#the empire of gold prompts | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

riboism · 2 months ago

Text

me and my husband

》 pairing: emperor! k.hj x (f) empress! reader

�� wc: 5k

》 plot: In a cold and ruthless empire, the neglected Empress is trapped in a loveless marriage to a possessive and tyrannical Emperor. When he encourages her to take a lover to occupy her loneliness, she begins a forbidden affair with a kind-hearted gardener, discovering a tenderness she’s never known. But when the Emperor learns of her growing feelings for the gardener, he becomes consumed with jealousy, rage, and betrayal, prompting him to realize his conflicted feelings and take matters into his own hands.

》 content: royalty au, possessive! hongjoong, lots of plot before smut, affair, low key angry sex, cunnilingus, backshots, breeding, creampie, verrryyyy toxic ;)

》 a/n: this is heavily inspired by the Hulu drama, ‘The Great’, and that goddamn hongjoong mv…

🎧 me and my husband by mitski, all mine by brent faiyaz, heartless by the weekend, closer by nine inch nails, why do you love by hongjoong

You paced back and forth in your large bedroom, the quiet ticking from the grand clock slowly maddening you until your patience evaporated. Mingi is exactly eight minutes late. You wouldn’t have noticed his short delay if it was any other night, but tonight you were particularly desperate. It was only a couple of days before you’d start bleeding again, and your body craved to be taken care of. The frustration made you so hot and flushed to the point that you felt it unnecessary to apply any color to your cheeks.

Exasperated, you fell back into the softness of your bed. Despite his occasional lateness, you had to admit—having a lover had its perks. At first, the idea felt like a betrayal of everything you stood for, a compromise of your values. But Mingi had been nothing short of a blessing. The loneliness of the palace had once felt suffocating, but his presence brought a much-needed light. He listened when no one else would, his warm gaze making you feel seen in a way the Emperor never had. And when words failed, he used his skilled fingers to help ease away your tensions.

It was the Emperor’s idea for you to take a lover. Yes, you and your husband had sort of a dysfunctional marriage. When you first learned that the young Emperor was going to ask for your hand, you were quickly consumed with giddy daydreams of romance and devotion, the kinds you read about in books when you were just a little girl. You were ecstatic to have his companionship until reality struck you hard and fast. The hastily arranged wedding had barely concluded when you finally met him—a man who was far from the Prince Charming you had imagined. The dreams of a happily-ever-after faded quickly, replaced by the cold, bitter truth. You were merely another pawn in his political game, and he was far too absorbed in his own indulgences to care about yours.

Emperor Kim Hongjoong was a tyrant draped in silk and gold, a man whose cruelty knew no bounds. He ruled with a reckless disregard for his people. While his subjects froze to death in yet another senseless war, he surrounded himself with decadence—hosting opulent feasts that spilled into debauchery and indulging in nights of ecstasy with his concubines. The Court tread lightly around him, knowing full well he was a volatile storm, ready to unleash fury over the slightest inconvenience. Beheadings became as common as whispers in the palace halls, his wrath fueled by whims and dulled by the haze of opium that clouded his mind. Rational decisions—military or otherwise—were a rarity, yet the Court still pushed him toward one expectation: securing heirs to continue his blood-soaked legacy.

You quickly came to understand your place within the palace walls. Though you bore the title of Empress, in his eyes, you were nothing more than a vessel for producing heirs to secure the bloodline and strengthen the Empire.

Intimacy with the Emperor felt like a cold and mechanical ritual devoid of any tenderness or affection. During your ovulation, he would visit your chambers to complete the act, barely sparing you a glance as he did. There was no care or affection—just the unceremonious deposit of his seed before he rose and left without a word. More often than not, you were left lying on your back, alone in the dark, listening to his footsteps echo down the hall as he sought solace in the arms of his concubines. Whatever happened between you two during those nights was never meant to bring any joy or passion; it was simply a transaction, a duty to the Empire.

What stung most was how he never saw you as he did those other women. To them, he gave smiles, laughter, and sometimes even whispers of affection—crumbs of humanity that you yearned for but never received. And yet, despite his cold indifference, you couldn’t help but crave his attention. You told yourself that if you waited, and if you worked hard enough, he might one day change. Maybe, just maybe, he would soften, hold you, and love you the way you had once dreamed.

But with each passing day, the hope grew dimmer. He only seemed to drift further away, leaving you to grapple with the emptiness he left behind.

“I don’t have time,” the Emperor said curtly, his tone leaving no room for argument. He shoved the last of his rice into his mouth and rose swiftly from the table. He always ate with such haste in the mornings, as though the very act of sitting with you was a burden he couldn’t wait to escape.

“All I’m asking for is a short walk in the garden. Please, I’m so lonely here. Can’t you spare even a moment for your wife?” you pleaded, your voice trembling with the weight of your desperation.

He adjusted his trousers with a practiced indifference, striding toward the tall, imposing doors without so much as a glance in your direction. Just as he reached them, he let out a dismissive scoff.

“If you’re so bored, find yourself a lover.”

The Emperor had said many cruel things to you before, but this? To suggest such a thing as an affair to his wife? It was beyond comprehension. That very day, you found yourself pacing the palace garden, his vile words echoing endlessly in your mind.

Was he truly that done with you? you wondered bitterly. Did he care so little for you that the thought of you lying with another man didn’t stir even the faintest flicker of jealousy? No, he had encouraged it. Not out of love, but because your presence was a little more than an inconvenience to him. The realization gnawed at you. He treated you with less regard than his concubines, women he showered with affection, attention, and gifts—things you had only ever dared to dream of.

Your sadness was written across your face, too raw to hide, even when the tall, unassuming gardener approached with cautious concern. His voice was soft as he asked if you were alright, his eyes kind in a way you hadn’t experienced in ages.

And it was in that moment, standing before Mingi, that you decided. If the Emperor’s cruelty extended so far as to push you into the arms of another, then so be it. You would take his advice.

—

A loud thud at the door jolted you upright. That must be Mingi, you thought, heart racing as you leapt out of bed. Hastily, you grabbed the bottle of floral perfume on your nightstand, spritzing a delicate mist onto your neck. You smoothed your lacy nightgown and approached the door on light feet, careful to keep your movements discreet—though you knew the palace walls were full of watchful eyes, and rumors of your midnight visitor were no secret.

But the giddy flutter of butterflies in your stomach twisted into a cold, heavy weight the moment you opened the door.

Standing there, framed by the dim hallway light, was not Mingi.

“Emperor,” you murmured, quickly bowing to mask your shock.

Hongjoong’s gaze slid over you like a blade, lingering far too long on the delicate lace of your nightgown. His lips quirked upward in a faint smirk, amusement glinting in his dark eyes. You flushed under his scrutiny, the sheer fabric suddenly feeling like a cruel betrayal.

"All dolled up," he remarked, voice low and taunting. "Quite the effort for someone who isn't me."

You widened the door hesitantly, feeling cornered, as though you had no choice but to let him in. The Emperor stepped inside with an air of entitlement, his presence suffocating in the small space. As he moved further into the room, you instinctively leaned out into the hallway, glancing left and right, hoping to catch a glimpse of Mingi—wanting to warn him somehow.

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about the gardener,” Hongjoong said casually as if reading your thoughts. “I sent him away.”

You froze mid-step, the blood draining from your face. “S-sent him away?” you stammered, dread pooling in your chest.

Hongjoong threw his head back and laughed, a sharp, grating sound that only deepened your unease. “Relax,” he said, waving his hands in mock reassurance. “I didn’t kill him. Tempting, sure, but no. I figured that might upset you.” His words were flippant, but there was a gleam in his eyes that made your stomach twist. The reassurance didn’t land—it only left you more anxious.

Without invitation, Hongjoong strolled further into your chambers and collapsed onto your bed with an exaggerated sigh, as though he owned every inch of the space—and, of course, he did. His dark eyes roamed over you unabashedly, lingering on your bare, glistening legs and then rising to your barely covered chest.

“You look nice,” he said, his voice thick with amusement. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in that nightgown before. Did I buy that?”

You didn’t respond, refusing to acknowledge his comments. Your thoughts were racing, consumed with worry for Mingi. Where was he? Was he safe? What did Hongjoong do to him?

The Emperor sat up, his expression shifting into something more serious. “I didn’t kill your boy toy,” he said bluntly. “I’m simply relocating him. He no longer works at the palace.” He patted the mattress beside him. “Now, sit down.”

Your heart plummeted to your stomach. The room felt colder, heavier. You wanted to scream, to hurl every ornate wedding gift he had ever given you in his face, to demand answers at the top of your lungs. But you swallowed it all—the anger, the fear—and silently moved to sit beside him. It had been so long since you were this close to him, and you needed a moment to size him up before doing anything rash.

“Why did you send him away?” you asked quietly, the tremor in your voice betraying your attempt at calm.

“Because I decided I don’t want to share pussy with a lowborn. You couldn’t have at least gone for the Chancellor? He’s always ogling at your breasts. Doesn’t carry much in length, but at least he has status.” He answered offhandedly.

“What?” You flustered.

Hongjoong threw his head back in exasperation before turning sharply toward you, his expression a mixture of annoyance and condescension. “Everyone in the Palace knows about you two,” he began, his tone dripping with disdain. “The Court has been whispering that your little gardener was falling in love and planning to run away with you. He made a mockery of me. Me. So yes, I had to get rid of him. You should be grateful I didn’t have him beheaded. That imbecile.”

His words left you reeling. Was he telling the truth, or weaving lies to justify his cruelty? It didn’t make sense. He had ignored you for so long, humiliated you at every turn, yet now he took offense when you sought solace elsewhere? And with his permission, no less?

“I don’t understand,” you said, your voice trembling with both anger and confusion. “You told me I could have a lover.”

Hongjoong chuckled darkly, the sound grating against your nerves. “I meant a fuck buddy,” he corrected, his smirk widening. “Not a boyfriend. But anyway, I take it back. You can’t have either.”

Hot anger coursed through your veins, lighting every nerve on fire. How dare he? Who was he to take the one shred of happiness you had and discard it on a whim? You rose to your feet, fists clenched, jaw tight. “Bring him back. Now,” you demanded, your voice firm despite the trembling in your chest.

His smirk deepened, his gaze alight with a maddening amusement. He leaned back leisurely, resting his weight on one arm as if your anger were nothing more than entertainment to him. “No,” he said flatly, his arrogance palpable.

The sheer audacity made your head spin. You had always tempered your tone around him, swallowed your words out of respect—or fear—but this was too much. “If you don’t bring him back to me,” you said, your voice rising, “I will leave. And I will never come back.”

Hongjoong’s eyes narrowed, though his smirk remained intact. “If you leave,” he said with maddening calm, “I’ll send my men to every corner of this Earth to find you and bring you back to me.”

“Then I’ll jump to my death!” you spat, your voice trembling with both fury and desperation.

He raised an eyebrow, tilting his head mockingly. “Do you need my assistance opening the window? They’re awfully heavy,” he said, his tone laced with derision.

It hit you then—the futility of it all. There was no winning with him. Every word he uttered, every action he took, was final. Your defiance crumbled as hopelessness set in. Your knees buckled, and you sank to the floor, staring blankly at the carpet.

My Mingi, you thought, your heart aching in the hollow silence that followed. If he had truly loved you, if he had asked you sooner, you wouldn’t have hesitated to run away with him. But now…

A sudden touch startled you. Hongjoong’s thumb brushed away a stray tear from your cheek before gently gripping your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. He studied your face with an almost detached curiosity, sighing as if your sorrow was an inconvenience.

“Oh, cheer up, dear,” he said, his tone mockingly light. “You don’t need that filthy cock to sit on. You have me.”

The sheer calmness in his voice, the audacious cheerfulness of his words, was infuriating. It gnawed at you, his willful ignorance of your pain more provoking than all his cruelty combined.

You pushed his hand away. “At least that filthy cock could make me cum.”

You braced yourself for the sting of his hand against your cheek, but it never came. Instead, the Emperor’s lips curled into an amused smirk, as though your defiance was nothing more than a child’s tantrum to him. “Well, If you’d dropped that attitude and let me into your chambers from time to time,” he said with a gleam in his eye, “you might have seen my full potential.”

His words dripped with arrogance, and your stomach churned in disgust. The memories of the handful of nights you had spent with him were distant and cold, fleeting instances of duty you had long since abandoned. After meeting Mingi, you had shut your doors to the Emperor completely, forsaking the obligations of producing an heir as you allowed yourself to be swept away in the warmth of another’s embrace.

“Just get out,” you snapped, your voice brittle with anger and exhaustion.

Hongjoong tilted his head, studying you as though you were a puzzle he was just now beginning to solve. He hadn’t expected this level of fury—at least, not from you. A flicker of realization crossed his face.

“Oh,” he said, a note of amusement creeping into his tone. “Don’t tell me you loved him.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. The truth sat heavy in your chest, threatening to burst free. It wasn’t just lust that had drawn you to Mingi; it was the way he saw you, the way he listened, the way he made you feel alive. You cared for him deeply, even when it terrified you, even when the impossibility of your circumstances loomed over you like a storm. There were nights when you dreamed of a life with him, though, they were only dreams, you had to remind yourself.

Hongjoong sighed, a long, dramatic exhale as he leaned forward, his movements slow and deliberate. His lips brushed the shell of your ear, his voice low and venomous. “Oh, you don’t get it, do you, honey?” he murmured, his breath hot against your skin. “You can’t be with anyone else. You belong to me. Your mind, your voice, your lips, your breasts, your legs...”

His fingers brushed against the softness of your thigh, a teasing touch that made your skin crawl. His hand lingered there for a moment, as though threatening to move closer, before retreating entirely. “...The very essence of you is mine,” he said, his tone as cold as it was possessive. “And the next time you foolishly find another hard cock to bounce on, remember this: I graciously spared your beloved lowborn this time. I let him walk out of here with all his limbs intact. But next time?” His voice darkened, a shadow falling over his words. “I won’t be so kind.”

The silence that followed was deafening, his threat hanging heavy in the air.

Without another word, the Emperor rose to his feet, smoothing out his clothes with maddening calm. He strode to the door with the same regal air he always carried, pausing only to glance back at you with a mocking bow. “Goodnight, my dear,” he said lightly, as though he hadn’t just shattered your world.

Then he was gone, leaving you trembling on the floor, a hollow shell of anger, fear, and heartbreak.

—

It had been months since your last encounter with the Emperor. Tonight, he was returning from a diplomatic trip overseas. All morning, Courtesans and nursemaids visited to remind you of your wifely duties. They whispered about your dwindling fertility window, urging you to try for a child before it was too late.

You prayed he’d be too exhausted from his journey to come to your chambers. But you knew better. Time away from the Palace always left him restless.

You hadn’t forgiven him for sending Mingi away. Of course, he hadn’t apologized—he never did. Hongjoong likely believed that with time and distance, you’d forget. That you’d fall back into your role, returning to him as if nothing had happened. But the lack of replies from the letters he’d sent you during his absence told him otherwise.

Resigned to your fate, you lay on the grand bed in your best nightgown, the silk clinging to your skin. Waiting. At least it would be quick. The Emperor never lasted long anyway.

The heavy doors swung open, and Hongjoong entered, still wearing his elaborate robe. You didn’t look at him, your gaze fixed on the ceiling as he began to undress. You braced yourself, mentally preparing for yet another empty, soulless night.

Hongjoong broke the silence. “I take it you’re still angry I took your toy away?”

The arrogance in his voice made your skin crawl. You hated how he spoke of Mingi, reducing him to an object. A plaything. As if you hadn’t cared for him deeply. As if Hongjoong’s own heart wasn’t capable of understanding such feelings.

“Are you going to talk at all tonight?”

You stayed calm, swallowing the retort burning in your throat. “I’m not here to talk, remember? We have a duty to fulfill.”

He rolled his eyes. “Oh, you make it sound so dull. Like we’re here to do paperwork or something.”

You didn’t answer. He busied himself removing his rings, laying them on the table beside you. His gaze landed on a pile of familiar envelopes, all sealed, untouched, and forgotten.

“You didn’t even bother opening these?” he asked, his voice tighter than before.

You sighed, unmoved. “Were they urgent?”

Hongjoong clenched his jaw, a flicker of something vulnerable crossing his face. “No,” he admitted, quieter now, “but…”

He trailed off, his confidence suddenly faltering. You had no idea how much those letters meant to him. Each word, each line, was an attempt to ease the guilt that haunted him during his travels. He had replayed the memory of your tears over and over, trying to drown his regret in ink and sentiment. Yet now, staring at the unopened letters, he realized it had all been for nothing.

“You know, you hurt me too,” he blurted.

That caught your attention. You sat up, furrowing your brows. “Me?” you echoed, incredulous. “How? By doing the very thing you told me to do?”

“Well, I didn’t think you’d actually do it.”

Your laugh was sharp and bitter. “Why? Because only you get to sleep with other people?”

Hongjoong scoffed, brushing off your words with a wave of his hand. “What I do is different from what you did.”

“Different?” you snapped. “How? How is it any different?”

He stopped pacing, turning to face you fully. His voice dropped, quieter but seething with rage. “Because I don’t fall in love with them!”

The room fell silent, his words ringing in your ears.

Your mind raced, trying to make sense of it all. Was he more hurt over the possibility that you had feelings for Mingi than the fact that you’d shared nights with him? The absurdity of it made your head spin.

But then he said something that chilled you to the core.

“Seeing you cry over that bastard…” He paused, his voice tight with unspoken pain. “It enraged me. I wondered—would you ever cry for me like that?”

His admission hung heavy in the air. For the first time, you saw something raw in his eyes.

“You must be drunk,” you said quietly, hoping to diffuse the tension. “Come, lay down—”

“I’m as clear-headed as I’ve ever been,” he interrupted, his tone sharp but slightly slurred, betraying the truth. You noticed his steps wavered as he began pacing the room again, the hem of his robe brushing unevenly against the floor.

His words came faster now, laced with frustration and desperation, his worries of masking his inebriation quickly dissolving. “When you married me, you promised me your loyalty. It didn’t matter who you spent your nights with, as long as you returned to me. But instead, you gave him your heart.”

You stared at him, stunned. His jealousy, his possessiveness—it was suffocating. Yet there was something almost pitiable in the way he looked at you, as if your betrayal had cracked something deep within him.

He stopped pacing, his dark eyes locking onto yours. “You belong to me,” he said through his wine-stained lips, his voice low and firm. “Your mind. Your body. Your soul. Your loyalty. Your love. All of it. And I’ll be damned if I ever let another man take what’s mine.”

Before you could even digest all of what he said, Hongjoong climbed up on the bed, nestling himself between your legs. Your breath hitched upon feeling the softness of his lips trace over your inner thigh, planting slow and messy kisses all over your soft skin.

“W-what are you doing?” You asked flabbergasted, not used to seeing him in this position.

His arms wrapped from under your legs, locking you in place. “Showing you my full potential.”

—

Your body tensed with each flick of his tongue. You held back your moans, not wanting to give him the satisfaction, but your sweat coated breasts and your shaky, quiet breaths betrayed you. He held onto your thighs as he tasted you, gliding his tongue in tortuously long and slow strokes.

When you looked down, you were in awe at his focus, his brows furrowed in concentration, and saliva running down his chin as he savored you like a long-awaited meal. You felt trapped under him. Each time you got closer, he could sense it in the way your body braced itself, and he’d slow down again, ghosting his tongue over your parted folds, making you mentally curse him for stealing yet another rush of relief from you.

You had reached your breaking point, and although you remained utterly mute, Hongjoong understood your frustration. Like an answered prayer, his tongue swirled briefly around your throbbing nub, before finally wrapping his wine-stained lips over your aching bud.

As he suckled at your clit, you had no choice but to gasp out loud, your dry voice cracking as he consumed you. He purred into your cunt, smug with himself for finally breaking you. His craving for you grew even stronger, and he pulled you closer to him, his hips now rutting against the mattress.

“You taste exquisite, Empress,” he breathed into your cunt, which didn’t fail to send goosebumps all over your exposed flesh, “Need to taste your cum next.”

What felt like hours of edging had finally caught up with you, and your breathing started to get shaky again. Your hands slipped into his dark strands, holding onto them tightly as your hips jerked up, the fire in your abdomen finally snapping as you cried out, your milky white essence dripping onto Hongjoong’s tongue just as he desired.

You collapsed back into the mattress, your vision blurring as he continued lapping at your sensitive cunt. He drank up every drop from your puffy, tender lips, his hand resting at your stomach to help bring you down from your high. You melted into the mattress as his lips shifted from your dripping cunt to your inner thigh, kissing and biting at your soft skin while he waited for you to steady your breathing.

You looked down and met his deep, velvety gaze, his glassy eyes and slick-coated lips hitching your breath. In this moment, you took each other in. His once neatly top-knotted hair now loosely hung over his forehead, all roughed up from when you tugged and pulled at it earlier. You were disheveled yourself, your pretty lilac nightdress now sweat-drenched, the loose strands of your hair stuck to your rosy-red cheeks. He watched silently as your breasts which were barely covered by the hem of your dress, most likely hiked up from your convulsions, heaved up and down.

You were a vision unlike anything he’d ever encountered. He had just returned from a journey that took him across vast snowy peaks and through valleys kissed by the first blush of cherry blossoms. Yet, the sight of you lying here, draped in soft shadows and the moonlight shining in from the window, surpassed the beauty of every natural wonder he’d seen. You were alluring—a temptation so profound it made the grandeur of the world seem pale in comparison.

"So foolish," he murmured, his voice low and thick as he hovered over you now, the heat of his breath brushing against your skin. His face lingered just a breath away, his eyes drinking you in. What he wanted to say—how foolish he’d been to neglect you, to waste time when he should have been losing himself in you—caught in his throat, heavy and unsaid.

Instead, he let his actions speak. His head dipped slowly and his lips found yours, claiming them with a hunger that had been simmering for far too long. You met him with equal fervor, surrendering completely to the kiss and tasting your sweetness on his lips, pulling him closer, tighter, as though you could make up for all the lost time in that single, stolen moment.

“Get on your knees,” He instructed after pulling away from the kiss, a tinge of impatience and restlessness painted in his voice. You obeyed his order, pivoting yourself from your back to your hands and knees.

His hands gripped your hips eagerly, securing you in place as he lined himself up with you, giving his throbbing shaft a few pumps before sliding into your wet walls. You inhaled sharply as he entered you, his hard cock stuffing you so deliciously that you were forced to make a strangled moan, grasping at the silky sheets from under you to brace yourself.

You had never been in this position with him before. It was always missionary as it was the best option for ensuring a successful pregnancy, but from this angle, his cock hit you so deep, his balls swinging and smacking into your aching clit as he thrust into you harshly.

Your loud and lewd screams left Hongjoong teeming with ecstasy. He smirked as he watched you from behind, her royal highness, who was always so primmed and polished, so graceful in the way she walked and spoke, now babbling sinful moans, her makeup running, her hair tousled, covering him with her sticky juices as she cried and begged him to go faster, harder. He felt honored to see you like this.

The wine made Hongjoong fatigued, and he slowed down his pace, which was a little too slow for your liking. Your brain had already turned to mush, and your hips started to have a mind of its own, forcing you to fuck yourself on his cock to reach your high faster. Hongjoong cooed as he watched you, his cock throbbing at the sight of you taking matters into your own hands.

“You forget yourself, Empress,” He teased, placing a hand on your mid-back. He caressed your skin, watching your stretched-out pussy take him whole.

“Just shut up and cum inside me already,” You huffed, your composure crumbling, giving way to raw frustration.

A spark ignited in his eyes, a glimmer of something untamed and primal seeping through. His weariness evaporated and a renewed vitality coursed through him. He lifted you and pulled you into his chest, his hand sliding around your neck, fingers tracing your pulse before tightening just enough to make your breath hitch.

“Want my cum?” He rasped into your ear, lips smashed against your hot skin, his hips never letting go of that rough pace, “you want it?”

“Yes, p-please!” You choked, your salty tears falling onto your reddened lips, “Want it all!”

His grasp tightened around your neck, fucking into you so raggedly now that there was a moment he thought he could break you. “Gonna take it all?” He growled, “All of me in that little pussy? Who’s fucking pussy is this?”

Your head swam, a dizzying mix of exhilaration and the sharp, intoxicating absence of air. The rush of excitement left you lightheaded and entirely consumed by the moment.

“Yours!” You cried out, “It’s all yours!”

With a satisfied smirk, he watched you dissolve in pleasure, finally letting go of your throat as he shot his load into you, a mixture of your wetness and his creamy white dripping out of your cunt. You felt all your strength leave you as you came down, letting yourself be held up by Hongjoong, your head nestled between his chin and shoulder.

“That’s right baby,” he pressed a few gentle kisses on your sweaty temple as he pumped his cum back into you, pushing deeper and deeper to make sure you don’t waste a single drop of him, “Your mine, all mine…”

a/n: feedback is appreciated

#hoongjoong x reader #hongjoong smut #kim hongjoong smut #kim hongjoong x reader #ateez smut #hongjoong hard thoughts #hongjoong hard hours

1K notes · View notes

scoutofmymind · 28 days ago

Note

i just saw you reblogged an Anora post😍 would u ever be interested in writing a reader x Luigi prompt inspired by that movie? love your writing girl you are just so fantastic

Losing Dogs — { Luigi x Reader }

Content: NSFW - MNDI, sex work, rich as fuck Luigi, Dancer!Reader, p in v, come eating (whoooops), reader is addicted to uncertainty.

Wc: 7,158 (This is an unfinished work, I’m willing to continue if requests for it are substantial, but for the sake of keeping it on Tumblr and not posting it on Ao3, I had to stop where I did 💕)

Notes; Luigi Mangione, heir to a Sicilian real estate empire and alleged regular at underground poker clubs where he watches rather than plays, never expected to find himself falling for a dancer at Sapphire.

Click here for part 2

"It's actually funny," Luigi mumbles, more to himself than his companions, wedged between his two cousins fresh off the plane from Sicily.

Tony, the giant of the family, shares Luigi's sharp features but stretched larger, like someone had taken Luigi's face and expanded it to fit a bruiser's frame. Then there's Lorenzo — shorter but somehow taking up just as much space, his body a testament to long hours at his father's dockyard; the scar splitting his right eyebrow catches sunlight every time he smirks. “First time on American soil in what, five years? And this is where you had to come firs-“

The door is swung open, the facade is deceptively plain — just black marble and smoked glass, a discreet Sapphire etched in gold above the door marks this as their destination.

The bouncer, a mountain in a tailored suit, doesn't bark or posture like the ones on cheaper doors. He just stands there, radiating quiet competence, his earpiece gleaming. "IDs," he requests, somehow making the single word sound both polite and non-negotiable.

His eyes linger on the Italian passports, but his face betrays nothing.

Inside the antechamber, it's all dark wood and soft amber lighting and a woman in a pencil skirt recites the house rules with practiced efficiency: no phones on the floor, no photographs, minimum table service in VIP is $500, and — she pauses here, sliding elegant paperwork across the marble counter — there's the matter of the $200 per person convenience fee that will be withdrawn immediately.

Tony balks slightly at this. "Two hundred just to walk in?"

"It's to ensure our clientele maintains a certain standard," she explains, her smile professional but cooling several degrees. "The amount is credited toward your evening's entertainment, of course."

Lorenzo elbows Tony, muttering something in rapid Italian about American prices, but Luigi slides his card across, knowing this is how places like this filter out the tourists and trouble-makers.

Through the second set of doors, bass pulses like a heartbeat, but it's still muffled, promising rather than announcing, and the air smells of expensive perfume and aged whiskey, not beer and desperation.

The main floor unfolds before them like a fever dream in black marble. Sapphires reputation for being high end suddenly makes visceral sense — everything gleams with the kind of wealth that doesn't need to announce itself.

The lighting is precise, strategic; LEDs trace abstract patterns across coffered ceilings while hidden spots paint the stages in liquid gold. "Dio," breathes Tony, his complaints about the entrance fee forgotten.

Three circular stages dominate the space, each with its own constellation of private tables, but it's the architecture that catches Luigi's eye — the way the room seems to spiral inward like a nautilus shell, the tables far enough apart that conversations stay private, close enough to feel intimate with the performance space.

A hostess materializes — there's no other word for how smoothly she appears — in a black dress that costs more than most people's monthly rent. "Gentlemen, will you be joining us at the bar, or would you prefer a table?" Her eyes flick to Lorenzo's Rolex, Tony's Brunello Cucinelli jacket, making rapid calculations.

"Table," Lorenzo says before anyone else can speak. "Something close." His English is heavily accented but the universal language of status needs no translation.

She leads them through the crowd — if you can call it that. The usual press of bodies you'd expect in a club is absent here.

Instead, there's space, carefully crafted distance.

Men in suits that cost more than Beamers speak in low voices, and a tech billionaire Luigi recognizes from CNBC sits alone, staring into middle distance while a dancer performs with the kind of grace that suggests formal training.

They're led to a half-moon booth with a perfect view of the main stage. The leather is butter-soft, the table's surface black glass that seems to swallow light, with a subtle panel of buttons for service inlaid near the edge.

"Your server will be with you shortly," the hostess says, then hesitates. "And gentlemen? I'd recommend staying for the next set."

That's when Luigi notices the music tumbles into something that isn’t the typical club thunder — instead, it's something classical, deconstructed and woven through with electronic elements; Chopin's Nocturne in E-flat major, he realizes, but reimagined as something darker, more modern.

The server approaches with the same calculated grace as the hostess, but there's something different in her manner — a hint of genuine warmth. "Welcome to Sapphire. I'm Aria." She sets down crystal water glasses with practiced precision. "Our special tonight is the 1982 Macallan, though—“ her eyes drift meaningfully to Luigi, "We also make an exceptional Manhattan.”

Before anyone can order, the lights shift — subtle at first, then with purpose.

The deconstructed Chopin fades into silence, the main stage, empty moments ago, now holds a single figure in darkness, and the murmur of conversation around them dies without prompting.

A single cello note cuts through the quiet, followed by another, building a melody that feels both ancient and startlingly modern.

As the music swells, light bleeds onto the stage, revealing her.

Her whose movement matches the music's duality — classical technique fractured and reassembled into something hypnotic.

She doesn't dance around the pole so much as she seems to bend gravity to her will, each transition so fluid it looks like liquid mercury.

Luigi notices something else.

The crowd's reaction.

These men, who deal in billions and shape markets with a phone call, are completely still. It's not the typical attention of a gentleman's club — it’s the silence of an audience witnessing something they don't quite understand but can't look away from.

Both Tony and Lorenzo order bottles with the casual arrogance of men used to throwing money around, and Luigi can't tear his eyes away long enough to ask about their other cocktails.

He's never been much for bourbon, but right now he doesn't care — the performance has him in a trance that no spirit could match.

It's not long before he hears his cousins acting up, murmuring something to each other in their native tongue, that lyrical Italian that Luigi understands but rarely speaks, his own command of it lost somewhere between private schools and college lectures.

“Where's her tits?” Lorenzo mutters, Tony leaning in to complain right behind him, “I thought this was a strip club?”

Luigi furrows his brows, the spell broken.

He turns his broad chest toward them both, pausing only to acknowledge the two women who parade over their bottles of champagne with divine precision and grace, their movements a stark contrast to his cousins' crude commentary. "You buy a fuckin' room if you want tits," he growls, flicking his finger first in Tony's direction, then Lorenzo's, each gesture sharp as a warning shot. "Don't put a bad name on us, cugini — Papa has investments here."

The cousins exchange glances but settle back, chastened more by the mention of their uncle than Luigi's reprimand.

On stage, the music shifts again — something even darker now, all cello and static — and her routine evolves with it, the control is absolute, each movement deliberate yet somehow wild, like watching lightning decide where to strike.

The pole becomes less prop and more partner, an extension of her artistry rather than its center, and Luigi finds himself leaning forward, elbows on his knees, aware that he's staring but far past caring.

He notices details his cousins miss — the way her muscles tell stories of dedication, how her face reveals nothing and everything at once.

There's mathematics in her movement, philosophy in her form.

A sharp sound of crystal meeting crystal breaks his concentration — Lorenzo, already refilling his glass, the champagne sloshing slightly over the rim.

The cousin catches Luigi's glare and shrugs, muttering something that sounds like an apology but isn't while Tony's attention has already wandered to one of the cocktail waitresses, his earlier complaints forgotten in favor of more immediate distractions.

Reluctantly, the music fades and she descends from the stage with the same fluid grace that marked her performance, moving through the club like water finding its path, stopping at tables where regulars sit with their crystal glasses and dollar bills.

Luigi, needing air — or space— or both, makes his way to the bar, leaving his cousins to their champagne and their increasingly loud discussions about Italian soccer to a couple of women who couldn’t care less, but would open a ear to anything if it meant getting them in a private room.

"Sanpellegrino," he murmurs to a bartender, suddenly wanting clarity rather than clouds. The sparkling water arrives in a glass with lime, and that's when he sees her — the girl who was just on stage —materialized a few seats down, leaning across the bar to speak with the bartender.

Her right hand rests on the polished wood, and there, in delicate script across her inner wrist: "God is dead."

Before he can stop himself, the words leave his mouth, soft but clear: "And we have killed him.”

Your head turns, eyes finding his with an intensity that makes him forget the rest of Nietzsche's proclamation, and for a moment, the club, his cousins, everything else fades away.

You tilt your head slightly, a subtle smile playing at the corner of your mouth. "Most people just ask if it's about Satan," you grin, your voice carrying a hint of amusement. "Or they try to save my soul."

Luigi takes a slow sip of his sparkling water that tickles his nose, appreciating the irony. "Nietzsche would've had thoughts about both responses." He gestures to the empty seat between them. "Though I doubt he ever imagined his words would end up here.”

"Oh, I don't know," your voice becomes airy and light, sliding onto the stool next to him, closer than the one he'd indicated. "The death of God, the birth of tragedy, eternal recurrence — seems fitting for a club where people come to forget." You eye him, take inventory of his posture, what he’s wearing, and the sparkling water he’s drinking. "Besides, what better place to question values?"

Luigi finds himself leaning in slightly, aware that this conversation is rapidly becoming more intriguing than anything happening on stage, or back at the table with his cousins. "So, you studied philosophy?" he asks, though it's more statement than question.

"Columbia," you answer, then add with a knowing look, "Before you ask — yes, this is how I pay for it. And no, I'm not looking for rescue from this life of sin."

The directness catches him off guard, but he appreciates it. "NYU. Comp Sci.” he offers in return. "And I wouldn't presume to rescue anyone who quotes Nietzsche.”

"Let me guess," your eyes scan him with amused precision, "You were more Camus than Nietzsche?"

Luigi can't help but smile, caught between surprise and appreciation. "The Myth of Sisyphus was my thesis," he admits. "Though these days I'm pushing more rocks up hills than contemplating them."

A glance over his shoulder reminds him of his cousins' presence — they're still at the table, but their attention has shifted to their phones, probably already bored without the promised spectacle they came for, or having scared the girls enough to deny them private rooms.

He feels a shift in the air as one of the floor managers approaches — the kind of interruption that seems inevitable in a place like this, and you notice too, but instead of immediately pulling away, you reach for a cocktail napkin and a pen from behind the bar.

"Speaking of eternal recurrence," you scribble over the napkin, "I'm here Thursdays and Fridays. If you want to continue our discussion about the death of God, or-“ you slide it toward him, "the birth of tragedy."

•

Thursday.

Oh, Thursday, Thursday, Thursday.

"Happy thirsty Thursday, bitches!" Julia's voice rings through the dressing room as she weaves between vanity stations, balancing a bottle of Prosecco.

You're perched on the counter, nose nearly touching the mirror, wielding your liquid eyeliner with the precision of a surgeon — or at least attempting to.

"Honey," Julia pauses behind you, pressing a cool glass into your hand while gently easing you back from the mirror, which has begun to fog from your focused breathing. "Don't you make enough for some contacts? I swear you're going to give yourself a repetitive stress injury.”

You accept the prosecco without turning from your reflection, then the shot she presses into your other hand. The old rule echoes in your mind — drinking before shifts is bad business — but tonight feels different.

It wasn't any one thing that set this mood — but maybe it was the way your boots crunched through dirty ice on your trek from the subway, or how the wind cut right through that orange and brown balaclava your mother had knitted, sent from Santa Monic with a note saying "stay warm".

You sit by the bar, chin propped on your fist as you survey the crowd through half-lidded eyes.

The regulars hunch over their drinks like old friends, while first-timers betray themselves with darting glances and tentative sips. Music thrums through the floorboards —some nameless pop song stripped down and remixed until only the bassline remains, vibrating in your chest like a second heartbeat.

His "Hey" materializes beside you, soft enough that it nearly dissolves into the din. You don't need to look to know it's him — that particular shadow in charcoal grey wool.

He's shed the usual entourage of boisterous cousins, and there's something different in his approach — a hesitation in steps that usually claim every room they enter.

You turn, "Sanpellegrino?" A ghost of a smile plays at your lips as the glass catches the low light. His face is different tonight — something raw beneath the polished exterior, like fresh paint that hasn't quite dried.

"About last week," he begins, easing onto the barstool as if it might disappear beneath him. "The, uh — your number - it -"

"Let me guess." You slide his drink across the mahogany with practiced grace. "Either your suit met an untimely end at the cleaners with it still in the pocket, or one of those cousins of yours lifted it."

Breaking your cardinal rule — never give your number to a customer — only to have it vanish feels like the universe's personal punchline.

Seven digits sacrificed to whatever deity presides over dry cleaning.

Luigi's grimace tells you everything. "Dry cleaning," he confesses, shoulders dropping slightly. "My housekeeper has a scorched-earth policy with receipts. By the time I realized-“ He lifts the glass, ice clicking against crystal. "I spent the week with Camus instead. Came strapped with counterarguments about the fundamental absurdity of existence."

You find yourself fighting back a smile.

In five years of working here, you've had countless men try to continue conversations, usually with tired lines about destiny or missed connections, but none of them ever showed up having done philosophical homework.

"Well," you say, leaning against the bar, "you did make it on a Thursday. That's something Sisyphus would appreciate — the eternal return and all that." You glance at the clock, then back at him. "Let's hear your defense of absurdism.” You find yourself reaching for his hand, your usual pitch tumbling out like second nature. "We could continue this conversation somewhere more private?"

The words hang there for a moment, and you watch his expression shift from philosophical intensity to something more certain.

In the private room, you move sinuously to music that's now more vibration than sound, while he dissects existentialism with the intensity of a doctoral candidate defending his thesis.

Even as you straddle him, skin gleaming in the low light, he's animated — one hand conducting an invisible orchestra while the other remains fixed to the armrest like it's been superglued there. His voice never wavers as he explains how Sisyphus's comprehension of his eternal task is actually his triumph over the gods.

"— and if we examine the boulder as a metaphor for societal expectations—" He's still lecturing while you execute a move that's earned you countless thousands, your body folded into an artful display of flexibility, each movement a masterpiece of calculated seduction.

"Babe," you cut in, flowing back into his lap with liquid grace. You press your palm against his chest, feeling his heart racing beneath expensive wool. "Are you even into this?" Your voice carries equal parts amusement and genuine curiosity. For the first time tonight, he falls silent.

Luigi freezes mid-sentence, mouth still shaped around 'existentialism,' blinking like someone emerging from a trance. "What? Of course I'm- Why would you think-"

"Because I've been doing inverted crosses and Russian splits for fifteen minutes, and you're more invested in French philosophy than the fact that I'm practically naked in your lap."

Color floods his neck, creeping up like watercolor on wet paper. "I just- I thought- You seemed so engaged in our discussion last week, and I spent days researching, and-" He drags fingers through dark curls, leaving them charmingly disheveled. "I'm completely fucking this up, aren't I?"

You laugh, soft and genuine, settling deeper into his lap as your arms drape over his rigid shoulders. "Most guys in here pretend to be intellectuals to get closer to the dancers. You might be the first one pretending not to notice my body to prove you actually are one."

"I notice," he blurts, then looks like he wants to dissolve into the leather seat. "God- I mean, I'm extremely aware. I just thought if I-"

"Luigi," you interrupt, oddly moved by his fumbling sincerity, "you can appreciate both Camus and tits. The universe is absurd enough for both."

His laugh is nervous but genuine, shoulders finally releasing their tension beneath your touch. "I suppose that would be a false dichotomy." Then, after a pause where his eyes actually — finally —trace your silhouette, "Though I have to admit, I'm finding it considerably harder to focus on French existentialism now that I'm not actively trying to ignore-“

"My existence preceding my essence?" You smirk, rolling your hips in a way that makes his breath catch, his head resting on the crushed velvet back of the chair beneath him, his eyes stuck on yours in a narrow gaze.

"That's — uh - that's Sartre, not Camus," he manages, hands still firmly gripped on the armrests like they're keeping him anchored to reality.

"Look at you, still managing to be pedantic." You run a finger down the cable knit of his sweater — Hermès, you notice, because of course it is. "You can touch me, you know. Club rules allow it in private rooms, and I'm giving you permission. Unless you'd rather discuss Kierkegaard's views on anxiety?"

His hands finally leave the armrests, hovering uncertainly near your waist. "I actually did read some Kierkegaard this week too," he admits, and you can't help but laugh at his commitment to the bit. "But maybe,” his hands finally settle on your hips, warm through the thin fabric of your tiny, ruffed lace bottoms, "we could table the philosophical discussion for now?"

"There he is," you murmur, noting how his pupils have dilated, his cheeks having gone pink, his aura radiating like a halo around him in the soft neon light of the shared private room, another dancer nearby with a regular client. "Though I have to say, this is the first time I've had to actively encourage a client to be less respectful."

•

Three months in, and you're lounging by his infinity pool overlooking Central Park. The Upper East Side condo had been a surprise — you'd known he was wealthy from his clothes and manners, but this was old money, generations of it seeping from every handcrafted molding and imported marble tile.

You adjust the Van Cleef he gave you last week — "Just because," he'd said, as if dropping $50K on jewelry was as casual as picking up coffee, and you run your fingers over the spine of Thus Spoke Zarathustra, thinking about power dynamics and the eternal dance between giving and taking — every gift, every dinner, every weekend in the Hamptons — you catalog them mentally, like entries in a ledger.

Not because you're calculating, but because you've learned that everything has a price, even if it's not immediately apparent.

Luigi looks at you like you're an answer to a question he never knew to ask, and when he kisses you, it's reverent, like you're something precious. When he talks about the future, it's with a certainty that would be frightening if you let yourself think about it too deeply.

But you've spent years understanding the transactional nature of desire.

Even as you feel yourself falling into the gravity of his affection, there's a part of you that remains detached, analytical. You recognize his love — it's evident in every gesture, every thoughtful gift, every time he shows up at the club just to drive you home after your shift, never asking you to quit, never making demands.

Your own feelings are more complicated.

You care for him, deeply even, but there's always that voice in the back of your mind tallying the cost of everything, wondering when the bill will come due, because it always does.

It's not that you don't feel love — it's that you've learned to view love itself as another form of currency, something to be exchanged, measured, quantified.

You’re snapped out of your daze when Luigi emerges from the townhouses study nook, still clutching his Advanced Algorithms textbook at his side. He's in his final semester, juggling classes with the machine learning research project he's hoping will revolutionize his family's investment firm.

The place isn't his — it's his parents', who spend most of their time at their place in Puglia.

"My brain is absolutely fried," he groans, collapsing onto the lounge chair beside you, a loud sigh following. "If I have to debug one more recursive function or optimize another binary search tree, I might actually lose it."

You close your Beauvoir and look at him with amusement. "The heir apparent to the Mangione empire, defeated by code?"

"Don't," he mumbles into the cushion. "Papa’s already called twice today to remind me about graduation expectations. Apparently, anything less than building the next revolutionary trading algorithm would be an embarrassment to five generations of Mangione bankers."

You run your fingers through his hair, and he leans into your touch like a cat — for a moment, you see him as he really is, not the polished future tech innovator, not the philosophy-quoting client, but just a 24-year-old kid trying to live up to impossible expectations.

Moving from your own lounge chair to his, you settle into his lap with a practiced grace that blurs the line between habit and performance, your hands splayed across his chest, and you can feel his heartbeat quickening beneath your fingers.

"What would you think if -“ you lean down, pressing kisses along his collarbone, tasting the salty skin of spring and expensive cologne, "I were to treat you tonight?" Your voice carries the same silky tone you use at the club, but there's something else there too — something that makes you uncomfortable if you think about it too hard.

"Mm?" His voice is gentle, soft but frayed around the edges. You can hear the weight of those endless phone calls with his father in it — arguments about the family's ventures, about graduation expectations, about codes both computational and criminal that you don't yet know about. "How so?"

You kiss your way up his neck, buying time, wondering when exactly you started using intimacy as currency, even outside of work.

His hands settle on your hips, and they're trembling slightly — from exhaustion or desire or both.

"Let me take care of you," you murmur against his jaw. "No thinking about algorithms or binary trees or whatever your father wants-“ You feel him tense slightly at the mention of his father, but you continue, "Just us."

He draws back just enough to study your face, and there's something in his gaze that makes your breath catch — like he's reading between the lines of your carefully constructed script, past the glitter and practiced smiles to something you thought you'd buried deep enough that no one would find it.

His thumb ghosts across your lower lip, and you brace yourself — waiting for him to name the thing you both see; how you turn every genuine connection into a filed entry, every moment of vulnerability into a debt to be repaid.

Instead, his voice comes soft as a confession, “You don't have to earn your place here, you know."

The words land like a punch to the chest, stealing your breath mid-motion.

Because isn't that exactly what you've been doing all these years — keeping a running tally, maintaining equilibrium, treating your heart like a balance sheet?

Even here, you're performing mental arithmetic — calculating the precise exchange rate between vulnerability and safety, between affection given and security received.

You recover with the grace of long practice, muscle memory sliding you back into familiar patterns. "Maybe I just want to," you say, but there's a tremor in your voice that betrays you, a hairline crack in carefully maintained armor.

His hands come up to cradle your face like you're something precious, something breakable, and he's looking at you with that devastating combination of tenderness and insight that makes your flight instincts scream. "Tell me what you're thinking," he whispers into the space between you. "Really thinking."

And that's the problem, isn't it?

You're thinking about debt and worth and the price of everything. You're thinking about how many private club dances it would take to equal the necklace around your throat. You're thinking about the way his family's wealth feels like a weight even as it lifts you up.

You think about the way he watches you – not just your body moving through practiced routines, but the quick flash of your wit, the sharp edges of your mind. How he's never once suggested you quit, never tried to "save" you from choices that were always yours to make. How he handles your thoughts with the same reverence others reserve for your curves.

And somewhere beneath the ledgers and calculations, beneath the careful arithmetic of survival, something dangerous is blooming — something that tastes like truth and terrifies you more than any amount of nakedness ever could.

So instead of words, you answer with your mouth against his, and for once there's no performance in it, no mental tallying of what this kiss might be worth.

His fingers thread through your hair like he's memorizing you, and for one crystalline moment, you let the numbers fall away, let yourself exist in the simple miracle of being wanted exactly as you are.

"May I ask something?" Luigi whispers softly against your lips, his palms pressing into your back as if he could somehow draw you closer, make you more real.

"With those manners, you can do just about anything, Lu." you murmur, rolling your hips against his with an urgency that would never appear in your calculated club performances.

"Well," he clears his throat, and you can feel him stalling beneath you. His request had tumbled out rushed and nervous, like ripping off a bandaid, words escaping before he could think better of them. "My parents are coming back from Sicily soon — they do usually in spring." He looks at you sheepishly, sweat beading on his brow. "And we do this dinner-“

You lean up slowly from his neck where you'd been losing yourself in the essence of him, in this space where things are simple. Where there are no student loans crushing your shoulders, no club schedules dictating your nights, no complicated family dynamics lurking beneath perfectly polished surfaces.

"Mm, is that so?" you murmur, studying the way his throat moves when he swallows, the tension gathering in his jaw.

"It is," Luigi says, blinking up at you like he's emerging from deep water. His fingers find the strings of your bikini, twisting them absently — an unconscious tell, like he needs something physical to hold onto while his usually precise mind fumbles for words.

This is the same man who can explain market derivatives or quantum entanglement without breaking stride, but now his throat works visibly, precision failing him when it matters most.

"And- well," he swallows, those clever fingers still tangled in thin strings against your skin, "it wouldn't necessarily be about meeting them - you know- as much as it would be about - uh..."

You can't help the smile that spreads across your face, oddly touched by this glimpse of the infamous Luigi Mangione – who can debate quantum mechanics in three languages – tripping over a simple invitation. "Are you asking me to be your dinner date?"

Your mind immediately unfolds a scene worthy of Gatsby — crystal chandeliers refracting old money whispers, wines older than your grandmother, silverware that could pay off your student loans. You know whatever you're picturing probably falls short of the actual Mangione world, but you let yourself imagine anyway.

His hands are still at your hips, thumbs brushing against bare skin in that absent way of his, like touching you is as natural as breathing. "Not exactly," he admits, and there's something in his voice that makes your heart skip. "I'm asking you to be my date. Period."

The implication settles between you like morning dew — delicate but impossible to ignore.

"Luigi," you breathe, and for once, you're the one struggling for words. “I-“

He shifts beneath you, spine straightening as one arm anchors you against him. His other hand finds your cheek, and those eyes — amber-bright, search your face with an intensity that sends a shiver through you, despite the winter bleeding into a blazing spring.

"I'm asking you to let me introduce you to my family. Properly. As the woman I—" He stops, and you can see the gears turning, watch him weigh each syllable with the same meticulous protection he applies to his billion-dollar code. "I care so much for you."

The words hang between you, heavy with everything he's not quite saying, and you realize this might be the first time in his life Luigi Mangione has chosen imprecise language.

That "care" is a placeholder, a variable waiting to be defined by something larger, something neither of you are quite ready to name.

The words hover between you like smoke, dense with unspoken weight — family legacies, billion-dollar empires, carefully segregated worlds. You think about everything you've heard whispered at the club about the Mangione name, about old money and new power, about the precise way Luigi has always kept his family's orbit separate from your shared nights.

And yet here he is, offering to bridge the gap.

"What do they think of me?"

Something flickers across his face — subtle, but you've learned to read the micro-expressions that betray his thoughts. "My sister already likes you," he says, each word measured and deliberate, his fingers still tracing absent patterns on your skin. "She says you're different — real."

But you notice the careful omission. "And your parents?"

Luigi's jaw tightens just enough to catch the light differently. "My mother," he begins, then seems to reset. "She's traditional. Concerned about appearances. But she'll come around."

The weight of what he's not saying about his father fills the space between his words. "And your father?"

His eyes catch yours, something dark and protective flashing in them. "My father is calculating. He's had his goons look into you." Luigi's fingers press slightly harder into your hips, like he's trying to hold you in place against some unseen current. "He knows about the club. Your student loans. Everything."

"Of course he does," you murmur. You're not shocked about him knowing your connection to the club — given his investment portfolio, that was inevitable — but the thought of strangers dissecting your life still leaves you feeling raw. "And?"

"And he thinks you're either a liability, or an asset. He hasn't decided which yet." Luigi's honesty cuts clean and quick, but his thumbs trace gentle circles against your ribs like an apology. "That's part of why this dinner is important. He'll be watching how you handle yourself."

"A test?" The word tastes bitter.

"Everything's a test with him."

There's something in his voice — not quite resentment, not quite resignation, but somewhere in the territory between the two.

You wonder how many tests Luigi has passed, failed, or refused to take over the years.

You stare down at him, your hands settling over his where they anchor you at your hips. The world seems to quiet around you — just the whisper of leaves in the breeze and distant city sounds filtering through the moment like white noise.

He doesn't shy away from your scrutiny.

Instead, those eyes hold yours with an intensity that makes your breath catch — pleading, vulnerable in a way that seems almost impossible for someone born into his world of calculated moves and careful masks.

But you can't help but appreciate the absurdity of it all.

Your first real conversation had been about existentialism, of all things — you'd challenged his clinical view of human behavior as merely predictable patterns, and he'd been intrigued by your passionate defense of life's beautiful chaos.

Now here you are, living proof of his father's worst nightmare

An unpredictable variable in their carefully ordered world.

Luigi, heir of Marco Mangione, a rich, sophisticated in his own right, business mogul of some sort — important and wealthy enough, you know, for one of his three children to buy the club dancer he’s been seeing for three months a fifty thousand dollar piece of jewelry between an eggs Benedict breakfast and an Eleven Madison Park dinner.

But also Luigi — who showed up at 2 AM after your shift with mint chocolate chip ice cream melting in his Maserati's cup holder, because you'd texted about craving it.

Luigi, who got brain freeze from eating too fast while you both sat in his parked car, you still in your platform heels and him in his $5,000 suit, sharing a single spoon and laughing about nothing.

The duality strikes you; the man who moves billions through digital empires with a keystroke is the one who remembers how you take your coffee. The Mangione heir, and the boy who gets adorably flustered when you wear his dress shirts around.

Then, your mind drifts back to last week's conversation with Julia.

You'd been perched in your usual spot on the dressing room counter, legs swinging, while she sat at her vanity.

"Saw your boy at Paradiso," she'd said, casual in that deliberate way that meant it wasn't casual at all.

Your hands had stilled on your stockings.

Paradiso.

Not just a casino — the casino. Where million-dollar hands were dealt in back rooms and real business happened over whiskey and poker chips.

"He was with his father." Julia had turned then, arm draped over her chair back, dark eyes serious despite her light tone. "Spitting image, those two. But Luigi wasn't playing." She'd paused, checking to see if you were really listening. "He was doing that thing he does — you know, when his brain goes all Beautiful Mind? But he wasn't counting cards. He was watching. Patterns. Players. Money movement."

"His daddy kept introducing him around," Julia had added softly. "To men who looked like they buy countries.”

You realize that this uncertainty is something that fuels your curiosity further — and if you're honest with yourself, it's part of what draws you to him.

You'd seen that same distant look Julia described, but in softer moments; Luigi calculating the exact trajectory needed for a paper airplane to sail from your bedroom window to the fountain below, his hands moving through the air as he mapped invisible vectors.

Or the night he'd gotten excited explaining market microstructures, his brilliant mind spinning beautiful patterns from chaos.

But there's another side to those patterns now.

Its power flows, influence matrices, the invisible algorithms that govern his father's world — and Luigi reads them all like sheet music, even if he never talks about the song they're playing.

His hands tighten slightly on your hips, bringing you back to the present moment; to those brown eyes still watching you, waiting for an answer about a dinner that suddenly feels like more than just meeting the family.

You wonder if he's already mapped out all the variables of this moment.

The invitation isn't just about meeting his mother, enduring his father's scrutiny, or bearing his siblings judgment. It's about acknowledging what you've been carefully not discussing — that falling for Luigi Mangione means entering a world where dinner parties are strategic moves and casual observations can carry the weight of corporate empires.

You think about the way he looks at you sometimes, like you're a glorious aberration in his ordered universe.

"You're thinking too hard," he murmurs, and there's that smile — the real one, not the calculated curve he shows to his professors and business partners. "It's just dinner."

But you both know it's not.

You trace your fingers along his jaw, feeling the slight tension there. "Your father's going to hate me.” you say, but what you mean is: I see the patterns too, even if we don't talk about them.

His eyes darken with something between worry and pride. Because you do see — maybe not the complex mathematics of power and influence that he tracks, but you see him.

The brilliant mind that draws patterns out of mayhem, and the heart that chose disorder anyway.

•

You could spend forever like this with him, lost in the heat of morning light. Luigi's head falls back, eyes half-lidded and languid, looking at you like you're some Renaissance masterpiece come to life.

The months together have stripped away any need for performance, leaving only this raw, honest thing between you.

"You need—" Your words dissolve into a gasp as his hands map the contours of your skin with quiet worship, your hips working over him in gentle circles. "T-to help me pick out a dress."

He lets out a low sound from deep in his throat, his palms steady against your back as he guides you down. The world tilts, and suddenly, he’s above you — lean muscle and sun-warmed skin, haloed by the morning light streaming through the windows. “Mhmm,” Luigi groans, the gold chain around his neck swinging with each rhythmic thrust.

You grasp that same chain, pulling him closer, and he quickly obliges. “Tell me how good it feels,” you whisper against his lips. For a moment, his hips falter, an uncoordinated tempo, but he quickly regains his rhythm. “You’re too quiet today.”

Usually, Luigi would be breathless and chatty, his praise flowing like a devoted worshipper at the feet of a saint. But today, you can sense his anxiety, and it stirs your own.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he breathes, his spit-slicked kisses trailing over your chest, warm tongue tracing your nipples before moving to your neck. “You know you’re my-“ he’s cut off by another low moan, “my sweet girl.”

You’re not convinced, studying his features to find some sort of hidden answer there, but all you can assume is that he’s nervous about the party — about his parents, his grandparents, his siblings, distant relatives — and it does nothing to ease your own nerves.

He whimpers, truly whimpers, your body filled with warmth from the inside out, Luigi riding out the last of his orgasm for every bit it was worth and yet you’d gone rather ridged, shoving his chest down slowly between your legs. “Clean up your mess.” You murmur, more as a demand, which you’d learned rather quickly Luigi liked very much being told what to do.

He’s eager, always.

He first trails his tongue along your thighs, descending to the mess he left inside you, threatening to stain the sheets. “Good boy,” you whisper, running your fingers through his hair—this wouldn’t be the first time he’s tasted himself from you, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last if you had any say in it. “What’s with the radio silence?”

Despite the sight before you — the devotion, the raw intimacy — you can't help but ask.

“I-I’m just tired, I guess.” Luigi is lying, of course; a tired man doesn’t have sex for three hours. He stares at you, his eyes glossy and his mouth slick with his own pleasure, making it hard to take him seriously, yet he looks at you as if he has something to prove.

“Is it about the party?” you ask, gently wiping his mouth with your thumb. “Be honest, Lu.”

He blinks at you several times before allowing himself a slow nod, still lying there between your legs. In this moment, you're both stripped of your usual armor — him without his tailored suits and careful control, you without your practiced distance.

"Should I just-" You close your legs and sit up, leaving him there on sheets. Even now, part of you still wants to solve this for him, make it easier. "Not go? Would it just be easier if I didn't?"

"No." Luigi rises quickly to his knees, crawling across the vast expanse of his bed toward you. The California king makes your studio apartment mattress feel like a child's cot in comparison. "Baby— fuck," he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, a gesture so uncharacteristically unpolished it makes your chest ache. He shakes his head, sighing. "I'm just — yeah, of course I'm nervous." His hands lift in frustration, fingers splayed like he's trying to grasp the right words from the air. "This is the first time I've ever done this."

You turn to look at him finally, having kept your gaze fixed on the Manhattan skyline outside his window. It's easier than seeing him like this — mouth still glistening, cheeks flushed, all his careful composure undone by pleasure and something deeper. "First time you've done what, Lu?"

There's a weighted silence between you, his eyes meeting yours before darting away like he can't quite hold your gaze. It reminds you of those first nights at the club, when he'd try to maintain that perfect Mangione composure while coming undone beneath your hands.

"I've never introduced anyone to my parents." The admission hangs heavy. Luigi's had his share of lovers — you both know this, have discussed the parade of socialites and models that graced his bed through high school and beyond.

But none of them made it past the velvet rope of family approval.

None of them earned a seat at the Mangione table.

You see it now in the slight tremor of his hands, the tension in his shoulders — he's not just afraid of his father's judgment or his mother's disapproval.

He's afraid of the worlds colliding; your straightforward honesty meeting his family's carefully orchestrated performance, the raw truth of what you share together being dissected under crystal chandelier light.

“Fuck.”

#req #luigi mangione x reader #luigi mangione fanfic #I need to learn when to stop yapping

187 notes · View notes

blueiscoool · 6 months ago

Text

A Pot With Gold Coins Discovered in Ancient Greek City in Turkey

Archaeologists have discovered a pot of buried treasure overflowing with ancient Greek coins in Turkey.

The gold coins were found inside a room beneath a home in Notion, an ancient Greek city in western Turkey. They feature the figure of a kneeling archer, a design element used for the Persian daric, a gold coin issued by the Persian Empire. The currency was likely minted in Sardis, located 60 miles (97 kilometers) northeast of Notion, according to a statement from the University of Michigan.

Researchers think the mercenaries used the hoard as payment, but it's unclear why they buried it.

"The discovery of such a valuable find in a controlled archaeological excavation is very rare," Christopher Ratté, a professor of ancient Mediterranean art and archaeology at the University of Michigan and director of the Notion Archaeological Survey, the project that led to the discovery the coins, said in the statement. "No one ever buries a hoard of coins, especially precious metal coins, without intending to retrieve it. So only the gravest misfortune can explain the preservation of such a treasure."

A few stylistic clues indicate that the coins were struck sometime during the fifth century B.C. — a time stamp archaeologists are using to help uncover the sequence of events that led to the treasure's burial.

"This hoard will provide a firm date that can serve as an anchor to help fix the chronology of the (entire sequence of coins)," Ratté said. "According to the Greek historian Xenophon, a single daric was equivalent to a soldier's pay for one month."

In the past few years, the site has been a hotbed for artifact finds, including pottery fragments, also from the fifth century B.C., hidden "in earlier walls incorporated into the foundations of the house," which dates to the Hellenistic period, according to the statement.

The Hellenistic period occurred after the death of Alexander the Great in 323 B.C. and lasted until the conquest of the final Hellenistic kingdom by Rome in 31 B.C. During the sixth century B.C., Notion was incorporated into the Persian Empire along with other Greek cities. In the early fifth century B.C., it was freed from Persian rule for a time, only to be reintegrated into the empire during the fourth century B.C., according to the statement.

Between 430 and 427 B.C., a group of Persian sympathizers, as well as Greek and "barbarian" mercenaries, occupied Notion. During that time, the Athenian general Paches killed pro-Persian mercenaries, prompting Persian sympathizers to be expelled from the city as the Athenians took control, according to the statement.

Ratté said that these events could have led to the burial and eventual loss of the hoard.

By Jennifer Nalewicki.

#A Pot With Gold Coins Discovered in Ancient Greek City in Turkey #Notion #gold #coins #collectable coins #ancient artifacts #archeology #archeolgst #history #history news #ancient history #ancient culture #ancient civilizations #persian empire #greek history

236 notes · View notes

calirph · 13 days ago

Text

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒. all these sentences quotes are based on the four elements, air, fire, earth and water and their meanings. there are sentences as well action prompts that can be changed. it also includes scenarios that fit the thematic. please change names, locations and pronouns as you see fit.

Earth (Stability, Groundedness, Practicality)

"You cannot build a strong foundation on shifting sands."

"Stand firm, no matter how the wind howls."

"Strength isn’t about force; it’s about endurance."

"Listen to the ground beneath you—it has held empires and whispers their secrets."

"Patience, like the mountains, will outlast any storm."

"You are as unshakable as the roots of an ancient tree."

"Gold and stone alike are shaped by time."

"You cannot rush the seed to grow; let nature take its course."

"There’s a difference between being stubborn and being steadfast."

"Even the strongest walls crack when they forget to bend."

Water (Emotion, Intuition, Connection)

"Let your emotions flow, but do not let them drown you."

"A river does not resist; it carves its way through stone with time."

"You cannot grasp water—it slips through your fingers and finds another path."

"Tears are not weakness; they are the ocean inside us finding its way out."

"Do not fear the depths—you were made to swim."

"Like the tides, emotions rise and fall. Let them move through you."

"Storms come and go, but the sea always remains."

"Trust your instincts; they are as deep as the ocean’s pull."

"Not all still waters are calm beneath the surface."

"When everything else crumbles, love flows through the cracks."

Air (Intellect, Thought, Communication)

"The wind does not ask permission before it changes direction."

"A single idea can move faster than the fastest storm."

"Words, once spoken, are like feathers in the wind—impossible to gather again."

"Do not cage the breeze; it was meant to dance free."

"Some battles are won with a whisper, not a roar."

"The sky holds no boundaries, only endless possibilities."

"Sharp minds cut deeper than any blade."

"Listen to the silence—it speaks louder than words ever could."

"A thought, like the wind, can turn the tide of history."

"If you cannot hear the message, change your perspective, not the wind."

Fire (Energy, Passion, Transformation)

"A single spark can ignite an inferno."

"Passion is both a gift and a danger—learn to wield it."

"You do not need permission to burn brightly."

"Do not fear destruction; from the ashes, new life begins."

"Control the flame, or let it consume you."

"The sun does not apologize for shining."

"Fury is not strength, but it can be fuel."

"Some flames warm; others devour—know the difference."

"You cannot hold fire and expect not to be changed."

"Bravery is stepping into the fire and trusting you will rise again."

Earth (Stability, Groundedness)

A character places their hands on the soil, feeling the heartbeat of the land beneath them.

A warrior stands unmoving as an earthquake trembles around them, trusting the earth to hold.

Someone builds a home with their bare hands, stone by stone, shaping their future.

A character buries something important in the earth, knowing it will one day be found.

A storm rages, but they remain firm, like a mountain against the wind.

Water (Emotion, Intuition)

A character watches their reflection in a still lake and sees something they don’t expect.

Someone lets the rain soak them, feeling a deep emotional release.

A river calls to them, whispering secrets they can almost understand.

A character dives into the ocean, searching for something lost in the depths.

They send a message by floating it down a stream, hoping it reaches the right hands.

Air (Intellect, Communication)

A character releases a handful of leaves into the wind, letting fate decide their path.

Someone speaks a truth so powerful it changes the course of history.

A windstorm carries away their words, leaving only the intent behind.

A character listens carefully to the wind and understands its message.

A letter is written, but before it is sent, the wind steals it away.

Fire (Energy, Transformation)

A candle flickers as a character’s emotions flare, the flame responding to their mood.

Someone lights a fire in the darkness, guiding lost souls to safety.

A character dances around a bonfire, embracing their own power.

They set fire to a past they no longer wish to carry.

A spark ignites, and with it, everything changes.

#roleplay memes #sentence meme #( cali meme. )#rp memes #rp prompt #rp musings #roleplay prompt #◟ ⋆ memes › roleplay sources.

87 notes · View notes

city-of-ladies · 3 months ago

Text

"Centuries ago, two people were buried arm in arm on top of a horse in what is now Austria. The unique burial prompted archaeologists to think that the two were a male-female married couple from medieval times. But it turns out they couldn't have been more wrong.

A new analysis of the remains suggests that the couple was actually a mother-daughter pair who died around 1,800 years ago during the Roman era.

"It's the first genetically proven mother-daughter burial in Austria in Roman times," study senior author Sylvia Kirchengast, a professor of evolutionary anthropology at the University of Vienna, told Live Science. "We also disprove a long-held misconception about the kind of relation between the two individuals.

In the new study the researchers re-evaluated the remains via radiocarbon dating, ancient DNA analysis and a visual inspection. They found that the bones belonged to individuals whose ages at death were 20 to 25 and 40 to 60 years old and lived around A.D. 200 when the Roman Empire held sway over the region. In a twist, both human skeletons turned out to be females, according to an anatomical analysis. DNA results confirmed their biological female status and showed they were first-degree relatives — meaning they were either sisters or mother and daughter, according to the study, which was published in the May issue of the Journal of Archaeological Science: Reports.

Due to the pair's DNA results, their age difference and other factors, the researchers concluded that individuals were mother and daughter, with the daughter embracing the mother in the grave. "It's very unlikely that two sisters have an age difference of 20 years during those times. So we felt that it's more likely that they are a mother-daughter pair," Kirchengast said.

The inclusion of a horse and gold pendants strongly hints that the women were of high social status. It also indicates they were non-Roman elites. "To our knowledge it's extremely uncommon for Roman people to be buried with horses. They were not a 'horse-people'," study lead author Dominik Hagmann, an archaeologist at University of Vienna, told Live Science. He suspected these two individuals were from a Celtic culture still existing in Roman times. The Celts were more commonly buried horses with their owners.

There are other signs that the deceased were familiar with horses. "What I find odd is that the older skeleton shows signs of frequent horse riding," Kirchengast said. "Maybe both women were enthusiastic horse-riders.""

#I promise I will soon be back with new content #in the meantime here is a story that touched me deeply #history #women in history #antiquity #ancient world #archeology #women's history #roman tag #austria #austrian history #3rd century #roman empire #celts #celtic

94 notes · View notes

finniestoncrane · 11 months ago

Note

Finnie you know who this is (I wish they let you send asks from a side account 😭😭). ANYWAY soooo per our discussion, I would like to request 2022 Ozzie being a gentle Dom but specifically focusing on his fingers. 👀👀 The coldness of his rings contrasting the warmth of readers body, how he may tease them until they say "please" and then he's willing to do anything for them.

Also if it could be plus size reader, that would be fantastic uwu. 💙💙

Two Fingers

Farrell!Penguin x Fem!Reader, word count: 1.75k fingers fingers fingers fingers fingers i am going insane over this request bug and it cheered me up immensely while i was writing it at my desk BUT it kinda got away from me lmao i hope reader was plus sized enough, i always forget to describe reader because i spent so long training myself not to lol 💜🐧 request info • prompt list • send me a request • kofi • masterlist minors DNI!! 🔞 cw: teasing, fingering, nipple play, gentle dom ozzie

"Two fingers of scotch, sweetheart."

You stopped in your tracks, arms on either side of you, pushing you up from the cushion. Looking over to Oswald's desk, you caught his eye, and he smiled towards you.

"If you're getting up to go to the bar."

"Oh! I wasn't actually. I was getting up to come over and see you."

You stood up from the sofa in the corner of Oswald's office, your perch, as he called it. The place you sat most evenings, waiting for him to finish up his work. When you reached him, you jutted your hip out and rested against the edge of the desk, laying your palm delicately against the lapel of his suit jacket.

"I thought that maybe you'd be better comforted by a warm touch, than a stiff drink. Besides, with the day you've had? Do you really think two fingers'll be enough?"

He grinned, gold tooth catching in the light, twinkling in sync with his eyes as a mischievous sparkled in them.

"Two fingers is always enough."

You fed into the flirting, encouraging it with your smile and batting your eyelashes at him. Running the edge of the lapel between your fingers, you stared at his lips, biting softly at your own as you held back the embarrassing, excited giggle that threatened to escape you. In an attempt to maintain composure, you took a deep breath, exhaling with a sultry sigh, and shifted ever so slightly closer to him.

"Is that so?"

"Oh yeah, you'd be surprised at what two fingers can accomplish. Or, rather, toots, you'd be amazed at what I can do with two fingers."

No longer able to suppress the glee in the giggle you let out, you practically jumped at the way he spoke to you. Low, growling, so incredibly attractive. You were moving closer to him, now on the same side of the desk as Oswald. He turned in his chair, resting his palms on the widest part of your hips. His fingers tickled delicately over the surface of your protrusions and curves as he moved his hands up and down your sides, guiding you with him as he turned his chair back around to face the desk. He let his touch linger as you settled into your new position, sandwiched between his body, still seated, and the desk, which you rested against.

You stood still, your legs between Oswald's which were spread wide apart to give you space. The way he looked up at you made you feel like a work of art, gazed on from people smaller than you, people down on the ground. People who were trying to get to the same level as you, reaching for the pedestal that Oswald sat you on.

"Ok then, what can you do with two fingers then, Mr Cobblepot?"

It drove him wild when you teased him, even more so when you added an air of faux formality to it.

"A lotta things! Sign checks, make business deals, command my empire. Which way will Cesar Cobblepot's thumb fall, y'know?"

"Impressive. That's all business though, what about something more personal?"

Oswald let his hands drop down the back of your thighs, swooping round to the front where he lifted the hem of your skirt, just enough to expose your knees and let his thumbs graze over them.

"Well, I can hold open a door for my beautiful princess. I can summon a waiter over to take her order. I can send her a message to cheer-"

"The way you type, you only use one finger. And you do it with your nose pressed all the way right up to the screen."

You smiled, satisfied to get a gentle dig in. He raised his hands to his heart, mimicking some sort of fake pain your words had caused him before throwing his arms out to the sides.

"Listen, you forget I'm an old man! And I don't quite need glasses yet, sugar. Let me have that one."

You placed your hand on his cheek, your own eyes now boring into his deep, dark brown irises, making a note of the creases and lines that branched out from the corners of his heavy lids, the ones that shifted in different ways depending on what kind of smile he gave you.

"Ok, what else then?"

"Lemme think... Oh! I can do this."

He brought two fingers to your bottom lip, pushing on it gently until they parted and your mouth opened. Oswald stroked at the velvet skin, watching it tremble slightly at his touch, the sudden crossing from verbal flirting to physical shocking you in an entirely pleasant way.

"I can surprise you with just two fingers, huh? Make you speechless?"

You nodded, a small sound at the back of your throat cut short as he moved his fingers further back on your lips. Watching you carefully, keeping an eye out for any subtle, or obvious, signs of disagreement with his movements, he pressed those two large, thick fingers into your mouth. Laying them flat on your tongue. Licking his own lips as you pressed the muscle flat out against your chin, drool forming and spilling onto your face.

"I can show you who's boss too."

Oswald brought his hand to your cheek, rough fingertips grazing gently over your flushed skin, tingling at the tiny, soft hairs that stood on end as he brushed past, electrifying them. His digits continued, skipping over the shell of your ear, catching a loose strand of hair in the process and pushing it back, threading it into place.

"I can keep you neat and tidy, lookin' perfect."

His walked the digits down your front, sweeping them to the side of your body and pressing them into your plush curves, watching your plump skin fold under his pressure, indenting with the soft force, and pushing back out again into the soft curves he admired so much.

But as gentle as he was, he turned the other way completely, looping two fingers in the gap between your top button and the next one, tugging sharp on your shirt and bursting it open.

"Or, I can make a mess of you."

He tugged again, another button popping open with the strength of just his fingers, until your shirt had exposed your bra completely. He dipped two into the cup and pulled it down, revealing your breast, your nipple hardening as he grazed his fingertips over it.

Oswald drew a circle around your nipple, watching your skin shiver despite flushing with heat. Pinching you, teasing your nipple out and pulling your breast with it, he smiled as your breath became heavier, chest rising and falling against his grip. Once he let go, he began flicking his finger over the nipple, tickling you, teasing you, and you could barely hold back from asking for more.

"What else? What else can you do?"

"You wanna know? You gotta ask nicely, sugar."

"Please, Ozzie. Please show me."

Quicker than you thought possible, Oswald had his two fingers gliding up your thigh, pressing into the skin, watching the way your thickness dimpled under him. And then he had them under the hem of your skirt, both of them pressed together and rubbing your desperate pussy over your underwear.

Your body reacted immediately, grinding into him, keening and whining for more, satisfied with his two fingers, but needing them closer to you, to feel them on your skin. And sensing this, he pulled your panties to the side, letting his digits stroke against your swollen lips, spreading them apart and closing them around your clit.

As you bucked up towards him, he rolled the sensitive bud between his fingertips, biting down on his lip as he watched the way you held your breath, letting it go in long, trembling sighs when you couldn't hold it any longer. Those two fingers, now coated in your slick, coaxing your arousal on their own with ease. Forcing you to buck your hips towards him as you silently, but not subtly, asked for more.

And he obliged, letting his fingers slide between your lips and inside of you. Thick, strong, pulsing as he explored you, beginning to fuck you with them as you felt the definite threat of orgasm burn inside of you. He pressed further, the sharp cool of his rings as they came into contact with your skin serving as a delicious change in texture, one that made you mutter some expletive much to Oswald's amusement.

He rotated his wrist, fingers deep in you, down to the knuckles, hooked and tapping at the exact right spot to have you almost doubling over. It took so much effort to keep yourself balanced as you felt those two digits, manicured nails, polished rings, the hair close to the knuckles, now covered in your slick as he pumped them in and out to a purposeful beat. If you hadn't had something to concentrate on, like not falling, you knew you would have cum long ago.

The edge of the desk felt like it could snap under your white knuckle grip as you clung to it, your whines growing into moans, which gave way to a desperate scream as you reached your climax, clenching around Oswald's fingers as he spoke to you, endless praise, notes of admiration, 'good girls' being let out in a steady rhythm as he saw you through every ounce of pleasure.

With a shuddering breath and a soft whimper, you let the last vibrations of your orgasm roll over you, collapsing against the desk and steadying yourself on wobbling legs.

"See, what'd I tell ya?"

Your chest heaved as you caught your breath, body settling down post-orgasm, muscles relaxing, fingers untensing. You'd been hoping for such a tremendous example of what he was capable of, even though you already knew very well, and of course, being Oswald Cobblepot, he had delivered.

Watching him with hazy vision and half-lidded eyes you took in his every move. The slow, precise way he produced the napkin from under his empty whisky glass, running his two fingers along the flat of it before licking the last of your slick from them, a low moan rumbling in his chest at your taste.

Catching your eye, the lustful gaze with which you focused on him, he winked, offering you another of his knowing, mischievous grins.

"Two fingers, two of my fingers, are all you need, sweetheart."

#reeves!verse #finnie writes #oswald cobblepot #the penguin #the batman 2022 #colin farrell penguin #the batman fanfic #the batman 2022 fic #oswald cobblepot x reader #oswald cobblepot x you

188 notes · View notes

greenwitchfromthewoods · 3 months ago

Note

hi! I'd like to make a request from that prompt list: "it's as if my entire life i have been sinking in a storm and you came and pulled me out." + with General Marcus Acacius, with him being the one to say that sentence, if that's alright. thank you anyway :)

The last few days have been hard for me, mentally, but I hope I managed to fulfill your request. Thank you, sweetie. ❤️ i'm sorry for all mistakes

warnings : a little bit of smut, unprotected sex (don't do that!), mentioning war, mentioning gods, fluff

prompts list here

No victory, no treasures, no victory parades, no favors showered on him by the Emperor's hands were comparable to what your gaze gave him. He searched for it in chambers full of men and women, who, drinking wine, admired everything he and his troops had brought back from another expedition.

No, these were just empty moments. Meaningless to Marcus, because he didn't want that. He only wanted to see the face he loved again.

And finally he saw you. Among other women, wives of senators and high-ranking officials. You looked at him with love and reverence, the glow of candles reflected in your eyes. Even more beautiful than when he left Rome.

You raised your glass of wine towards him, and he did the same. The gods were kind to him, he came home...

"What is troubling you, Marcus?"

Your delicate hand on his shoulder, then gently slid down as you moved closer to him. You rested your chin on his shoulder, snuggling up to his bare back. The warmth of his body always delighted you. You knew the tiny freckles on his body better than the constellations of stars in the night sky.

My Marcus...

There was no answer. Only his hand rested on your knee, stroking it gently, and his eyes closed at the tender kisses placed on his neck.

"You're never able to fall asleep when you come home." You said quietly "Should I ask for a tent to be set up for you in the garden? You'll still be able to feel like you're among your legionnaires."

A small smile crept onto his lips. "And I would give up the sweetness of your body, love? Never." He turned his face to brush his lips against your temple "I'm sorry, this silence... It always makes me anxious. I can't sleep. I keep hearing all this..."

"War?"

Your fingers slid into his curly hair, so pleasantly soft. Marcus nodded.

"War, the screams of people, the sound of fighting... There's so much of it in my head."

"I wish I could take this burden off your shoulders, Marcus."

"You already do, my love. Just one look from you is enough to make me feel free."

He needed you, you could feel it. Wrapped in a sheet, you crept onto his lap. The cool night air seeped in through the open windows, but you didn't feel it. Soft and warm light filled the chamber, the scent of jasmine enveloped you both, and you stared into the face of your beloved man.

He had a few more wrinkles, a few new scars that you had already managed to kiss between intoxicating moments in the sheets, a few more gray hairs, but his eyes - they were still your Marcus's eyes.

General Marcus Acacius could command the entire army of the Roman Empire, but next to you he was your Marcus. He was the man you gave yourself to and wanted to spend the rest of your life with.

"I hate it when you're so far away from me." he mumbled, his eyes hungry for your sight, moving lazily over your face. "It's not fair."

"I don't like it either. I'd rather have you here, by my side, under me, inside me..."

Brown gentle eyes quivered slightly. Strong hands gripped your buttocks and pulled you closer, so that you felt his half-hard cock between your thighs.

"The Emperor should be sated by now. How much more of the world can you lay at his feet? Even maps have their limits."

"You deserve all of this..." you frowned in surprise. "You deserve the whole world, all the gold... I would lay this world at your feet, my love."

"I wouldn't accept that. I only want you. I want you to be mine, forever."

You took his face in your hands and came closer, kissing his soft lips tenderly. His manhood twitched noticeably near your entrance.

So many months of abstinence meant that the first few days together were spent mostly in bed. If you had to go somewhere, Marcus always made sure you felt his seed flowing lazily down your thigh. Knowing that he had possessed you just before his meetings with high-ranking Romans gave him a sense of even greater power.

Marcus couldn't get enough of you, if he could he would spend the rest of his life not on the battlefield, but between your thighs with his cock buried deep inside you.

You rested your forehead against his, closing your eyes, your hand resting on his chest. You felt his heart beating hard under your fingers.

"So much rests on your shoulders, Marcus. I wish I had the power to take it away from you..." you whispered.

"You already do, my love. The fact that I hold you in my arms instead of holding my sword is a grace of the gods."

"The gods wouldn't make you fight. The gods wouldn't take you away from me for so long. The gods wouldn't risk your life." you replied defiantly. You risked the wrath of the gods, you loved him so much.

"They were the ones who allowed us to meet and be together. And they are the ones who will give us everything we need." Marcus' voice was soothing, flowing over you like sweet honey. "Oh, sweet creature... If only you knew..."

"What Marcus?"

"How much you mean to me, how you save me every day... It's as if my entire life I have been sinking in a storm and you came and pulled me out. Thanks to you I feel like I'm truly alive..."

Tears sparkled in your eyes and you blinked them away quickly. You couldn't have expected a greater gift from fate than this man.

When you spoke, your voice was trembling, "So let me save you once more. Let me take all the hardships off of you."

You slid your hand between your bodies. His cock was already hard enough that you guided it towards your center. You lifted yourself up slightly, your entrance still slippery from the last time you made love, and then you lowered yourself onto him. The wonderful feeling of his cock stretching you out took your breath away for a moment.

"Oh, gods..." Marcus moaned quietly, "You are everything, love. Everything."

You let him lose himself in you. You allowed him to find relief and solace. And when it was all over, Marcus fell asleep peacefully. You were his goddess, the only one he worshiped. The only one he lived for.

#marcus acacias x reader #marcus acacius x reader #marcus acacius #general marcus acacius x fem!reader #pedro pascal #gladiator ii #gladiator 2 #general marcus acacius

96 notes · View notes

starrylothcat · 1 year ago

Note

2 and 11 from the most recent prompt list?

(Kisses down the neck underneath a high necked shirt (cough blacks cough)) (Kisses all over the face until.) With Crosshair? Man always is so sassy but I want a little sugar with him sometimes too.

Happily Ever After

Pairing: Crosshair x GenReader

Summary: You and Crosshair share a ‘lil cozy romantic moment.

Warnings: None? Cheesy drabble with kissing. Potential implied sexy times at the end but nothing is described or explicit. Can be read either way I think. Reader isn’t described. Established relationship.

WC: 1,000

A/N: I am filled with cheese (and sugar) after writing this. It’s getting colder where I live and I’m feeling cozy. I love writing ‘lil soft moments with this man. Also he’s totally a reader. Thanks so much for the ask! ❤️

You were curled up on the couch next to Crosshair, a small fire crackling in your fireplace.

Though Pabu was mostly tropical, the winter months dropped enough in temperature to warrant a small fire in the evenings.

Your legs were on his lap as you laid on the couch, Crosshair using them as an armrest.

You were absentmindedly watching a silly Holovid while Crosshair read on his datapad. Ever since being rescued from the Empire, Crosshair had taken up a few hobbies to keep him busy on Pabu. One of them was reading. He devoured literature, often finishing a novel in a day or two.

You were used to this routine, quiet evenings with just the two of you. You loved hearing him speak of the tales he finished, hearing his thoughts on characters and motivations.

You tried to keep up with him and read the same books, though his keen eyes were able to read and process words much faster than you.

The novels you could finish, you’d sometimes talk for hours about them with him.

You tried to focus on the Holovid, but you were distracted by his profile as he read. His sharp features have softened a bit in the time he’s been on Pabu, the delicate warmth of the fireplace adding a glow to his skin.

He looked peaceful, serene even. You knew the trials and tribulations he went through, the heartbreak and tragedy. You knew he still carried regret like stones in his heart, never quite forgiving himself for what he put his brothers through, though they have forgiven him.

You shifted, slowly sitting up. Crosshair didn’t budge, engrossed in the story. It wasn’t until you moved your legs off his lap and turned off the vid that he gave you a questioning look.

You stretched your arms above your head, readjusting yourself next to him.

You peeked at the words on his datapad, this story about a pirate who kidnaps a hot-headed princess for ransom, but ends up falling for her instead.

“Enjoying this one?” You asked, leaning your head on his shoulder.

Crosshair shrugged.

“It’s fine. Could use some more action and less romance, though.”

You snorted, flicking your eyes up to him.

“Too lovey dovey for you?”

A ghost of a smirk played at the corners of his mouth.

“The princess should kick the pirate’s ass instead of kissing them, is all I’m saying.”

You turned toward him more fully.

“But the pirate has a heart of gold and she sees straight through him! Tale old as time.”

“How do you know?” Crosshair asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I read the summary.” You replied, laughing.

Crosshair still stared at you.

“Okay, okay. I watched the Holofilm they made for this story!”

Crosshair let out a dry chuckle, setting the datapad down.

“Well, you can save me the time and just tell me the rest of the story. Let me guess, they live happily ever after?”

You snorted. “Is that so bad?”

You traced your hand over his, slowly moving up his arm.

Crosshair grunted as your hand made its way up to his shoulder, and up to his cheek. You cupped his face, gently moving his head to face you entirely.

“Is it so bad for the princess to fall for the handsome, roguish fiend?” You whispered, the fire now reflecting in his eyes as he focused on you.

You kissed his cheek, starting a slow path to his other cheek, over his nose and down to his chin.

Crosshair’s long fingers were now tracing up and down your back as you left featherlight pecks all over his face.

You felt him relax into the couch, his breath hitching slightly as you made your way from his stubbled jawline and under his ear, a highly sensitive spot only you knew about.

“It’s not so bad, I suppose.” Crosshair mumbled, his eyes closing, getting lost in the feeling of your lips on his skin.

You made your way down his neck, mentally making a note of how his breathing changed at certain spots.

You hooked a finger at the collar of his blacks, tugging them down to get more access to his skin. You took in his musky scent, how his hand was subtly pulling you closer to him as you continued your journey, relishing in this reserved moment of him letting you take control.

You left small nibbles, using your tongue to trace small patterns at the skin of his neck, which was now flushed with some color, pulling his blacks down further.

His slight grunts and labored breathing was music to your ears that you could listen to forever, his skin becoming hot under your ministrations. You finally lifted your head and topped it all off with a long, deep kiss on his lips.

Crosshair groaned as he lifted you into his lap, fully wrapping his arms around you, taking back some control as his mouth moved with yours.

His tongue danced across your lips, announcing his intention. You invited him in, letting your tongues slowly slide against one another, his hand cradling the back of your head. It was a languid kiss, perfectly matching the tone of the night.

When you finally pulled yourself away from him to catch a much-needed breath, his eyes held a mirthful glint.

“Do you really want me to tell you how the story ends?” You whispered, touching your forehead to his.

“Hmmm…” Crosshair hummed, beginning his own mission of leaving kisses on your cheeks, your forehead, your chin, and down to your neck, your own body heating up at his touch.

“I’ll have to decide that later.” Crosshair’s breath was hot on your skin, his kisses becoming more intense.

You let out a squeal as Crosshair quickly maneuvered you on your back, bouncing slightly on the plush cushions as his lithe body hovered over you.

You smiled as he continued on, leaving no part of your skin untouched by his lips.

By the time you were finished, the fire had burned to embers, and you lay entwined together, drifting off in one another’s arms enjoying the peace of the night.

Though Crosshair would never say it out loud, he did find his happily ever after, and that was in these moments with you.

Taglist: @crosshairlovebot @sev-on-kamino @kimiheartblade @wizardofrozz @clonemedickix @sunshinesdaydream @kashasenpai @freesia-writes @multi-fan-dom-madness @aconstructofamind @dreamie411 @dystopicjumpsuit @wings-and-beskar @starqueensthings @idontgetanysleep @secretthegriffin @anxiouspineapple99 @sinfulsalutations @secondaryrealm @littlemissmanga @maybethatfanfictionwriter @pb-jellybeans @wanderer-six @king-chaos-world @wolffegirlsunite @dukeoftheblackstar @523rdrebel @lune-de-miel-au-paradis @sleepingsun501 @coraex @cw80831 @dangraccoon @mythical-illustrator @eternal-transcience @the-cantina @nahoney22 @moonlightwarriorqueen @skellymom

Divider by @dystopicjumpsuit

#crosshair x reader #crosshair x you #crosshair tbb #the bad batch #the bad batch x reader #tbb #tbb crosshair #tbb crosshair x reader #clone x reader #clone trooper crosshair #starrycatwrites #tbb crosshair x you #the bad batch x you #the bad batch fanfiction #Star Wars fanfiction

289 notes · View notes

eccentricallygothic · 5 months ago

Text

|| Konnection ||

Pairing: Dragon Shifter!Ari | Drakaina Shifter!You.

Trope: You hate his guts and he loves it aka my favorite.

Description: You are a bratty little Drakaina. And do you know what happens to them? They get disciplined. By their Dragons.

Warning(s): Dubcon (just to be safe), smut with plot, chase kink, shifter couple, you straight up hate Ari, power imbalance, age gap, he's a warlord, size kink (gone wild), infantilization, humiliation, ass play (not his dick), his cock is too big, degradation, spanking, manhandling, hair pulling, unprotected p-in-v, creampie, doggy style, allusions to exhibitionist stuff, angry Ari, Daddy kink, he treats you like a kid and calls you one, cum play, brat taming, boob play, minor overstimulation, fear kink-ish. MDNI.

Note: I had so much fun writing this lmfao. Pissing off scary men so they can fuck me up hell yeah! Unedited because it's late and I am tired but I want to see something. Let me know if you liked it, thank you <3

MASTERLIST

. . .

You have always done whatever you please. Restraint and denial aren't— or rather, weren't concepts you were familiar with before you caught the eye of the tyrannical brute named Ari Levinson. It did not help that your stupid and treacherous spirit reached out to his when your eyes locked with his electric blue ones for the first time and konnected with him before you could stop it. As if Ari is not rich enough with his generational wealth and noble family, the fact that he leads the Military Legion of the Draconic Empire you belong to hence all the real power doesn't help your case.

You hear a deep growl behind you and you angrily flap your shiny crimson scaled and gold streaked wings. They are miniature when compared to his colossal black ones that are scaled a dark teal and streaked silver. The sound of them cutting through the air as he chases your tiny form through the sky is so heavy that it puts strain on your eardrums, their enormous size causing actual turbulence in the air itself.

Ari is a warlord and his Dragon form a battle hardened, much experienced arsenal full of tricks, infinite strength and agility and much training. You know you don't stand a chance against him, you didn't when you angrily transformed when he was about to put the band of his claim around your neck during your betrothal ceremony and you won't even if you by some miracle grow into his size all of a sudden. But his smug smile had been too much for you to handle, the lewd whistling and remarks of his filthy fellows only making it worse. You had confessed to him in a letter that you didn't want to marry him and you wished to revoke the konnection, you had always been clear about not mating in the Draconic way, and you did not want to marry anyone, least of all a filthy wardog covered in mane like some earthly animal.

The thought makes you sick to your stomach.

You hate your family for putting you through this. Not that you have any faith in Ari's decency to think that if your father had refused your hand to him he would have taken it as an answer, you still resent how your parents and other family members jumped upon the opportunity to serve you up on a gold platter just because a Levinson asked for your hand in marriage.

You feel the sky tremble again. He is growling a warning to you. It is a prompt for you to stop and know better. To help yourself while you still can. Save yourself before things become irreversibly complicated.

But you wouldn't be you if you weren't stupidly stubborn and childish.

And so you spin midair and wheeze out angry smoke before you burst out the most scorching fire you can muster out right at Ari. Of course, the range and intensity is inadequate. The brute is too big and hard. You huff out and dash downwards and out of his grip because he reaches you at once, his already cunning Dragon features not looking too impressed with you. You chuckle as you go fly in the other direction, thinking you have fooled the assholic mass of scale, muscle and tyranny.

But alas!

Your eyes widen and your mind doesn't comprehend it at first. It happens much too fast for both your perception and expectation to understand. And by the time you catch on, Ari's claw that easily holds you like a toy is tossing you on a mountaintop like you're nothing more serious than a doll before he deescalates himself on top of you and you gasp, your pearly beige wings darting to shield your eyes from what you suspect will be the crushing of your body under the brute's.

“Shift.” You know not how he does it but the beast crash-lands against the ground with such force that the whole mountain shakes from the weight of his anger and yet he doesn't hit you. Dust clouds erupt all around you and you cough, squinting your eyes as you peek up at him from behind your wings to find he has surrounded you in the curtains of his own to shield you from the change in environment as your body lies between his claws and he glares down at you with his electric blue.

You whimper and feel your jaw twitch as your lips tremble. Your forehead aches and you feel your eyebrows raising in an obtuse angle as a reaction to your condition. Ari— or rather, his form is titanous as he looks over you like the shadow of destruction, the air that his flared nostrils angrily exhale out fanning the entirety of your tiny form. You feel yourself beginning to break, anger giving way to regret and better sense scold your impulse. But then—

“Right now.” He emphasizes on his previous words and you hear an actual snap in your head before you feel your eyes blaze with anger.

“Nu.” There is an unreadable shift in his harsh gaze for a few moments as he just watches you, wordless. Did you, a foolish little girl from a family of humble means, tell him; Ari Levinson, who has been nothing but generous to you despite your constant displays of dimwittedness, no?

“I will not repeat myself.” To someone not belonging to your species, your conversation would seem like soundless mouthing for the pitch your kind uses in this form is inaudible to lower life forms. But you hear his threat loud and clear.

“Yur nut the boss o' mee!” You owe the lisping and baby-like voice to your tiny form. Although it's normal for Drakainas to be smaller than Dragons, their smaller size comes with speed, a feminine cunning, sharper claws, short ranged but molten breath and expendability. But it seems in your case that when the sun was granting his children, your kind, their abilities, you were knocked out somewhere with a food induced coma.

Though Ari has had enough encounters with you to know better, he still stops to stare at you; your unwavering foolishness. Are you, something so defenseless and vulnerable against him, seriously saying that to him when he is already so angry?

You stupidly gain confidence in the wake of his disbelieving silence. When you should be quiet, submissive and apologetic, you instead push yourself off the ground with the v-shaped mid joint of one of your wings and use the other one to wipe your eyes clean of their glaze. Your claws ball into tiny fists and you huff up at the mountain of a Dragon, pouting from how your nape hurts when you do.

“Ugh, I tuld yu I din wan' marry yu, yu dumby brute!” You jump up with the use of your hind legs so you can bang your miniature fists on his firm chest protestingly. “Hate yu, hate yu, hate yu! Leamme!” You give him a smash with each word, glaring up at him like you're in any position to. “Dun wanna—!”

Ari is in actual disbelief of your sheer audacity as he stops his mouth from falling open simply because he is not used to this. If anything, he is a foreigner to this attitude being directed at him. Because do you even realize just how monumentally fucked you are?

“You either shift and make it somewhat easy for yourself,” you gasp and slip back onto your ass with a gulp when he lowers his great head to put emphasis on his words. “Or I rip your petulant little kiddy ass open as is.” Your eyes widen when you feel the tip of his monstrous form graze against your small leg.

Fuck.

His Dragon cock alone is bigger than your whole Drakaina form.

There is something about the murderous glint in his electric blue eyes that finally makes you cease your race with reason and you let it infuse with you.

Your body reacts before your mind can even form the intent of obeying him and you pout softly. Your traitorous little desperate soul and the damned konnection!

“Oh, no…” Your speech returns to you as your body begins to shift and from the baby dragon form emerges a fully developed young woman.

Exactly what he likes.

“Oh, yes.” There is a deafening crack in the air before bright light hits your darkness accustomed eyes and you wince before bringing a hand to them for protection as you wince from the overflow of sensory data.

“S- Stay back!” You warn and hop backwards as though you're still on your haunches. It'll take you a bit to readjust to your human form. It's not very common except for cases like weak Drakainas like yourself.

Ari's cock is an angry red as it curves against his stomach. The sight makes you gulp and his not being bothered about it only makes it worse. Not that you mind being in your natural state too much, but right now you feel so exposed and vulnerable under his electric glare that you can't help but hug yourself.

“You're only making it harder for yourself, kid.”

“I am telling you, stay—” you quickly bend down to pick up a rock before you hurl it at him. “Stay back!” Ari turns sideways and his long hair flops along. When he turns to look at you, a crimson little cut glints in the sunlight for just a millisecond before his skin naturally comes together and closes on itself.

Of course.

“Ugh! I don't like you! Why don't you get it!” Your fists are balled at your sides as you huff and puff.

The man only sighs as he closes in on you.

“I swear— ah!” You scream as your foot slips off the edge and your body goes to tumble down, arms flailing about but before anything devastating can happen, a rough grip on your hair catches you and drags you back onto the ground. “Oh m- my—” he doesn't let you recover from your shock.

“Stupid and petulant girls like yourself never know what's good for them” you pout and whimper as your hair goes to cup over his that is holding your hair tight. “That is why they need someone to show them what's good for them” you jump like an animated character with a cartoon-like noise when his free hand swings through the air to crack against your ass.

“Ow! Oh!” Ari doesn't stop. As he walks you back to the middle of the mountaintop with your feet barely touching the ground because of how he holds you, he cruelly warms your ass up until it's flushing a humiliating shade of red. “Stop! You brute!” You bounce on your toes as you try to dodge him by swinging yourself left and right but to no avail, Ari is too fast and his range is too great.

“You don't say that when you fuck yourself stupid on my cock and cry like a little kid who is getting handled by their Daddy” your blood runs cold as the feeling of his words calling you out like a splash of ice cold water.

Okay.

Maybe your weakness got the best of you one or two times.

Or a couple.

But that's not the point!

It's his fault, he's the manipulative tyrant!

“I— ow!” You cry again because his assault on your ass is unceasing. “I— I've no idea what you mean, meanie!” He scoffs as he places you on your soles so he can bend you over to target your sitspots.

“I am sure.” Your body rocks forward with his beastly hits. Your ass is stinging and you're sure he has blistered it with his stupid warlord hands. “Now get your tail out.” The humiliation makes you want to throw up. Cold sweat threatens to drown your body and your ears turn beet red.

“What?! No!” You cry out when your words make him target your sore spots. “I- I dunno how to in this form!” He scoffs again.

Your audacity is what keeps him going.

“Do it how I taught you” okay, yes. But he's a bossy mean tyrant who doesn't back down if you deny him! And no one helps you because he's both your Konnection made and fiancee.

As well as literally Ari fucking Levinson.

You never really have a choice with him. These kinds of tricks aren't common for someone with your strength and state of underdevelopment most because you've never really cared about the Dragon stuff but one day the depraved dictator decided that he wasn't going to let you cum if you didn't grow out your Dragon tail while still in your human form. He went so far as to even threaten you with a spanking. And your readers can judge you all they want but if they had ever been stuck balls deep on Ari Levinson's monstrous cock with their pussy sore from the frustration and their hips so desperate that they throbbed with need, they'd understand why you laid weakly against his chest and surrendered yourself to his will before carrying out his messed up wish. To be fair, not that you would ever be fair with him, he had praised, kissed and spoiled you a lot after that.

Not out of the goodness of his heart though.

No.

The pervert loved to stroke your tail and play with its base when he made you sit on his massive lap.

“Or what?!” You demand angrily.

It's a thing. You always submit -under his evil coercion, you must add- and do what he says. But then you recover and you act like you don't know him.

Ari loves it. He has seen it all and there isn't much that isn't mundane to him. But you, you keep him on his toes.

His ferocious little fireball.

Ari finally stops the spanking. You wince as you feel your cheeks seethe. He brings you closer to his hairy face by the grip he has on your head. There is a complex look on his face. He looks done and unwilling to do to you what he must if you keep this up.

“You know you don't want to find out” you watch his face for a slip, trying to sway his heart with an expression or two of your own. But as always, it doesn't work with the brutish dictatorial tyrant of a giant.

So you whimper and try to look away but his hold restricts you. Choosing to avert your eyes from him instead, you whimper as you focus on fulfilling his demand. As you go about it, you cannot help but wonder why Ari wants you to do this right now. Usually when he does this, it's when you're cuddling— you mean, when he's cuddling you, okay?! Ugh!

“Oh…” You groan as you feel the crimson and gold tail growing out just above your ass. It's not painful but it makes you uncomfortable. As well as humiliated.

“Stay still, or so the Sun help me” you don't need to be told twice. Never when you're so tightly held in his grip. It's too late.

You feel Ari grab your tail and you whimper from the sensitivity, gulping down the bile that forms in your throat when you feel his long and thick fingers grazing the soft scales -he likes to call you a kiddie Dragon because of how nonlethal you actually are- as he slowly strokes the length. His fingertips feel the hot base for a few moments and your knees nearly buckle shut. The firm hold on your head helps keep you remain in the inverted 90° angle he's made of your body.

Ari spits on your pucker and you almost jump from the sensation of his hot spit landing on your hole. Oh, yes. It becomes too exposed for comfort when he bends you over like this. And no, it does not mean that you know this because he does it often. Absolutely not. You uneasily try to shift away but he hooks one knee in the curve between your stomach and thighs to keep you upright as his fingers work the natural lubricant in and work it open a little. The next blob lands on your tail and something about the sensory overload and his attitude makes you angry but you're too caught and weak.

But still, before you can try to hold your own, the warlord is pushing the tip of your tail in your pucker and your eyes widen in shock. You begin to struggle. He has never done that before.

“W- What are you doin— ah!” Even though your Drakaina skin is soft, the sensation of the rigid dents and your own body being forced into your tiny hole causes an explosion of scorching blood in your face. “Oh—! What are you doing, you! Oh my— owie Dada!” You break and though you don't see it, a crooked smirk of satisfaction makes its way onto his face. “Pleasie!”

There.

You talk big game, but a little bit of pain and you're the most compliant little thing alive.

“You look so pretty, kid” your features scrunch in discomfort as you squint at the ground because there isn't much else you can do. “Stuffed full of your own bratty little tail” your ass is so full of yourself. The humiliating sensation makes you pout. He gives a firm pat on your plugged ass before moving on and you nearly retch from the embarrassment. “Get on your knees” he finally releases your hair and you land on your hands just in time.

“Y- You…” And your mouth is trying to run again the moment he isn't holding you. Ari snorts under his breath as he gets on his knees behind you. “Y- You're so twisted and weird! Military men—”

“It takes some nerve to act like that when I can literally see you messing yourself up like it's your job” you feel like screaming. You hate it and you hate him. He always gets what he wants and your traitorous body only aids his pompousness. “Dripping yourself silly like a soppy little bride slut” you feel the rough skin of his hands stroke against the sides of your sore thighs before he pulls you back towards him. “It looks like you pissed yourself like the stupid little baby that you are” your wrists become jelly and your upper body collapsed on your elbows when his scarred fingers dip between your legs to collect your sweetness on them before he spreads your petals to both feel your warm cunt and coat as much of his digits in your slick as he can.

“D- Daddy…” You hate it. The twisted use of the word scalds your tongue. And yet you cannot help it. Your thighs only quiver more.

Ari brings his fingers to his lips and puts them in his mouth before sucking at them. “Hmm” his bigger body rocks against your much smaller one to rub his own spilling cock on your spanked skin. “Tastes like a silly little kiddie brat slut” your sensitive and tender skin does well in pampering his stiff skin and Ari uses your ass like a plush little pillow to stroke his cock.

“D- Daddy— I mean, you brute!” Sparks go off in your mind when you feel him stroke the summit of his dick against your drenched pussy as one of his hands hold you to his while by the grip he has on the curve of your hip. “Stooop! Owie! No! It won't fit!” And true to your word, your small pussy rejects his cock with a bratty squelch. It's one part of your body that is just like you. And Ari has punished it on several occasions for his misbehavior exactly as he does you. “I- I am too small you giant! Not everyone can be a colossal like you- ouchie!”

He raises an eyebrow, amused. “Too small now, are you?” He is breathless from the strength it's taking him to be patient with your opening's constant rejection of his cock whenever he tries to push in. “You weren't acting like it when you made a spectacle of our engagement like I am some lowborn pauper that you can just humiliate like a peasant wife who doesn't have a whole generation of noble wives to represent” he bites back a harsh curse when his cock slips away again. His fingers tighten on your side and he pushes you tighter against him before realigning his cock with your bratty hole and slowly forcing it in with slow rotatory movements where he penetrates you spec by spec. “You weren't too small when you challenged your future husband and tried to burn him with your pathetic little candle fire” the insult makes you angry but his cock has intruded you and his satisfied pat to your ass coupled with your pucker clenching around your scaled tail renders you speechless.

“O- Owie!” It feels good. But the strain his girth puts on your poor band is almost too much. You fear you will rip. “D- Daddy, please!” That always softens him up. Oftentimes just a little but beggars can't be choosers.

“You will shut up and take it if you know what's good for you…” But he is far too angry today. His hairy chest drapes over your back and the coarse hairs make your tender skin tingle. “Even though we both know you're too dumb to understand that” you feel him pull out of you almost all the way out before he plunges himself back in, his length cruelly pushing your velvet walls apart and reaching your cervix already. But Ari doesn't hit it just yet.

“Oh!” You squeak out when your body rocks with another thrust and then another. He is gaining pace. You don't notice it but your ass has managed to push your tail nearly halfway out and Ari stamps it back in at the same moment he snaps his hips against yours. “Daddyyyy, hnng!” Regardless of your dislike of the name, it is the one you find yourself calling him when he has you bent over like this.

“Tell me you're sorry for what you did” he peers at the sun that is changing its colour and Ari decides he can thoroughly address this later. It is not like you are going anywhere. You are his and he will never allow it. “Tell me it's because you're a stupid little kiddie brat who hasn't had a day's discipline in her life and that is the reason you need a husband like me to keep you on a short leash” the sound of his cock moving in and out of your tight pussy is so loud that it is clear even in the heavy winds. Your pucker blinks around your tail. “Say it!” The harsh strike he gives to your ass has you crying and parroting out his words before your mind can catch on.

“I- I am sorry for… for… ah!” His stiff tip touches your cervix and the bittersweet pleasure makes you choke him out. His baritone groan grinds its way into your ear from how his colossal form is bent over yours so he can reach your neck and hear your whimpers. “I am sorry for what I did today, Daddy!”

“Keep going” he demands with a smack to one of your tits now. You jump up from the shock. Damn, you didn't even know he could reach you like this. He continues to fuck you like a hound taking his bitch.

“I, uh…” You rake your mind for what he demanded of you, sighing in relief when you remember though his assault on your sensitive spot makes you arch your back. His beard digs into the skin of your jaw and shoulder when his mouth reaches for your carotid pulse. “I—” he takes a beastly sniff of your bubbling vein and you nearly give up but a pinch to your nipple brings you back to your task. “It's— oh, yes!” You finally remember his words and get to it, your sore ass cheeks clapping from how rapidly he is fucking into you. “It's because I've never seen a- a-” your eyebrows furrow and eyes flutter shut when his lips latch onto the skin of your neck in an unfriendly way. “Ah!” His fingers find their way to your throbbing cunt and you let out the most obscene moan you have ever heard.

“Say it.” He growls before he begins to suck a mark of his ownership into your tender skin.

“It's because I've never seen a day's d- discipline in my life and— fuuuck!” The feeling of his rough finger pads is delectable against your soft folds and your head collapses between your shoulders. The vibration of Ari's hum against your skin along with the breathtaking jab he gives to your cervix makes your head spin and you give up. You are yet to build tolerance to his touch. Your high bubbles out of your loins like molten lava and your toes curl as your body tries to stretch to both react to and withstand the strong orgasm. “I am a stupid k- kiddie brat slut who needs a hubby Daddy to keep her in her place” you mumble out in one breath as you let yourself rock back and forth along to his thrusts, mind numb and pussy dumb.

Or is it the other way around?

“And who is your hubby Daddy?” Ari lets your cunt go to grip both your hips so he can go into his incubus-like trance.

“You” your words are nearly incoherent but he hears them just fine and with much satisfaction. “Only you are my hubby Daddy…” You are thankful for the temporary vertigo that has taken over your senses. It renders you deaf to the filth he makes you say.

“Here's what's going to happen now” he says once he has run his tongue over the very noticeable bruise he has made on your neck. “I am going to fuck all the funny little thoughts out of your rebellious little head until you're rightfully wearing my cum” the overstimulation makes you uncomfortable and both of your holes sensitively clench. “And then we are going to fly back to the venue and you are going to thank me and kiss my hand to show your gratitude after I put the band on you” you feel his speed increasing and you further lower yourself to hold your head; bracing yourself. “You are going to kneel as you do, so everyone can see you for the hypocritical little whore you are.”

And Ari Levinson always gets his way.

. . .

I appreciate reblogs <333

#ari levinson #ari levinson smut #ari levinson x reader #ari levinson x you #ari levinson x female reader #ari levinson x y/n #ari levinson x black!reader #ari levison x reader #ari levinson imagine #ari levinson fanfiction #ari levinson fic

102 notes · View notes

activate-shadow-of-the-window · 4 months ago

Text

Week One of Hermittober: Beginnings/Abundance!

An abundance of wanted posters tacked up on a community board somewhere the knights moralis frequent. A new one gets posted every time a crime is attributed to a Brimmed Hat. Some faces are almost constantly visible: red eyed Fire-Starter is one, as he gets the vast majority of arsons blamed on him, while blue haired Stars is infamous for trespassing and causing chaos at midnight. Others have no face known to the portrait-drawers: Decay’s visage is constantly covered by a veil and rain of tassels, and Stitches has never been seen up close, period. Somewhere in the back is Thorns, who hasn’t reared his nor his numerous plant-monsters’ heads in a while. Blades is a new sight, and a pseudonym rarely uttered, but his ferocity with knives and apparent skill at disguising iron as gold has earned him a portrait and a warrant. But this board is cursed, or seems to be, for every time the face of North is nailed on, the whole thing goes up in flames less than a week later.

This art is part of the Hermit Hat Atelier AU! Despite its name, life series and empires folks are included, and exactly one is visible on this wanted board. This AU is also collaboration with @threecowsusingthistoreadcomics, who’s also doing AU art this Hermittober. We’re trading off the dual prompts each week, so go check them out to learn more!

#hermitcraft #WeeklyHermittober #witch hat atelier #hermit hat atelier #hermitcraft fanart #impulse fanart #scott smajor fanart #tangotek fanart #grian fanart #mother spore #zombiecleo fanart #ethoslab fanart #traditional art

42 notes · View notes

stardustprompts · 2 years ago

Text

the empire of gold ( the daevabad trilogy book 3 ) part 1 - s. a. chakraborty change tenses/pronouns as needed !! some lines have been edited for clarity / length / ease of roleplaying tw ; death , war , violence

‘please tell me I’m seeing things. please tell me this isn’t what it looks like.’

‘you don’t get to die. understand? I didn’t save your life a dozen times so you could leave me here.’

‘I suppose war is often more violent than expected.’

‘I had the impression that you and normal did not quite fit.’

‘why do something that would make sense?’

‘it wasn’t you. I didn’t trust anyone. I was afraid to.’

‘it always felt like I was one mistake away from losing everything.’

‘you don’t always have to do everything on your own.’

‘if you rule by violence, you should expect to be removed by violence.’

‘if you could do it all over again, would you not have done anything to save her?’

‘when you left I thought it might’ve been because you hated me.’

‘I don’t blame you for anything that happened that night. and I could never hate you.’

‘I could never hate you. not in a thousand years.’

‘I actually thought you’d be happier if I stayed gone.’

‘you shouldn’t have to keep saving me like this.’

‘I thought I made very clear to you I never intended to let you out of my debt.’

‘I don’t think I can do this.’

‘I’ve always liked choosing my own path.’

‘I’ve got a lot of experience finding slivers of light to cherish when life gets more miserable than usual.’

‘every time I think there’s no lower our world can sink, we all plunge deeper.’

‘don’t. don’t do that. there’s no way (name) blamed you, and he wouldn’t want you killing yourself thinking that.’

‘you are not the only one who’s seen your world broken. nor the only one who grieves for their dead.’

‘you are impossible, do you know that?’

‘I could kill you. it would be nothing.’

‘you are brave, you are strong, and you will survive this day, I swear.’

‘I love you. I always will.’

‘I’m tired of resting. and of having nightmares as well.’

‘it’s been easier to keep busy. if I’m doing things it keeps my mind from everything else, though that’s probably a cowardly thing to admit.’

‘not wanting to be destroyed by despair doesn’t make you a coward, (name). it makes you a survivor.’

‘you chose a very inconvenient time to develop a conscience.’

‘you’ve changed for the better, whether or not you want to admit it.’

‘I don’t know what you’re running from. I don’t know what you’re planning next. but you could have a life here. a good one.’

‘you could have a life here. a good one.’

‘we can’t stay here. we can’t—- I’m sorry I wish we could.’

‘you know it. I know it. it’s only a matter of time.’

‘we will never be safe here and neither will anyone around us.’

‘I don’t want to be safe. not if my people aren’t.’

‘I am nothing like him. I would take a blade to my throat before I’d do the things he’s done.’

‘you and I, we tried, okay? we tried more than most.’

‘(place) is a death trap. it corrupts and ruins everyone who tries to fix it. and we could be free of it. both of us.’

‘I’m going to say something no one has a right to tell you, but it needs to be said and there’s no one else.’

‘we have a duty to go back, no matter the consequences.’

‘you and I don’t get to look away from that, no matter how tempting.’

‘forget it. I’m not going to waste my breath trying to save you from yourself again.’

‘you want to go die out there? fine. but you’ll be doing it alone.’

‘we need to be careful. no reckless plans of self-sacrifice and spouting off things that will get us killed.’

‘thank you. I don’t think I could get through all this without you.’

‘I just don’t understand why you had to be so mean.’

‘this is going to end with us in prison, isn’t it?’

‘not everything has to be a transaction, (name).’

‘your expression is not bolstering my confidence.’

‘you’ve really got to find a way not to look like a startled pigeon every time you lie.’

‘people are often afraid of what they don’t understand.’

‘there is honor in being a weapon.’

‘I envy you sometimes. I wish I had your faith in people’s goodness.’

‘who are you to decide who is a monster?’

‘I used to believe it all. I had too.’

‘because it had to be true. If the ___ were people, innocent mothers and fathers and children, and I did to them the things I did … then I am damned. I am a monster.’

‘I worshipped them, I trusted them, and they lied.’

‘what is any of this supposed to mean if it makes room for such an atrocity.’

‘my best and mind are telling me that I followed the wrong people.’

‘what do I do with that kind of burden?’

‘you are the bravest man I know, and you run.’

‘sit with this burden. you may find doing so is easier than holding it over your head and waiting for it to crush you.’

‘you have been blessed; you have been granted the power, the privilege, the time to fix things.’

‘i’m so tired. everything I build gets broken.’

‘it’s all for nothing. nothing’

‘it’s not for nothing. we can still put things right.’

‘don’t look at me like that. I don’t need your pity. I don’t need anything.’

‘there’s no one else here, my friend. you don’t need to keep up this front.’

‘I thought you were dead. I thought I was dead. I thought I’d failed everyone, and I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t even fight back.’

‘you’re a good friend. probably the best one I’ve ever had. but if you tell anyone I cried, I’ll kill you.’

‘have you an actual plan or just wild fantasies that will end with our deaths?’

‘why do you look like you’re considering something very reckless?’

‘if i have found a glimmer of pleasure in all this, it is the assurance that you will destroy yourselves just as spectacularly.’

‘it is those we are closest to who have an opportunity to observe our weaknesses best.’

‘maybe they were afraid. maybe they were right to be.’

‘I wish you had told me. there weren’t supposed to be any more secrets between us.’

‘I feel like we just fell into a trap.’

‘I thought— I thought maybe there was a chance.’

'sometimes it’s wisest to let people show you who they are.’

‘you did not survive in (place) by sticking your head in the sand.’

‘I have never— for even a moment— forgotten how people view me.’

‘I left my home and a peaceful life to come here in the hopes of fixing things.’

‘I won’t be threatened.’

‘in my experience, parents are capable of doing a great deal of hurt to their children.’

#rp prompts #rp sentence starters #rp memes #literature sentence starters #literature prompts #the daevabad trilogy sentence starters #the daevabad trilogy prompts #the empire of gold sentence starters #the empire of gold prompts #fantasy prompts #fantasy sentence starters #I have to do these in parts ig because the book is huge #and the new text editor is yelling at me so !!

114 notes · View notes

unadulteratedsoulsweets · 2 years ago

Text

A DC X DP IDEA #15 Beauty and the Beast

Imagine dis…

By definition when you search these two terms…

beau·ty- noun- a combination of qualities, such as shape, color, or form, that pleases the aesthetic senses, especially sight.

beast- noun- Negatively calling a person a beast likens them to a monster and implies that they behave in a crude, brutish, or animalistic way. This use of beast can be especially offensive, especially due to likening a person to an animal. The adjective beastly means monstrous, nasty, vile, or cruel.

A young man who was discarded by his father for being born as a failure in the sacred line of the Al Ghul empire met a young man whose eyes give you the illusion of clear blue skies while it sparkles like stars above.

Danny is the beast while Dusan al Ghul also known as Ra al Ghul is the beauty.

…

It was 1013 A.D. The young Dusan also known as Ra al Ghul in the future, was full of life and youth, and was just starting his journey to create a league of his own, when he noticed a young man on the horizon. A traveler, perhaps, but what strikes him his interest is that the man’s blue eyes shine as of all the sapphires in the world or maybe the man/ traveler is unbothered by the scorching sun of the desert sand.

Ra didn’t know what made him dawned on him, but at a split decision, he asked the stranger what he was doing in the middle of the desert. The stunning stranger just looked at him head-on, with those lovely eyes those eyes, and told him he is just a mere traveler, wandering from one place to another. Intrigued by the stranger’s way of life he was prompted to follow as he too wanted to see the world more than these desert dunes.

The stranger had introduced himself as Danny Nightgale, short for Daniel. He wore a cloak that has the embroidery of a combination of flowers, skulls, stars, a clock, and some Egyptian polygraph, as it covers his entire body aside from his face. He carries no weapons but a satchel full of things that surprises the young Al Ghul. The first time together they were at odds, seeing that Ra strives for perfection as well as order through meticulous planning while Danny thrives at the chaos around him.

Dusan loved nature while Danny loved the stars, it has been months since they both went on a journey. The number of things that Danny had done that almost caused a permanent heart attack in Dusan to the point he is the cause of his early gray hairs. Both began discovering hidden places as well-hidden cities from all around the world, from the ruins of Gobekli Tepe to the hidden and lost city of gold. They, Danny, befriended the locals and learned and understood with them. Took part in their rituals and cultures. Some may not be as friendly as the last one, He was sure that he and Danny would die from the endless brigade of poisoned arrows that they keep shooting at them, but they still learned from them. Their intelligence as well as languages were thought lost in time.

Dusan learned many things in the years he had traveled with his friend. Yet his feelings for him changed like the seasons that pass by them. With each passing day, Dusan noticed himself leaning towards Danny’s direction as if he was the sun and he was nothing but a mere moon or a planet rotating around him, how he would find comfort in his warmth and presence, how he could not take his eyes off Danny’s own eyes, how he would beg the stars to listen to Danny’s laugh and how he would indulge himself to listen to his endless rants about a particular constellation. He was not favored by his father for being an albino, but when Danny looked at him, it is as if he hung the moon and arranged the stars for him. He kept sending Danny hints like holding his hand for too long or wanting to be in his presence. He saw that Danny never once looked in the direction of every exotic beauty that they saw. Which made him hopeful but he remembered that he is a prince not favored but a prince none less. But he could not see himself without his life companion.

It was a gamble per se, confessing his love and asking Danny to officially court him. Dusan planned everything to the very last speck. A dinner using the finest ingredients whilst they were on top of the highest peak of the mountain as the stars shine brightly above them. Moreover, that love between two men is frowned upon. In his family history there have been king, prince, and men falling in love with other men but was written as friends or even blood brothers, Dusan may have believed those scholars if he hadn’t found a hidden corner in the palace, while he was exploring, that contains a journal of his predecessor’s life as well letters he had exchanged with his lover.

It was said that at his marriage the King only slept with his wife until he bore him a son after that it was noticed that the King abandoned his wife, it was speculated that he has another woman or even that the queen cannot satisfy him making her a laughing stock as a woman who never pleased her husband enough.

Confessing was harder than he thought he would be, Danny who was on the opposite side of the table was quiet. Feeling rejected Dusan dared to look at the disgusted look at Danny but the moment he opened his eyes his eyes widened in disbelief. Danny is looking at him with awe as his cheeks are slowly turning red like the desert mariposa lily flower. Both ended the night after a kiss that the two of them shared as the stars seem to congratulate them knowing found relationship bore more brightly at the endless night.

Now you would see the two of them walking from one place to another holding each other’s hands. You would see the two of them rest under the endless stars as they both bask in each other’s presence. You would see the sweet smile that Dusan Al Ghul that he only shows to him and only him. How Dusan became so smitten at Danny's mere presence, how he would present Danny with not only the best but the most exotic flowers to present to him. How he would indulge Danny’s wishes, if Danny does wish for the world on a silver platter he would say wait to his lover and present the world on a golden platter.

But life isn’t a fairytale.

A king who has a son, his only son dying and at the mercy of death asked for the traveler’s help to cure his child. Dusan saw, dug, and discovered the restorative chemical pools to heal the prince, about to present it to the king to cure the dying prince. Danny who saw the consequence as well as the true nature of the pools tried to stop his lover, but his warnings fell on deaf ears as Dusan thought that this might be the key for his father to acknowledge him.

It may have cured the dying prince but it drove him mad to kill Danny. As Dusan felt his lover’s warmth leaving his body with each passing minute, he curses the heaven as well himself for taking away his lover his love the only person whom he ever surrenders his heart to.

Dusan who is the cause of his lover’s death said the lover used his remaining strength to whisper his last words.

To me, you are everything. The last several years have been fantastic, and if reincarnation exists, I would have chosen to be yours again and again until the end of time.

…

Damian Al Ghul- Wayne was only 6 years old when he stumbled upon his grandfather’s room. It is said that no monks, assassin, or even mother had stepped into grandfather’s chambers or even found the said chambers, and whoever was found it was said they met a painful death.

Damian told himself to forget and go back to the useless tutors that his mother had assigned to him, but a small part of him says that a quick peek wouldn’t hurt.

Curiosity won as Damian was still a 6-year-old, opening the double doors slowly he was greeted by the darkness of the room. Slowly he looked for any switch of light, as he flipped the switch on, he was astonished at what he saw.

The large fireplace above it contains a large portrait of what looks like a younger version of grandfather alongside someone whom he never recognizes. A lean frame that looks like a grandfather towers over him, a mop of midnight hair, ice-like eyes as well the having the aura of softness and warmness in his body language and smile as if the portrait is alive.

Looking around he was even more flabbergasted, shelves that contains countless miscellaneous things that the League considered worthless yet his grandfather seems like he has a large collection. Shells that have bits of sand in a large jar, a small floral terrarium, fabrics that contain embroidery of different constellations, a necklace made out of beads and small polished rocks, and many more. He was about to reach a wooden sculpture of what looked like a figurine between lovers when he felt a faint pain behind his neck and promptly lost consciousness.

When he woke up he was back in the main base of the League his mother explained that he had been asleep for almost three days due to one of the tutors poisoning him slowly, and his mother exclaimed that they were upping his dosage of poison during his poison training as it was embarrassing for the heir to faint from a mere poison.

Damian kept quiet as he was sure that the explanation of his mother didn’t happen, he may not have seen whomever attacked him from behind but he was sure that nobody had poisoned him. The moment he recovered he immediately went back to the room that he had found, but the moment he opened the door the room was completely deserted; all of the trinkets were gone including the large portrait.

He thought that he may have dreamed the said room and what he saw was a hallucination product of the poison in his system.

But the moment he met Danny, a mid-20-year-old man who has black hair and blue eyes, an owner of a small book café that both Todd and Drake come frequently at the tender age of 11 he began having a strange sense of de ja vu, especially after he saw the man smile at him when he was petting the owner’s pet dog named Cujo.

…

Danny decided to have a vacation, after years of becoming the Ghost king and after years developing his eldritch appearance, he had felt bored as he had already fixed the Realms due to the neglect that Pariah Dark had caused, in just a few centuries. He may have his friends, sister, and daughter with him, but even then, his boredom continues to grow every decade. Clockwork had advised him to explore the endless dimension that was connected to the realms.

Seeing the appeal, he immediately went straight in, but at the last moment, Clockwork grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and told him that he cannot just go to the human world looking like a cryptid. The mortal plane as well as the locals may not handle his aura and appearance. He reminded the young king, even though Danny became one of them and immortal but compare to the rest of the ancients he is nothing more than a toddler or a child in the eyes of the ancients, that due to his ever-growing powers as well as his titles his mere presence would either kill or make a mortal faint. Pouting at the reason, he asked Clockwork how he would explore the mortal realms when Clockwork handed him a digital tablet, courtesy made by Pharaoh, and told him to create his avatar that can contain some of his powers that connects him to the realms and vanished.

Danny stared blankly at his avatar, which looked no different from his previous human and fleshy self, and asked if someone introduced SIMS to the ancient of time.

Carrying a satchel that has an endless space, a gift from one of his subjects that was a manifestation of fans in fandom, people, or topic.

He started his journey.

He never planned to meet a mortal, to sweep him off his feet to the point his nonexistent heart seems to beat for only him. Danny’s north star made him love the green-eyed beauty, the tan skin that looked like the fresh sand of the dessert while his eyes reflect the polished emeralds that they have saw deep in the ocean during their stay in the middle of the Caribbean, as when they have gone for scuba diving.

Nor dying while his lover begs the gods or any higher power out there to bring me back, when his Astrophel had dug out corrupted ectoplasm he immediately warned his star but his warning fell on deaf ears as he saw what in his love’s mind, he wanted HIS acknowledgment more than anything. He knew that even though his bright light had told him countless times that he didn’t need his father’s approval his eyes and actions screamed at the mere fraction of attention that he could have if he had saved a prince.

Danny prepared himself for any side effects that may affect the prince but he was caught off guard at the immediate reaction of the prince to his presence. He knew that sometimes ectoplasm leaked to the mortal plane what he was surprised is that ectoplasm was affected by the former king, as the prince was straggling him he came to the conclusion that the ectoplasm was affected by the previous king making it corrupted as well it explains his immediate reaction to kill him as he is the one who stood up to the tyrant king.

As he felt his avatar’s life force slipping away his final thoughts were about returning to this reality to be with his lover.

As he returned to the Infinite realms he was immediately whisked away by his knight for another scheduled meeting.

After what had felt like centuries, he immediately created another avatar to enter the dimension and be with his lover. When he returned, he immediately noticed that time flowed too fast for his liking. Feeling devastated he originally planned to return to the Infinite Realms to mourn for his lover when he met the scrawniest 6-year-old boy stealing old books from the trash. Even the thin boy on the roof holding a camera waiting for the vigilantes to come, made up his mind and stayed.

The scrawny boy he dubbed before, his name is Jason and he lived in Crime Alley with awful parents. Danny would give him real food, light yet filling, to Jason while he would teach the boy to read books. He fell in love with classical books, he was happy to learn that he got adopted by a nice family who can feed him three times a day and he could go to school as well having a warm place to sleep. When he noticed that Jason stopped going to his shop for his usual visit, he was worried.

He knew that the boy he grew to love as a brother became a vigilante alongside that Batman fellow, so when he failed to show up, he began to panic. Carrying a handful of posters in his hand, he began spreading missing posters despite that many children are missing in Gotham every day. A rich fruit loop, to which he was sure he is Batman as every rich people who he meets has a secret lair in their basement, approached him and asked for the posters to which he replied that the young boy in the pictures came to his café before he was adopted. He couldn’t do anything to help the boy aside from the warm meals and sometimes sleeping over at his place, He could feel Clockwork’s warning and his connection that this boy has a destiny to fulfill and it mustn’t be disturbed, as he was just starting his business, and other legal and identity stuff, to keep the boy.

Bruce, the fruit loop introduced himself and said that Jason passed away a few weeks ago. Which Danny would have believed if he noticed Lady Gotham grieving for her knight or bird? He kept quiet as Bruce asked where he got the picture, gesturing at the poster, as he didn’t recall having a picture of Jason with this kind of outfit, Danny answered by saying that sometimes after the kid got adopted, he would still come at his place and just hang out with him. Both became quaint acquaintances as both settle down and drink warm cups of coffee as two people share and tell stories of Jason.

The thin one came into his life when he noticed a small silhouette in a roof over in front of his shop. A child too thin for his liking was carrying a camera focusing on any rooftop to catch a glimpse of the vigilante. Tim, who introduced himself, loves the vigilantes in Gotham and often would sneak out of the home to catch a photo or two and even a glimpse of the iconic duo. Danny asked himself what good parents wouldn’t notice their child missing every night surely the small eye bags below his eyes is already an indicator. Danny was sure he didn’t add a meta gene in his avatar so why is he getting too close to the family of a vigilante as well as having children who are neglected by their parents come to him? Gave Tim actual food than letting the id starve in the empty house and he didn’t get even surprised when months later he was adopted by Bruce.

During Bruce and Danny’s rare get-together, Danny mentioned hardly that having empty nest syndrome does not excuse him to adopt every black hair and blue-eyed child who is potentially traumatized in Gotham. This caused an immediate choke from Bruce and assured Danny and tried to refute him but Danny continued as if he had gone deaf at Bruce’s denial, that it is natural for teenagers to leave the nest and he felt pity and understanding for the butler for his efforts to stop Bruce in adopting every child in Gotham.

When Jason appeared and opened the doors to his café with a white streak on his hair as well as getting noticeably larger than last time, he didn’t say anything but prepared his seat in his favorite spot with Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen at one side and a Neapolitan ice cream sandwich on one side. Weakly whispering, Welcome back, to the person he had missed and loved like a brother. Danny knew that Jason didn’t like real-life sappy moments but Danny was just about to open his arms when Jason suddenly rushed to hug the man. Danny began filtering the corrupted ectoplasm in Jason’s system each time he stayed at his café to have a quick snack or lunch away from his brothers.

It was when he took notice of the youngest Wayne that he experienced de ja vu. He looked like a mini Bruce, he inherited everything from Bruce including the scowl aside from his coloring. His color reminds him of his deceased lover in the desert, he traveled in this dimension in the past and he knew a child assassin in the making when he saw one. He tried everything to give Damian a sense of innocence as he was sure that this one would turn into a Robin at any given moment, going as far as having a menu dedicated to vegetarians.

That should have been the first warning sign that fate is up to something.

…

There has been a spike in occult activities in Gotham and the Bats decided to investigate as there has been evidence of live sacrifice. Their occult problem seemed that the followers of that particular occult are trying to revive the Pariah Dark who was known as the tyrant king as he ruled over under his rule.

As they were busting another botched attempt in summoning whatever was named king, they noticed Danny, a lovely café owner by the way, all tied and scratched up but no fatally noticeable injuries and seemed unconscious from the way he laid down. All birds wanted to rush in and free Danny from the tight binding that they were sure would leave a mark and a wound when the sound of shattering glass made all of them look up. A band of assassins accompanied by the one and only Ra Al Ghul the demon head. Now there is a heavy tension in the air as both sides are looking at each other with apprehensive, distrust, and blood lust. They didn’t know that Ra was following them nor his agenda for today but both sides know that no one is going to leave the dimly lit abandoned warehouse unharmed.

But Danny chose to wake up that very moment to witness the two still not moving an inch from their spot and continuously staring down at each other. Danny would’ve slowly left the scene or even sunk into the shadows to watch both sides when he noticed the supposed leader. Danny felt his non-existent heart begin to beat again, something inside of him recognize the man. Looking closely Danny’s face slowly turns to one of awe and pure love as he stares at the Demon's head.

In what would have been forever as the tension was broken by Danny who awoke and called out Astrophel while staring at Ra.

Batman and company are surprised to see Danny awake but also curse themselves for their luck for Danny to witness this. As Jason is about to pounce at any assassin that tries to harm Danny, they all have their respective jaws drop as Ra responded to Danny by having a whiplash too fast that they were sure they heard his neck crack at sheer speed.

When they saw Ra and the League in tow, they were expecting a battle and bloodshed, not the fact that Ra looked like he is on the verge of tears nor the amount of emotions present in his eyes, aura, and body language.

The joy, excitement, peacefulness, overwhelm, disbelief, hope, and nostalgia emitting from Ra made them double check their very eyes as well check their reality because never in their lives would they witness Ra such vulnerability and emotions to the café owner they both love and acquainted.

…

Danny is overjoyed to learn his lover is still in the mortal plane, he is ready for another adventure and journey just the two of them and maybe they would get married this time.

If only the Bats both in and out of their costume and civvies would stop getting in their way.

…

PS: If someone out there wanted to continue or make a fic about this you are free to do so, don’t forget to tag me though.

#batman #BatFam #dc #dp #dc x dp #dc x dp prompt #Danny Phantom #danny fenton #ra al ghul

478 notes · View notes

prudentseer · 19 days ago

Note

May I just say you write some of the best period style fics. This is the original anon btw. Everything about your au is so. I don't even have words actually its so immersive and believable. Coincidentally I was also thinking of an arranged marriage au when I wrote the ask! I have read through the whole thing repeatedly all evening.

I imagine Etho is a recluse, and Joel has to attend the balls and social events alone. So Joel faces many rumours about his marriage , especially considering their wedding was still not too long ago. Until Etho awkwardly asks to accompany Joel one evening. When some people notice Etho and Joel aren't dancing, they talk. Etho hears this and decides to ask joel to dance. As it turns out they're both awful dancers, but they have fun despite it, even if Joel is bewildered about Etho's behaviour lol

Please don't take this as any pressure to write! I'm simply glad to have someone else who loves period aus.

Great minds think alike ;)

In all seriousness I could not have gotten this far without prompting so really I have everyone who's shown so much love for these writing scraps thanks; especially you for coming up with the original idea! I'd say you were my muse but it's more like you are God and I'm just sending my offerings (/j).

This one is a lot more rough around the edges but I really wanted to get back into writing after being sick for a while so here it is! This is the third installment of this "series" but it happens prior to either of them (it's also 1.5k words this time, I'm sorry). Thanks for stopping by!

Joel's family name could be traced back to the start of the empire.

A rich history, beautiful natural landmarks and a sanctuary to those fleeing from war. He had everything he could possibly need and things were well.

Then the gold mines dried up.

Certain dyes–their largest export–fell out of fashion and the biggest drought in recorded history swept through his estate. All of a sudden, his family was close to being destitute.

So he had to get married.

It didn't matter that Joel studied hard to be knowledgeable in anything from politics to arithmetic to language. It didn't matter that Joel was offered a position in the royal guard at age fourteen for his strength and mechanical ability. It didn't matter that Etho hated him from the second he saw him.

Whatever future Joel had was second to his family name. He had a legacy to defend, a reputation to keep and like everything else he had to learn to be okay with it.

So he did what any good husband would do. He listened to the rules of the house and kept his mouth (for the most part) shut. He handled small projects and paperwork, never needing to be asked. He never inquired for anything outside necessities, and accepted gifts handed to him with a smile. He worked in the confines of their deal, no matter how skewed they seemed at times.

A knock at his door draws him out of his thoughts. He jolts upright, scrambling for a pen to look busy.

"Come in!" He shouts, head down as almost catlike quiet footsteps tread into the room. He doesn't need to look up to know who just walked in. "I dropped off the documents detailing the expansion on your desk ea–"

"You're going to the ball tonight right? The one the King's hosting?"

Joel's eyes narrow at the almost nervous tone of Etho's voice. He dips his pen into the inkwell before responding.

"Yes, half past seven, I told you this at dinner."

"I remember." He replied, a small sigh escaping his lips. "What's the dress code?"

Joel's head snaps outwards so fast something might've popped in his neck. Etho looks…well he always looks slightly anxious when he speaks–hunched over on himself ever so slightly to make himself look smaller–but it's the shakiest Joel thinks he's ever seen him.

"Excuse me?!"

"Dress code?" He repeats, staring at the ends of his sleeves. "I'm wondering if my pale blue broach would be allowed–"

"You're coming with me?"

He's still not looking at Joel, choosing instead to wring his hands. "Yes. Can I?"

Etho didn't do social events unless he had to. His estate being so close to the mountains practically trained him and his entire family to be more…independent. Besides, Etho never seemed enthusiastic enough to go so Joel never asked. Sure, it led to ignoring the whispers and the pitiful stares he got just by showing up, giving a tight lipped smile and a half baked excuse whenever someone had the courage to ask why he was attending the ball alone but it worked for the most part.

So what was going on?

"Is there someone you want to meet there?" Joel asks, going through a list of attendees in his head.

"No?" Etho replied, head tilted like Joel was the one who said something absurd.

"I–but you–" Joel stops himself. "There's no dress code but why–"

"I'll see you later then."

And like that Etho's scrambling out the door like there's a fire in the room and Joel can only sit there and hope that the day he'll finally understand Etho will come soon.

------

It's a bad idea.

Everything about tonight was a bad idea. Etho can't recall the last time he went to any social event of this caliber let alone with a partner. He...pitied Joel, or at least something close to that emotion because he had felt good when he had initially asked to attend with him but now it felt much more real.

It still didn't feel real as he dressed himself that evening, fumbling with the neckline of his tie. It still didn't feel real the entire carriage ride over, staring out the window as Joel gave him the same puzzled expression every time they made eye contact. But it does feel real as he stands right in front of the ballroom doors, heavy mahogany muffling the soft orchestra music and distant chatter.

Joel wordlessly turns Etho to face him. Before Etho can ask why, Joel's fingers find the broach Etho pinned on himself earlier, adjusting it so it's straight. There's an almost stoic look on his face, concentrated like this ball is only a means to an end, a goal to reach rather than a fun event. Etho sees himself in Joel's eyes and that brings a surprising amount of comfort to him.

"Ready?" He asks when he finishes, holding out his arm for Etho to take.

He latches on without hesitation. "Yes."

The lights nearly blind him, music swelling and chatter all extremely overwhelming. He digs his fingers into Joel who thankfully doesn't react, every other muscle in his body seized up as he forces one foot in front of the other. People stop. People stare. A lot of people stare, pulling at the sleeves of others and whispering; hands blocking mouths and judgement clear in their eyes.

"I'm going to speak with some friends, will you be okay alone for a bit?"

No. Don't leave me alone.

"Is there somewhere I can get something to drink?" He asks instead, already feeling his throat dry up.

Joel smiles, a weak thing. "Refreshment table is on the far left, help yourself."

The eyes on him make him tense the entire way there, barely breathing and looking through everyone as he makes his way to the refreshments table. Bite sized foods, fancy plates and champagne. He has no appetite but he takes a flute of champagne, clenching onto the glass and bringing it to his lips with a shaky hand as he tries to force himself to relax.

He watches Joel who looks almost natural in this scene. Flowing around into different groups like an intricate dance, laughter and smiles following him wherever he went. People call out to him and vye for his attention, they greet him kindly and pull him into conversations. Open and warm while Etho remains comfortably invisible in the shadows.

"He came with his husband today."

Etho's ears perk up at the nearby conversation two ladies in loud dresses are having nearby, colourful fans covering their faces.

"I'm surprised the husband is real, honestly." The second woman laughs hautly, back still turned to Etho. "Did you see them split the moment they walked in? Not a single dance together."

"If it took seven months to convince my husband to come out to a ball with me after marriage, I would be embarrassed to be seen with him too."

Etho places the flute back on the table behind him. "Excuse me ladies."

They both have the decency to appear embarrassed as Etho makes his way to Joel who's chatting to a man with orange hair. Both of their eyes go wide when they notice him.

"Etho?"

"Can we dance?" He turns to the other man who fortunately doesn't seem too bothered. "Sorry, did you want to dance with him fi–"

"No! You two go ahead!"

He realized later in hindsight that he should've asked for a name or displayed any sort of good manners to the mystery man but instead Etho simply held out his hand for Joel before walking them both to the dance floor.

Joel fills the silence as the move.

"Something wrong?" Joel whispers, glancing at him from the corner of his eye.

"People were talking." He mumbles back.

"People always talk, you don't have–"

"You'll have to take the lead." Etho interrupts as they reach the center of the dance floor, grabbing Joel's waist with his free hand. "I don't know how to dance."

Joel chuckles. "I don't either."

"How? You come to so many of these?"

"I fake it." Joel shrugs, stepping forward and almost onto Etho's foot. "Usually the other person is good enough to lead."

They sway back and forth awkwardly for a few seconds, narrowly avoiding bumping into each other several times. It's painful, embarrassing and he can't imagine it's pretty to look at either with how many eyes he feels on him.

"We're off beat aren't we?" He murmurs, eyes down at their feet and face flush under his mask.

"Not even close."

"Should we stop?"

"Nah." Joel replies, Etho looking up to see him biting back a smile. "Let's give everyone something more interesting to talk about."

Without warning, Joel spins him almost violently, barely catching him from falling with two hands before dragging him back up and flush against his body.

"Joel!"

He should be furious but when he opens his mouth to argue the only thing that bubbles up is laughter. Joel laughs too, so bright and loud and uncontrollable they both look like mad men. Stomping around on the dance floor and almost backing into people; Etho's lightheaded from how much he laughs.

"Spin me next!" Joel exclaims breathlessly, stumbling forward and almost falling into Etho.

"Hold on!"

Joel was right, they'll be the talk of the party.

But Etho can't bring himself to care.

#smalletho #hermitshipping #boat boys #incoherent rambling #Writing Wipeouts #Still a bit ill but we ball

21 notes · View notes