide dose have: the muscle, weight, durability and training necessary for such a strategy to be worth it

It would be more effective for the reader to use the Muay Thai and Taekwondo they worked so hard on instead of learning something new

_*looking respectfully

I can imagine that this levees them beater of physically than most (*cough* me *cough*)

leveeing them much more prepared

along with giving them a lot more... muscle...

Link's(-wind):... please crush me between your thighs

Guide!Reader: what?

Link's(-wind): what.

I know that it has been said that reader is shorter than time, but I personally like them slightly bigger than time

you know... forehead kissing rang

so it's only slightly less awkward to pick them up

I think their deep honey like voice could be compared to their slightly dark honey-colored eyes

someone like legend would appreciate how their eyes turn golden in the sun light, shining like no ring on his finger

Hyrule loves how they feel different from the cold sweetness of sugar water, instead they feel like rich honey and warm cinnamene

wild remembers them as there very first true companion and comfort

to wars, an immovable force, never leveeing their side

that's all I have fore now, but be warned...

I'll be back!

and I'm putting them in a dress (:<

AHH SORRY FOR LATE REPLY U HAVE NO IDEA HOW MUCH IVE BEEN HOGGING THIS TO MYSELF

Martial arts reader/Mc my beloved <333

U sent in ART TOO??!!!! 😭🙏

i love stuff like this sm ur style is so 😳💌💘💝💖💓��💕❤️‍🔥🙈

The bit abt hylians not needing as much/making intricate martial arts/making their body be the weapon is so peak worldbuilding, if i had an official stamp to say smth is canon in my little HaNH AU (Humans are Not Hylians) i would stamp this 10x over

Acc u know what one sec

Since u made art, have some shitty meme art in return

LMAO its shitty but i hope u know it is the biggest support i can give you, like GOD the ART i keep coming back and Also. Looking Respectfully.

And this is the biggest thank you i could give for sharing this w/me!!

Ok spam headcanons?? Sorta

CONTENT WARNINGS: MILDLY SUGGESTIVE? CONTENT, 16+/18+ MATURER AUDIENCES RECOMMENDED.

COULD YOU IMAGINEEEEE

How the Hylians view Wrestling.

Like, your knuckles/elbows/knees (the parts where thers not as much fat to protect) start to bleed punching armored monsters/arms get tired and you just-

Wrap ur legs around a lynels neck and spin around their neck, using your body weight to drag and lay that bitch Out.

(This is a Real Martial Arts move Ive fucking seen a gif of hold on i NEED to find it- FUCK i cant find it but try youtube and see if yall can find it, its So Real i promise, it was on tumblr at one point)

Who's swooning? Not all 8 Links, nope-

Links, externally (+Wind genuinely): Hahaha, u can crush a watermelow open between ur thighs?? Omg thats so cool- !! 😃

Links, internally (-wind): omfTRIPLEGODDESSES- DID U SEE THAT?? IT WASNT JUST ME RIGHT??? SO WE ALL LOWKEY WANNA,, RIGHT??? 🙊😶🙈😳😳😳(Making eye contact w/each other and communicating this silently, everyone going super red/turning away/ears twitching)

Wind makes you do like another 4 watermelons bc its genuinely so impressive to him (does he think its hilarious to watch the others get all embarassed? Hell yeah- what else are little brothers supposed to do??)

Okay but OG asker/Snack Eater DID NOT emphasize how insane a Muay Thai fighter in HaNH AU would go???

If u dont know, Muay Thai is DEADLY-DEADLY kinda martial arts, like it has been considered assault with a deadly weapon before i think/been banned a lot of other fighting places outside its country of origin? I think its Thailand?

Anyway Thailand is fucking crazy for not having a higher rate of murders acredited to this martial art, bc guys, they use Elbows and Knees in their moves.

Like. That's banned/outright no moves created/or at least taught, a lot of the time in other martial arts from diff places.

Like that kills people. So easily. 😃

Like, the Chain already knows ur deadly, but when u reveal (having done the Honorable/Give Them A Fair Chance Thing) and not used Elbows or Knees yet, only to get into the harder enemies like boss fights and suddenly get real close (!!! What are you doing Guide Back Up-!!)

And whip out an elbow, crack the motherfucker straight in the head, and watch the thing immediately flatline right before their eyes??

Its like seeing a biblically accurate angel descend.

Like their in awe, but also scared? But its also like feeding into the awe?? Jaws have dropped.

U tell them that Elbows and Knees are even banned back home, and every single Link is like "Understandable. Obviously. But also, oh my goddess?? A move even the Humans banned?? Bc its so deadly???"

Wind: "..."

Wind: "...hey. Can you kill Gods? ...Can you kill Ganon?"

(The entire Chain goes silent in shock before exploding into Exsistential Crisis Mode, it takes Time/Wars like 5 minutes to recover from this information/experience enough to get up and calm everyone down lmao)

ALSO???

On a completely diff note-

Shorted Links, Taller Guide Reader my beloved?? <<<3333

Oh i def been leaning towards some Links are taller bc i think the imagery of you picking them up easily is funny (what can i say I live to embarass/try and fluster Time/Twi)

But you being taller?? Sign me tf up babe I have NOTHING against that, and am ALL for it????

Like u go thru a triangle portal/wake up from playing Loz and the Links are all shorter than you?? blessings rain down upon us like????

Twi/Time/Wars (who i headcanon as the tallest Links, in that order, along with Sky when he stops slouching lol)

And for Twilight to just be forehead kissing height?!

(He might've realized he's got a thing for lowkey feeling like worshipping ppl taller than him, bc other than the few humans who did live in Ordon, he was the tallest Hylian)

Time adores looking up at you, like u swear you saw his ears flapping a little

Wars is just,, 😀😳👉👈🥺 h-hey

Like flirting is infinitely harder when theyre a head taller than you, the poor Captain has found

(Yknow bc im personally 5"3, or abt 160cm, i think itd be even funnier if no matter what height you are, ur still taller than the tallest Hylians LMAO, Four our here actually being 3-4 ft tall like hobbits lol)

Omg (i know, i PROMISE, i KNOW) that its not canon at all, but i think itd be funny if the hylians most common hair color was blonde/most common eyecolor was blue/green,

And its rarer for ppl to have brown eyes/dark hair

Like the opposite of a lot of American beauty standards, ur seen at the Y/N, the main character for having darker features

(Lowkey inlcuding skin tone bc, and this is canon, have u seen the skin tone diversity historically for Loz games lmao 😅)

Ok im done sorry for rambling

Thanks again for this!!

___ TW: Hurricane Helene talk below ____

Fair Warning: I WILL NOT be tolerating any condescending/hateful or otherwise negative responses about the effects of Hurricane Helene.

People have died. Myself/my friends/my family/my coworkers have been affected. Be respectful.

You will be blocked/possibly reported for hate speech.

This was like Hurricane Katrina for us, because these areas were NOT prepared for hurricanes.

Those most affected are Mountain communities, we're supposed to have more mild weather, and the last time this happened according to older locals was decades ago, if then.

...

Hey!! If u read my tags of my last reblog, im doing better, we got back to town and realized our powers back on, and then the next day luckily our water was back on too

(its not drinkable but at least we can flush the toliet/shower 😭)

Luckily too by this point the water distribution/rescue crews are here,

DUDE. We were/are so fucked Biden came to look at us 😃

Im personally still on the lookout for missing ppl (my coworker has missing family in the town nearby and in telling my friend over there to spread the word)

And cellular service is back up, but they may jut be bc they brought in temporary towers/Tmobile is giving out free service for everyone too

Its slow going still, all these developments are taking days to achieve if u cant tell

And no pressure, esp if u dont have the spare money,

But if you could donate to help my city/the cities nearby who are still very isolated bc theyre smaller, along with helping our homeless people who no doubt are worse off, thatd mean to world to me/all of us!! <3

Here's some links for that, even if its just tip money/money for a coffee, anything helps!

https://pay.payitgov.com/ncdonations

https://crowdfund.charlotte.edu/project/44126

https://www.chabadasheville.org/templates/section_cdo/aid/6606696/jewish/Hurricane-Helene-Relief.htm

Thanks for reading, and blessed be those still in need of rescue, from human to animals, and to those who have passed.

May those you left behind find peace.

<3

Peact out,

🌙

[mrs-elsie-barnes]

The Old Gods and The New - Chapter 16

Cold Compress | Loki x Reader

After fleeing the court of The Golden Palace, Loki follows and reveals a secret of his own in an effort to console you. But his new form is more than just comforting...

Warning: 18+. sexual content and language. I mean it. Jotun Lokiincluding - size difference, oral sex (m & f receiving) frottage, fingering/large insertion. Hyperspermia. Capital S for SMUT

A/N: I used What If...Loki and thought about an average size woman to compare. This really is just self-indulgent smut so can be read standalone if you're not following the series.

Dividers by @firefly-graphics and @reveriesources

Series Masterlist | Loki Masterlist | Masterlist

The wrath that had sent your fire reeling banked at the cool touch of Loki’s hands around your waist. In one moment you were a raging inferno, destroying every artefact, every decoration and drape in your path, sending other gods fleeing back into side rooms and up onto the balconies. The next you were cradled so softly in his arms, his touch pushing back your anger like a cool breeze on a summer day. 

The burnt cinders of the corridor were gone and you found yourself alone in a similarly vast marble throne room, sealed from floor to ceiling in onyx black marble, seams of gold tracing through the wide blocks into an endless ceiling, twinkling with candlelight. 

Loki held you to his chest, petting the back of your head and down your arms, quenching the fire under his touch and, when you finally looked at him, he still held that pale blue hue that had appeared when he created a sedir shield against your explosive anger. 

“Asynja,” Loki breathed your name like a prayer, cupping your cheek and drawing you closer. 

“Loki,” you sobbed, collapsing back into his chest and allowing your tears to fall freely, “I don’t want to join any of their families.” You finally let the tears flow, now that your anger was subsiding, and your fear rose swiftly to the surface. 

“No one can make you go with them, my darling,” Loki soothed, but you still hiccuped around another sob. “I promise, as long as I am beside you, my darling Asynja, no one shall take you from me. Do you understand?” He pulled back to look down at you, his eyes brimming with a potent mixture of anger and possessiveness. 

“I understand,” you took a deep breath, but the flames that had surrounded you continued to dance around your feet and temples. “It’s just - it’s an awful lot to deal with so suddenly.” 

“I know, I too have experienced a revelation about my parentage, and the powers that come with it.” He kept his eyes steady with yours but you could tell from the twitch in his jaw that he was holding his emotions back. 

Confused you allowed your gaze to rove over him for the first time, he didn’t appear to be hurt by the flames but he still looked different somehow. 

“You’re blue.” 

“Yes,” Loki laughed a little, “I am blue. I thought it might help you to see that you are not alone in discovering new things about yourself and that you are also not alone in being frightened. Although this is only part of my other body.” He admitted. 

You took Loki’s hand, colder than usual, and led him into the centre of the ballroom before tugging him to sit on the floor beside you. “What are you frightened of?” Your dress pooled around you, shimmering slightly, and Loki carefully arranged your skirts so that he could press as close to you as possible. 

“I imagine the same as you, what I will become, should I let the truth of my nature show.” 

“And what is your true nature?” You took his hand and traced the darker blue lines that had appeared along the back, dipping between his fingers. 

“Odin was not my father, my father was Laufey, of Jotenheim, King of the Frost Giants. That is why I am Loki Laufeyson. Father, Odin, used to say that both Thor and I were born to sit upon the throne. It was only recently I learnt that he meant separate thrones and not a joint ruling of the kingdom as I’d believed. I had imaged that we would share responsibilities, divided by our personal skills in both warring and intrigue. But father had other plans. My brother, of Asgard, would rule over the people that we love, the home that I knew. Yet I, the son stolen from his homeland, was destined for a throne in a room I did not remember, a people I did not know, a land I have visited but once.” He choked on his words, fighting the emotion he’d tamped down for so long. 

“Oh, Loki, I’m so sorry. He should never have kept that from you, or teased you and Thor like that.” You squeezed his hands tighter and Loki turned to give you a sad smile. 

“Fear not, darling, I do not wish for a throne, it is no great disappointment to me that it belongs to another.”

“What are you afraid of then?” 

“My form, this is a body, a form, that I was given as a child by my mother. Frost Giants are unlike Asgardians, I fear that my Jotun form would be a terrifying prospect for all around me, there is precious little regard for me as it is, I should hate to ruin my reputation further.” Loki smiled again, patting your hand. “We should leave, we can return to Tonsberg as planned, we’ll be safe there and we can put this whole sorry mess to rest. We have no need to fear prophecies, we can write our own futures.” Loki seemed so sure, confident that he could walk away from this threat as he had so many others that you almost believed him. 

Perhaps you could, but you would have no secrets between you if you did. 

You allowed him to rise, but tugged him back when he offered you his hand, “show me.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“Show me, let it go, be a Jotun, show me.” You repeated, raising your eyebrows and watching him expectantly. “I already saw your skin go sort of blue, what else happens?” 

Loki looked almost bashful, “really, darling, I have no concept of what might happen. Frost Giants can be ten feet tall, I would not wish to risk any harm coming to you.” 

“Loki, please, look at the size of this room,” you both looked up at the ceiling, though it was so high you could barely see it, shrouded as it was in the darkness of the marble. 

“If you insist,” he conceded, “but only for you, my darling.” 

Loki stepped further from you, and as he did he began to change subtly. When Loki used his sedir the change could be tracked by the journey of the magic over his body, but this was different. He grew taller and as you watched you missed his hair lengthening, growing down his back. His skin, an icey blue, was marked with more and more intricate designs and his eyes became red. His growth slowed and you stared up at him. Naked and in his full glory for the first time. 

Loki must have been at least ten feet tall, if not more, though the ballroom ceiling was still far away he could reach up and touch the cascading chandeliers, he was certainly towering over you, sprawled as you were on the floor, attempting to take in his full height. 

“Wow.” You continued to stare, your hand reaching out for him. 

“Is wow a positive expression?” Loki asked, his voice still the same, though louder now. The sound vibrated through you and you clenched your legs together. 

“Uh - definitely a good thing.” Loki was always beautiful, but this form, so tall and broad, muscular and strong, so purely alien. He was truly a god and you felt small before him. “I bet you could pick me up with one hand.” You said, touching his calf absently. 

Loki laughed in response and you felt hot, you hadn’t meant to say that out loud, but it had taken you by surprise how attractive you found this form. 

“Probably,” he quirked an eyebrow. “Shall we find out what else we could do?” 

Loki bent down on her haunches and extended a hand towards you. His hands were still decorated with whirls of darker blue, and you traced them with your own fingers. With a grin he scooped you up, knocking you backwards so that you landed in his open palms.

Shocked, you gazed up at him open mouthed and his smile didn’t fade, instead it morphed into the teasing grin that knew you were in for both pleasure and mischief. 

In this form you looked different too, although Loki was always taller he had certainly never viewed you like this. So small and vulnerable in his hand. He clenched his fingers gently, folding his thumb over your waist and circling your back with his fingers. You curled your arms around his thumb, hanging on tightly. 

When he stood you shook, each of your movements amplified in his palm, as if he was back catching creatures in the forests of his youth, a nymph of his own to play with. He clenched his jaw against the thought - a plaything. His own goddess to play with. 

“You look so - delicate.” He cooed, keeping his voice lower now you were closer to him. 

“You look enormous.” You choked out, heat spreading over your chest and neck despite the chill of his touch. “Please, Loki, distract me from all this?” You asked, he had been right, this was exactly what you needed to feel less alone, less strange in this alien world. But now you needed more of him, you’d never get enough of anything that Loki could offer you, you’d take every facet of him, every version. 

“What do you require of me, my tiny darling.” Loki lifted you higher, holding you to his cheek, your legs dangled in the air but your arms reached forward, touching his cold skin. 

You leant towards him, pressing your lips against the expanse of smooth skin that covered his still sharp cheekbones, and pressed tickling kisses there, “make me forget, Loki. Please?” 

“How could I deny such a polite request.” He cupped his other hand around you and, in a warm shimmer of magic, you felt your clothes vanish from your body. Still surrounded by his fingers your skin tingled, erupting in goosebumps at the press of his cold palm. 

Loki lifted you back towards his face and pursed his lips, blowing warm air into his cupped hands and you giggled. You’d been expecting him to launch into some debauched idea of his, knowing that at least ten crackled around his thoughts at all times, but his playfulness caught you off guard as it always did. 

“Loki!” You squirmed in his grasp and he held you all the tighter for it, bringing you back to his lips. This time he opened his hands and held you still, his second thumb covering your arms over your head so you couldn’t move, and then kissed the soft swell of your stomach. His lips were as cold as the rest of him, but as gentle as ever.

You giggled again, heat skittering over your skin and then shooting between your legs. His thumb swiped over your body and he kissed you again and again, turning you this way and that to find a spot on your side, on your hip, that he hadn’t yet worshipped. 

“My darling,” he sighed, tipping his hand back so that you fell into his palm again, sprawled before him, “what a delicious little morsel you are.” His smile was vulpine and the only warning you got before he licked you, his tongue dipping between your spread legs and swiping up towards your breasts. You squealed in surprise, trying to close your legs but his fingers tangled over them, holding you open and he licked and licked, pausing only to blow gusts of cold air over the heat of your flesh. 

“I could eat you forever and never be satiated.” Loki fit his tongue between your legs, teasing the tip against your entrance until you felt him stretch you gently. He angled his tongue upwards, humming softly and you swore you saw all the stars exploding as the vibrations thrummed through your bones. Loki continued, tilting his face forwards so that he nose pressed on your lower stomach, his tongue still angling upwards and your body sang for him, taut and ready. 

“You’re devine,” he cooed, the rush of his words like a breeze, cooling your slick as it ran down your sticky thighs. 

“Please, Loki, I can’t - I need - I want to cum - I’m going to - agh!” 

Like a sacrificial offering he kept you pinned open until you were begging, pleading for more, the ever tightening coil of your arousal turned and turned in your stomach until you could take no more, gushing onto his tongue with a scream of pained pleasure. The sensations were overwhelming, heat and cold and pressure and pleasure and ecstasy all rolled into one. 

Loki gave you a few seconds to recover before he lay you onto the table, sprawled before him. 

“You are truly a feast, Asynja. Look at you, covered in us both and still smiling.” He kissed your cheek the best he could, swiping his thumb over your belly and thighs, rubbing in his kisses. 

Your chest heaved, sweat cooling between your breasts and you longed for his touch again, even if it was icy, anything but this loneliness now that he had put you down. 

“Loki -” you gasped, reaching for him and finding one of his large hands, your hand barely fit around his finger but his touch was soothing and pleasant on your heated skin.

He brushed his thumb over your breasts, around your nipples, down, down until he could lift your leg and cup you again, his thumb covering your folds and applying pressure to your aching clit. Your body no longer belonged to you, given over to the pleasure that touch created, your hips lifted, rolling into the pad of his thumb and he let you, a satisfied smile on his face as your pace increased, riding his hand. With an obscene moan you arched from the table and into his awaiting touch. 

“You’re not satisfied, darling?” He smirked as you looked at him with heavily lidded eyes, “I promise I’m going nowhere until you are completely sated,” he bent over the table, looming over you and filling your senses, “we shall only leave when you are panting, crying for me to stop.” Loki kissed the side of your face, close enough that you could twine your hands in his hair in an effort to keep him there, so close you thought you could breathe him in. Despite all of the changes to his body, his hair felt the same, soft and silky and smelt like the expensive shampoo he insisted on using. It blended with his usual deep amber scent and something else, perhaps something Jotun, that reminded you of snowy days and icey nights. 

“God - Loki - I - fuck me, please.” 

You both looked down at the sizable erection tenting his magically enlarged trousers, his words rumbled through you, his lips still at your cheek, “I do not wish to break you, my Asynja, perhaps something else may sate your lusts.” His cock bobbed under his trousers, twitching in time with his words, and you knew without looking in his eyes that he was using every ounce of his self control not to at least try and push himself deep inside of you. 

Suddenly his thumb was gone and you gave a low whine at the loss, dropping a hand between your legs to try and continue the glorious cresting of your impending orgasm, but Loki moved your hand away. 

“Patience, darling,” he chided, still cupping the backs of your legs, tugging you to the edge of the long table. Instead of his thumb he stroked his pinky finger down your stomach, one hand keeping you still, the other drawing teasing circles over your belly button, lower and lower with each circle. 

Even his smallest finger felt enormous, Loki in his usual size was enough of a stretch and heat flooded through you at the thought of trying to take even his finger. 

“Lo’,” you were incoherent now, thrashing on the table with every movement, but he pressed on, the pad of his finger at your entrance, spreading your arousal over your clit and pushing slowly, intently, until you felt yourself stretch around him. 

“Norns, Asynja, you are the most delicious woman in the nine kingdoms, in every realm, every universe, every time,” he cooed, pressing further until you keened, your hands rushing back between your legs as if to both stop and continue the onslaught of pleasure. 

You had never been so full in your life, so full and so loved, held as you were between Loki’s gigantic hands, his lips kissing away the sweat on your brow, sparkling like diamonds in the low light. 

“Loki, I - I -” your fingers struggled to find purchase in his hair - on his hands, slipping over his arousal soaked skin and you were dimly aware that that was the feel of you, hot and slick between you, dripping onto the table, before your orgasm hit you at full force, just from the stretch alone. 

“Good girl, Asynja,” Loki growled, moving only slightly as your walls clenched around him, he could feel very flutter and movement on his sensitive fingertips and then you gushed, squirting over his finger and soaking the his chin where he perched between your legs. 

Loki’s red eyes went darker, a blood red full of his widened pupil and drinking in every inch of your sweating, heaving body, your velvet skirts pushed up around your waist and bare legs shining with your arousal. 

“Fuck, Loki - that was -” you dropped your head back onto the table with a thunk, staring glassy eyed at the lights twinkling above. 

“It’s my pleasure, my darling.” He drawled, grin feral, tongue poking out between blue teeth. The first lap was soothing on your heated skin, sending goosebumps up and down your legs. 

You peered up, tucking your head into your chest to view the god between your legs, still worshipping you, still thinking only of you. It was overwhelming, his devotion, and you wanted - needed, to make him feel the same. 

Carefully you eased yourself to the edge of the table, level with his smiling face, and then you let your feet drop to the floor, a hand on his bare chest, pushing him backwards until he lay on the marble floor. Loki was the only other colour in the room, a bright star in the darkness. The bulge of his trousers was pressing against the zipper and you carefully settled on his hip, pushing your hands against the fabric. 

It was Loki’s turn to groan now, the sound a deep rumble that travelled down his body and back between your legs. A fresh wave of arousal made itself known, but you tamped down your feelings. It was Loki’s turn now. 

He helped you to tug the zipper down, freeing his impossibly large cock from its prison. 

“Fuck.” The word was out before you could stop it and you left your mouth hanging open while you took in his full glory. In his Asgardian form Loki was already generously endowed. But as  Jotun - you placed your hand against the firm length and marvelled at how delicate his skin still felt, albeit colder than normal. His cock twitched beneath your palm and a large bead of precum slithered from the tip, tracing the contours of a thick vein that ran up the bottom. 

“Please -” Loki whimpered, his hands twitching. One came to wrap around your waist, gently holding you, the other he clenched in the fabric of his trousers. 

“Can I taste?” 

“Yes - of course, please, Asynja, do not torment me, can you not feel how I ache for you. How my body needs you?” 

He squeezed his eyes closed, the sound of fabric ripping slowly accompanying the tightening of his first. 

“I’d hate to leave you aching, my Prince.” You teased, leaning forwards and wrapping your hands around as much of his girth as you could. Tugging yourself closer to him you let your tongue dancing over his throbbing vein, arching higher towards the flare around the head. Marvelling at the beautiful shades his Jotun form afford him, you missed a second roll of precum escaping down the side and soaking your arm. 

“Norns -” Loki clenched his jaw, “I must apologise for -” 

“Please, don’t.” You knelt up and licked him again, eagerly tasting as much of him as you could. “You taste a little different, it’s fascinating.” 

“Asynja,” he warned.

“Well -” you licked, “you do.” 

Reaching the sensitive head you dipped your face towards his slit, pressing your nose into the soft flesh and pushing your tongue down, swirling it and pulsing as he did to you. You were rewarded with more and more of his cum, weeping past your pressing fingers. 

“Asynja, I cannot hold back any longer - my darling -” 

His cock pulsed, you could feel it against your body were you had pressed yourself against the entire length of him and it felt devine. Your body responded, clit aching for the feel of it. 

“Do that again,” you begged, rubbing yourself against him, pushing on his length until you were lying on his stomach, wrapped around him, legs thrown over his base, toes curling. 

The hand at your waist squeezed too and you felt the sensation of him moving you gently, the drag and pull of skin on skin, your pussy wet and wanting against his cock. 

“You feel so fucking good, my darling, I can’t help it, your little body is perfection, made for me, made for my cock.” 

You mewled, licking and sucking at his rigid length, thrusting your hips into him in seach of your own pleasure. 

“I’m going to cum, Asynja and you haven’t even tried to move away.” He growled, his voice wavering as he neared his release. 

“Don’t want to, Lo, I want your cum, want you to drench me in it, want you to use me and rub me on your beautiful cock, please - please!” Your sobs of pleasure joined his own, a deep knot tightening in the pit of your stomach. 

“My goddess, my princess, my darling I will give you every drop you wish for.” He promised, fingers so tight you knew you’d have an array of bruises to enjoy tomorrow, but now, plunged into the most exquisite pleasure you’d ever felt, you latched onto the spot below his glands and sucked and sucked and - 

Loki came with a shout, chasing your own release with each pulse of his cock, and spurted down your arms and hands, your back and legs. He painted his own chest in ropes and ropes of cum until he sighed, releasing your body and sagging into the floor. 

Slowly he shrank until you were lying chest to chest on the cold floor and laughing. 

“Loki, please tell me we can do that again.” You mumbled into his chest, lazily kissing his now, slightly warmer, skin. 

“I’d be disappointed if we didn’t.” He agreed, “although I think we may traumatise my poor brother should he stumble upon us. Perhaps it’s time we find him and return to Tonsberg?” 

“Can’t we stay here and have a nap?” You closed your eyes defiantly, hoping he’d give in despite how uncomfortable you both were. 

“Sadly, I can not allow a Goddess, such as yourself, to take her rest on a such an appalling hard surface. Only the finest pillows and sheets will do for you.” He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, “luckily, I know just such a place.” 

<< Chapter 15

Chapter 17 >>

[staratinia]

Handcuffed

This work contains smut - minors do not interact

Pairing: Mello x Fem!reader x Near

Synopsis: Mello and Near are handcuffed together and the cuffs will not come off unless certain specific circumstances occur...they require your assistance.

Warnings: Explicit smut

A/N: I know this is different.. I had to get creative. I felt a forced situation was the only way Mello and Near would ever do this together. For the anon who suggested poly- I hope you enjoy this.

wc: 1.8k

_________________________________________

You’re curled sideways in an office chair, one leg draped over the armrest, a cold energy drink sweating in your palm. The ops room is a wreck of cluttered desks, empty takeout boxes, loose wires, the smell of three different kinds of instant noodles clinging to the air like regret.

Mello’s pacing like he’s got a bomb ticking under his skin. Every few laps, he runs a hand through his messy blond hair like it personally offended him.

Near’s on the floor, cross-legged in a sea of puzzle pieces, holding a stylus between two fingers and methodically building a tower of numbered data cards. He hasn't looked up in at least forty-five minutes.

Matt’s the only one enjoying himself. He’s half-sprawled on a desk, red goggles pushed up to his forehead, Game Boy forgotten in his lap, a smirk twitching at the corners of his mouth as he digs through a dusty lockbox labeled ARCHIVE: CLASSIFIED – UNUSABLE ARTIFACTS.

“Hey,” he calls lazily. “You guys ever hear of ‘conflict-resolution cuffs’?”

Near doesn’t respond. Mello doesn’t stop pacing. “The fuck is that, a kink toy?”

Matt pulls something shiny from the box. Metal glints under the overheads—sleek cuffs, silver but inscribed with something that shimmers when he tilts them.

"Magical containment? Binding rituals? You know how they loved that esoteric bullshit"

Near speaks without looking up. “Most of the Archive is unstable or unproven. Do not engage with any items marked in red.”

“They weren’t red,” Matt says, squinting. “They were.... more of a soft rose gold.”

Mello mutters, “If this is another one of your dumbass jokes—”

“Relax.” Matt flicks the cuffs open one-handed, grinning. “They probably don’t even—”

He’s suddenly beside Near. Near looks up. First mistake. Matt snaps one cuff onto Near’s wrist with a sharp click.

“Matt.” Near’s voice doesn’t change, but his fingers freeze mid-stack.

Mello whirls. “Are you fucking kidding me—”

Before you can say a word, Matt turns and slaps the second cuff onto Mello’s wrist.

Click.

There’s a flash of cold light—like a camera bulb and static hitting skin—and then the air feels wrong. Heavier. You feel it. The room does. The whole dynamic shifts.

Mello’s hand twitches. The chain between their wrists is taut. Seamless. No lock. No hinge. No keyhole.

“Matt—” you start, rising.

Matt’s already backing toward the hallway, arms raised in surrender. “Hey, look. If it makes you feel better, I genuinely didn’t think it would work. I was just bored.”

“You moron!” Mello yells, yanking at the cuff. The chain doesn’t even creak. “You cuffed me to him?!”

“You’re welcome!” Matt’s already halfway out the door, grabbing his console on the way. “You two have unresolved tension! This is basically therapy!”

“This is magical fucking bondage therapy!” Mello shouts.

Matt winks at you before disappearing into the hallway. “Good luck, sweetheart. You’re their emotional support peacemaker now.”

The door slams shut.

You've been reading up. The archives are vast. Obscure tomes on magical devices. You finally find it—Soulbind Cuffs: R13 series. Intended as a last-resort bonding tool for high-stakes diplomacy or… couples therapy??

You read the fine print.

Cuffs will only disengage upon shared, consensual emotional alignment. Intimacy accelerates process. Completion of mutual release—emotional, physical—breaks the tether.

You reread that line five times.

Then look up. The boys are glaring at each other across the coffee table, one shared wrist between them. Mello’s sweating, hair stuck to his cheek. Near is tapping a Rubik’s Cube, unblinking.

You clear your throat.

“So. I figured it out.”

Two sets of eyes snap to you.

“They won’t come off unless you both—” you gesture vaguely “—achieve mutual climax. Together.”

Dead silence.

Mello goes red instantly. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“It’s magic!” you throw your hands up. “It doesn’t care about gender or preference or grudges. It wants to see two bonded souls climax together. Emotionally. Physically. Whatever. It's metaphysical synergy.”

Near’s head tilts. “A forced sexual ritual.”

“Don’t call it that,” you groan.

Mello’s voice drops. “We’re not doing it.”

Near nods. “Agreed.”

You sigh. “Then you’ll be like this forever.”

“I’d rather die,” Mello snarls.

“I’d rather wait,” Near says blandly.

You just shake your head.

Mello growls, yanks at the cuff again—still nothing.

You don’t speak either. You just walk toward them. Unhurried. Hands loose at your sides. You kneel in front of them—between them—rest your palms on your thighs. Steady. Present.

“I’m not saying you two have to fuck each other.” That gets their attention. You breathe. “But I can help. If you let me.”

Mello narrows his eyes. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

Near’s eyes are fixed on your mouth. “You believe... you could stimulate both of us to simultaneous orgasm?” His voice is calm, clinical, but there’s a flicker there. A pulse under his skin.

You sigh. “You’re the ones chained together. Unless you’ve got a spell I don’t know about, this is the only way.”

Mello rubs his face. “I can’t believe this is happening. With him.”

“I’m not pleased either,” Near replies, adjusting the angle of his knees.

“Oh shut up, you don’t feel anything.”

“I feel irritation...you are the source.”

_____________

The room’s warm. Lamp low. No one’s talking anymore. The air feels loaded, like static—like something wants to snap.

You’ve peeled your shirt off, unhurried, sitting cross-legged in front of them on the rug. Mello’s leaned back on his hands, arms tense. Near sits perfectly upright, but his jaw flexes.

They’re both watching you. Their bodies still separated by the inch-thick chain, wrists close but nothing else. They refuse to touch.

So you crawl forward.

“This isn’t about you two liking each other,” you murmur, reaching up to rest a hand on each of their thighs. “It’s about needing each other. Right now. In this moment. To get out of this.”

Mello doesn’t answer. He’s biting the inside of his cheek. Near nods once, robotically.

You start slow. Fingers first, brushing over the front of Mello’s pants. He’s already half-hard. No surprise. All that rage, tension, frustration—it’s sitting right there under the surface, waiting to break.

He lets out a breath through his nose, sharp and ragged. “Don’t tease.”

“I’m not,” you whisper.

You turn to Near, and his eyes are on your hands, blinking slow. His cock is delicate, flushed against pale thighs. You palm it gently. He exhales.

Mello scoffs. “Bet he’s never even been touched.”

“By people with manners? No,” Near replies evenly.

“Fucking hell—” Mello grits

“You’re really responsive,” you say, and smirk when he glares.

You turn to Near, he doesn’t even blink. Just watches the whole time as your hand slides against him. His breath stutters when your fingers close around him.

You stroke them both—two different bodies, two different pulses. Mello wants pressure. Speed. Your wrist aches trying to keep up. Near needs rhythm, precision. He twitches if you deviate. They’re both trying so hard not to show how much they want this.

“Still emotionless, Near?”

His voice is breathy, distant. “Physical responses are not proof of emotional depth.”

Mello barks a laugh. “You’re hard as fuck. What’s that—data collection?”

“Observation,” Near says, eyes fluttering as your thumb brushes his tip.

Two different rhythms. Mello fast, tight, frantic. Near slow and steady, your thumb circling the head of his cock in lazy little patterns that make him twitch. They’re both panting now, shoulders rising and falling like they’ve run miles.

Mello’s eyes are glued to your chest. “Fucking take it off.”

You smile and unhook your bra. Mello groans. Near reaches up like he’s unsure if he can, but you guide his hand to your breast and gasp as his thumb brushes your nipple.

Your moan gets both of them to freeze.

“She’s loud,” Mello mutters. “You like that?”

Near presses his palm against you. “It may assist with... alignment.”

Mello snorts. “Just admit it turns you on.”

“Admitting that would alter the results,” Near murmurs.

You laugh softly, then lean back to peel the rest of your clothes off.

When you’re fully naked, they stop arguing. They’re just watching. You crawl up into Near’s lap, straddle him, and reach back for Mello.

You guide him behind you, feel the burn in your thighs as you press back into his body. Mello groans as his cock glides between your cheeks, hands gripping your hips.

“Still want to kill each other?” you whisper.

Near is breathless. “Temporarily... distracted.”

Mello’s mouth is against your neck now. “You’re lucky you’re hot.”

You slide down onto Near first. His cock fills you, inch by inch, and his breath punches out of his lungs. He’s frozen beneath you, gripping your thighs like they’re lifelines. Then you brace yourself and reach back—

Mello pushes in slowly. Gritting his teeth. “Jesus, fuck—”

You’re full. Too full. Both of them buried deep in you, your whole body trembling as you try to breathe around the feeling. They don’t move. Just pant. Wait.

“Move,” Mello growls. “Please.”

You do. It starts slow—grinding your hips, feeling both of them rub against your walls, your insides pulsing around them. Mello thrusts once, sharp. You cry out. Near groans softly, his head tipped back.

You ride Near with long, rolling motions, your clit brushing against his stomach. Mello fucks into you harder now, faster, his hands sliding up your spine. One of his fingers tangles in your hair, pulling just enough to make your breath catch.

“You’re taking it,” he growls. “So fucking good.”

“She’s very warm,” Near says softly. “Tight. Applying correct amount of pressure.”

“You say that like you’re grading an assignment,” Mello snaps, but his voice cracks on the last word. He’s close. So close.

You’re shaking now—full, stretched to your limits, Near seated deep inside you while Mello drives in from behind, his pace steady but cruel, testing your limits.

You’re not just between them—you’re the bridge. Their bodies only joined through yours. And they’re not giving in easily.

“I don’t see how this is supposed to help,” Mello growls against your shoulder. His breath is ragged, cock twitching inside you with every grind. “He’s not even touching you right.”

Near blinks up at you from below, cheeks flushed, hands tightening on your waist. “Incorrect. Her pupils dilate when I stroke her clit counterclockwise.”

You laugh through a gasp. “He’s not wrong.”

Near’s thumb slides between you, slow and exact, pressing just under your clit in a way that makes your body jerk. Mello’s grip tightens. You feel the cuff pulse with magic, heat flaring between their wrists like it knows they’re teetering.

You roll your hips forward, squeezing both of them from inside. Mello groans. “Shit—don’t do that—”

You smile, breathless. “You close already?”

“I’m not—” he growls, but he thrusts harder, desperate to regain control.

Near’s voice is thin now. “I believe your pelvic rhythm is faltering.”

You moan, sharp, overstimulated now. Near’s cock presses deliciously against that tender spot inside you, and Mello’s rutting deep, his thrusts rough enough to make you tremble.

“Come on Mello, prove you’re better,” you whisper. “Fuck me harder.”

That does it.

Mello grabs your hips and slams into you, rhythm quickening, chasing something now. You gasp, clutching Near’s shoulders, your body caught between them like a live wire. The air smells like sweat and sex and magic burning out.

Your moan cuts them off—high and broken, thighs trembling as your orgasm threatens again, creeping up, so damn close.

You clench around both of them. They both twitch. You slow your movement just enough to make them groan.

“Don’t stop,” Mello growls, panting now. “I swear to god—”

“She’s edging us,” Near says, tone somehow still flat.

“She’s gonna kill us.”

You’re close. But you don’t let go yet.

You slow it down again—grind forward, rolling your hips just right. Near twitches inside you, whimpering, his forehead pressed to your chest.

You glance over your shoulder. Mello’s watching you both like he’s been denied air. You lean back into him, and he licks a stripe up your spine. He’s losing control. You can feel it.

“She’s gonna cum,” he pants. “You can feel it. She’s—fuck—she’s squeezing so hard—”

“We have to time it,” Near gasps.

“I know.”

Mello’s hand snakes around you, joining Near’s, both thumbs pressing your clit now in rhythm. You scream—raw and real—as your orgasm surges up, almost there—

But you don’t fall- Not yet. You ride the edge. Over and over. Your body clenching, thighs shaking, everything strung tight as they both work you toward it. One more second. One more thrust. One more slow, circling press—

And then Mello snaps.

“Now—fuck—now—”

Near arches under you, voice breaking.

And you let go.

It hits like fire—every nerve bursting open, you're clamping down, you scream—legs shaking, body convulsing around them as you lock down hard, milking them. as both of them cry out, twitching inside you, pouring into you, their hands locking on your body as they lose everything.

The cuffs explode.

A flash of white light. A high-pitched crack. Metal hitting the floor with twin clinks.

You collapse, limp and slick with sweat, breath heaving in your throat.

Mello slumps forward, panting against your back.

Near goes still beneath you, eyes closed, his chest rising and falling fast, but even.

Nobody speaks. Until—

“You edged me for fifteen minutes,” Mello says, voice hoarse.

You smile. “You needed the attitude adjustment.”

“She’s... efficient,” Near murmurs.

You roll off them with a groan. “I need water”

No one moves for a while. Then Mello says, “You’re seriously not gonna look at me right now, are you?”

“I’m preserving what little sanity I have left,” Near murmurs.

“You literally came while I was inside her.”

“So did you.”

“I hate this.”

From the hallway, you hear:

“Yo, did it work?” Matt’s voice. “Are the chains off?”

Mello throws the broken cuff at him. “I hope your controller gets stuck on ‘up.’”

Matt grins and ducks. You laugh. Your thighs hurt. Your whole body aches. But the cuffs are gone. “Next time he plays matchmaker, I’m burning the Archive.”

[lightlycareless]

I was thinking about what would happen if like Y/N or Naoya somehow turned into like a younger version of themself for a day and the other has to look after them. I think it’d be especially cute if the younger version only had memories up to that age. Like all I can imagine is little Naoya all shy with grown Y/N not realizing that’s his future wife or maybe little Y/N feeling a little intimidated by adult Naoya or maybe even overwhelmed since he probably dotes on her too much lol

UHHHH THIS IS SO CUTE????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????

Also, I had to rewrite this various times because I wasn't sure how to begin!! Like I had the idea, but I just couldn't translate it into words; but, here it is! Which I hope will be to your enjoyment :>

Warnings: fluff. you and naoya turn into kids but in different occasions. who knows if they happened in the same timeline lol. there's also references to other works which I will link once I update the masterlist. :') but you're always welcomed to search in my prompts tag.

Happy reading!

On one hand, we have a young Naoya that at first, doesn’t believe there’s a girl like you walking around the estate. And secondly, that the two eventually marry… in the future? Your relationship is somewhat explained to him; whatever he could understand it anyways…

But it still doesn’t make it any better.

It’s just—impossible! There’s no way he’d ever be with a girl that… that is so rude like you! Improper of the Zen’in standard!

Yet, makes him feel all warm up inside whenever you prepare his favorite miso soup, make sure that he’s well-dressed if the weather is too cold…or checking up on him between your duties, simply to see if he’s alright, if he’s getting adjusted to this temporary situation while reassuring him a solution will be found.

Something that was unusually done, without an ulterior motive, that is. Which instinctively draws him closer and closer to you.

And that’s without even considering your affinity for the same hobbies as him! Like watching anime, reading manga… Naoya couldn’t keep to himself anymore, he needed to know more of his supposed wife.

“How do you know all that?!” He exclaims, surprised by your vast knowledge in all his favorite series.

“Well, I had someone to guide me. An excellent teacher, actually.”

“Really?! Who???” Naoya breathes, growingly slightly jealous at the notion of someone else gaining your attention—guess that has always been the same.

“It’s you, silly.” You giggle, gently patting his head and making him blush. “You’re very passionate about these things whenever talking about them, how could I just ignore you?”

If the previous situations weren’t enough to warrant his complete devotion, this was. Because from that point forward he begins to follow you everywhere, but no longer with the intention of scrutinizing you—no; or learn more about the future the two shared, but rather, with the desire to impress you!

Naoya needed to hear more of lovely laughter, your warm compliments, and your bright grin whenever bringing you gifts—like those flowers he somehow knew were your favorite though you never told him (not in this age), but yet made sense for a pretty girl like you.

“I’m also a really good sorcerer, you know? I can protect you if you’re ever in danger!” Naoya proudly states, unwittingly making you laugh. “It’s true! There’s no one stronger than me!”

“Oh, I know you’re the strongest.”

“…And the most handsome one too.” He quietly adds, you smile.

“Perhaps, but you’re undoubtedly cute right now.” You then pinch his cheek, flaring his face even further before giving you a dejected pout, in disagreement of your words. “Ah, there’s no need to get upset—being cute is just as good!”

“No, as the great heir of the Zen’in I can’t be cute, I have to be handsome!” he protests. “Heir’s have to be strong and intimidating, command fear with every step I take!”

“And you’ll do just that, in due time. There’s no rush to get there.” You explain, shuffling the top of his hair. “Everybody is doing their best to get a solution for your situation, so why don’t you enjoy being a kid again? Not everyone gets a second chance like this one.”

“Because I don’t want to, I want—” he suddenly goes quiet, as if slowly accepting his face. Or perhaps still making amends with it.

“What is it?” you worriedly ask, leaning closer to him. “Is everything alright?”

“…Will you wait for me, then?” Naoya says, making you blink. “To when I grow up and become stronger, capable of protecting you and making you happy?”

You’re taken aback by his sudden declaration, a striking contrast from the unwittingly arrogant child that never missed a chance to show off and impress you… now doubting his own capabilities.

But you could see it in his eyes, even then, what you always suspected of him became true: Naoya longed to love, and to be loved. To feel important, cherished. That his life was more than just fulfilling his family’s expectations and obtaining power.

He wished to be part of something greater, and that proved to be a family with you.

A part of you aches knowing that, if you hadn’t met him, his destiny would’ve been vastly different. Stings understanding his childhood had been nothing short of lonely.

But what you weren’t able to do then, you’re capable of now. Given a chance to mend those pains, give him a sample of what’s to come…

Reassuring him that life indeed, gets better.

“Yeah, I’ll wait for you. So, do your best until you become just that!” you cheer, offering him your pinky finger as the definitive sign of dedication, which he intertwines with his own soon after. “But don’t keep me waiting too long, we still have lots of things to do together once you’re grown up, ok?”

“I promise!”

When Naoya eventually returns to his normal self, you expected everything to go right back to how it was. But much to your shock, he’s unusually… shyer. As if ashamed that you got to see the only part he wished to keep a secret from you.

Yet, his actions would soon disprove your assumptions, revealing that the truth behind his demure actions were nothing less that appreciation, gratefulness at your unwavering commitment to take care of him, even when he was nothing less than a wimpy child—a stage in his life only God knows how much he needed that. To be cherished.

Makes him realize how truly blessed he is to have met you, and share his existence with yours.

Even on his last day on earth, he’ll never forget that.

You, on the other hand, are the complete opposite—at least in the very beginning.

When Naoya was nothing short of a reserved, shy piece of work, you went ahead and portrayed a striking contrast: enthusiastic to know all about this cool, somewhat handsome man that diligent took care of you.

Sure, you were a bit confused (frightened) as to why you were surrounded by people you didn’t know since you essentially lived at the Zen’in estate by that point, but after managing to calm you down by the presence of your family and a quick rundown of what happened to you, you were nothing but glued to Naoya, always excited to know what he’ll do that day, what cool technique he’ll perform during training…

Or, of course, what sweets he’ll bring for you to taste. Mochi are your all-time favorite hands down, but you’re always open for other suggestions.

“Do you like these?” Naoya would ask even though the answer was quite obvious in the way you gobbled all the treats one after another, yet he still wished to know.

“Yes! I love them!” you nod fervently, grabbing another sweet, unwrapping it, and moving it into your mouth. “They’re my favorite!”

“More than taro mochi?” He teases.

“No, that’s impossible. Taro is the best flavor in the whole world. Maybe Ube too.” You state confidently, in such adorable way he couldn’t help himself from laughing. And naturally, making you blush. “What…?”

“Nothing, guess it’s good to know that you’ve always been this way.”  Naoya admits.

“How?” you ask back, tilting your head.

“Like… you.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“It’s perfect.” He smiles before winking. “But I’m sure you already knew that, little princess.”

“N—no…” you quietly answer, looking away in hopes of calming your thundering heart, but of course, that would prove impossible for the following days because as soon as he uttered those words, they were imprinted into your mind… leading you astray.

From a giddy, playful girl, you soon turned into a blushing mess whenever he was around, now quietly admiring him from afar instead of eagerly approaching as you always did. As if you’ve grown self-concious…

And this sudden change obviously caused Naoya to worry; fretting if perhaps he had done something to bother you, if not worse…

But all those worries disappeared the moment you finally gathered all the courage to ask him what has kept your thoughts busy these past few days: about the relationship you two seemed to have beforehand.

Eyes glistening with curiosity as you eagerly awaited his response, revealing to him the hopeless in love child he always suspected you to be, far beyond the Gengar-loving, mochi enthusiast everyone knew.

“How did we meet?”

“At school, Jujutsu High.”

“What did you think of me?”

“That you were pretty.”

“And what did I think of you?”

“…That I was bold.”

“Did you like me??”

“Of course, I still do.”

“Did I like you too?”

“Not at fir—yes.”

“How did you ask me to be your girlfriend?! Oh, did you bring me flowers and chocolates?!”

“Actually, it was you who asked me to be your boyfriend.”

“Huh??? I thought you were supposed to do that!”

And Naoya wanted to, but your eagerness and fear of losing him made you move first. Now that he reflects on it, it’s quite endearing.

“It’s a moment I hold dear to my heart.” He confesses. “And I know you did too.”

You blush.

“…And where did we go for our first date? Was it Disneyland?!”

“Not quite, we went to the mall first.” Or technically, the fair. You frown.

“What?” He chuckles. “It was a nice date.”

“I always wanted my first date to be at Disney…”

“I did take you for Valentine’s day, though.” Naoya says, fondly recalling the way you… appeared to have fainted at his revelation. Luckily, you remained conscious throughout your whole visit at the park to make it memorable. “And we’ve gone many times after, too. I always took you whenever you wanted.”

“Really?” you breathe, stars in your eyes. “Did you really do that for me?”

Oh, if you only knew how far he’d go for you.

“I even bought you that giant Gengar you’ve always wanted. Got you all the gaming consoles you can think of, with the newest videogames too.” He goes on, each and every word making your smile wider and wider. “And naturally, all the sweets you can eat. But not too many, or it’ll be bad for you. I’d say there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”

Yet, when he expected another question to follow suit, just as you’ve bombarded him these past few minutes, he’s welcomed by silence. A prominent saddened pout on your face as you seem to be… disappointed by his words. Or maybe the limits he’s had to place to your sugary addiction?

“Now, Y/N; it’s necessary for your health—”

“No, it’s not that.” You interrupt, shaking your head, before going eerily quiet yet again.

“Is everything alright, Y/N?” Naoya asks, worried at this point. “Does something hurt?”

“…I don’t want to be like this anymore.” You eventually confess, revealing the tears beginning to form at the corners of your eyes; it’s a sight that has his breath hitching to his throat, tightening his heart.

“Y/N—”

 “I want to grow up!”

“You will, we’re already looking into it, remember? There’s no need to stress about it.” Naoya attempts to reassure you, carefully wiping away the tears in your eyes that simply keep on flowing. “Just hang on for a little longer, I promise this will be over sooner than you expect.”

“But—but what if it doesn’t? What if I stay like this forever?!” you sob, causing something in Naoya’s heart to tighten. “I won’t be able to live all those pretty things again!!”

“Then I’ll just have to find whoever did this to you and turn into a kid myself.” His sudden words earn him a quizzical look from you, which he presses on with a smile. “That way we can experience all those things together again, like it was the first time.”

“Na—Naoya…”

“I promised we’d always be together, through thick and thin. Even if we turn into kids, or 100 years old.” Naoya continues. “So don’t cry, little princess. As long as you have me around, everything will be alright.”

The culprit is soon found after that, and you, with the work of talented sorcerers, return to normal.

However, as in both instances, you kept these new memories as a child—alongside a sentiment of nostalgia that hindered you from doinganything else that wasn’t being close to Naoya.

Such was your determination that it actually pushed you to do one of the things you least enjoyed, which was seeking him when busy, heading straight into the training grounds where you knew him to be at this hour—ignorant of who else was there—to pour your affection in a tight embrace and sweet kiss.

A demonstration that he doesn’t reject, though he is startled by it. Upon noticing your longing, Naoya promptly dismisses the rest of his entourage, before captivating you into his arms and deepening your gesture.

“What is the meaning of this?” He breathes, slightly flustered as he debates whether to lean in for another kiss or let you talk. Naoya choses the latter, he asked for an answer, after all.

“Do I need one?” you respond, a smirk appearing on his lips as you rest your face against his chest, pulling him impossibly closer to you. “…I just wanted to thank you for… taking care of me—No. For everything.”

“It’s my pleasure.” And duty, he once swore. “And I’ll do it again, if you want me to.”

“No, that won’t be necessary.” You give him a breathy laughter, looking up into his eyes. Remaining so, still, attentive to the gaze you fell in love with, before assessing your feelings yet again—your undeniable truth. “I love you.”

And Naoya smiles in response, placing a kiss on your forehead as he gives you the confirmation of what you already knew; for all eternity so.

“I love you too.”

This just made the two fall more in love with the other; also, when your kids eventually come along you can easily say "hey, they act like you!" and Naoya will no longer be able to deny it 🤣

As stated in the beginning, this was very sweet 🥺 Thank you so much for filling my life with a little bit of fluff—it's always necessary during these harsh times. Now I want to write domestic fluff jfc. Look what you have done... lmao 🤣

Anyways, thank you so much for sending me this ask!! I truly enjoyed writing it.

Now, take care and hope to see you soon!!!

[awkward-halfhug]

granted | eleventh doctor x reader

summary : you've had your first kiss with the Doctor, but now you're nervous about the changes in your relationship

sequel to permission

(also on my ao3)

0.6k

In the days and months since you kissed the Doctor, since he kissed you back, your relationship undergoes some changes. It has to. You've wanted it to. But still, at first you're nervous.

It's awkward, trying to gauge if you can show your feelings openly now or not. It should be obvious that you can. The hard part should be over. But it isn't clear in your mind. Your nerves complicate things.

For instance, are you dating now? You don't know. You've never had a boyfriend before. And would the Doctor laugh at the idea? Of being your boyfriend at the age of however very old he is at this point? That thought makes you feel small and insignificant. Every time you think about his age and vast experience compared to you, the insecurity starts to creep in.

But when the doubts try to overwhelm you, the Doctor seems to know. Or maybe he doesn't, but he still manages to comfort you. It's, ironically, with things he's been doing all along. Just, slightly different.

He's always touchy, always has been. Quick, over in a blink affection. So quick you might think you imagined it were it not for its frequency. So you have to think about it. And when you do, you see it. It's all the same, mostly. Except now its slower. He's slower about it. Like he's taking his time, savoring the moments. 

He still holds your hand, but now he doesn't let go when the running's done. Now he strokes your thumb with his; slow, slow, torturous. Draws patterns to your palm with his finger. Your hands never fully separating. Clinging like magnets, pinkies interlocked. Swaying gently in the space between you.

Sometimes you mosey through cities, marketplaces, sightseeing. But if his gaze is anything to go by, there must be something better to see on your face. Something better than waterfalls of crystal and purple-pink mountains. Something in your eyes he hadn't seen a million times before. His expression soft. His eyes thinking and concluding something you couldn't guess but still makes you blush regardless.

He still peppers kisses to your head, quick one, two. But then a third, lips pressed to your hairline. He stays, hands cradling your head, drawing you to him. He breathes in your scent, holds it, releases the air slowly, reluctantly. Filling himself with you like helium in a balloon.

He still hugs you to him after a brush with death, but now he doesn't let you go. Not for a long, long time. Like he's afraid to let you go. And he holds you tighter, almost crushed to him. Arms around you like he can protect you from all danger. Like he can ward off death with his body. It feels like maybe he can, sometimes.

And the difference you'd thought might happen, had hoped would happen, does. Still wondering at times if you're allowed to, whenever you want, you kiss him. Enacted with a searching look or bob of the head that can speak without words now. The asking silent but clear. The permission granted in a nod, a shy smile. Hesitant kisses from you. Imploring kisses from him. Exploring kisses from eachother. Kisses for reassurance, seeking and seeking and finding.

They're all little things. And they're all big things. All of it a question asked from one to the other. Feverish or shy, always the same.

Are you mine now?

Always answered, every time, silent words poured into eachother.

Yes, yes, always.

You think maybe you don't have to know if you have a title or not, for now. Think maybe you have something stronger than that to keep you both together. Think when you're more comfortable, more confident, you'll ask him, far too late in the relationship, if you're his girlfriend now. You think he'll laugh at you but you won't mind, because he won't be mean about it. Think maybe it's been obvious this whole time.

thank you for reading! If you enjoyed, please consider reblogging/commenting, it means a lot ♡ and if you have requests or ideas, feel free to let me know in my ask box