#there's still so many emotions tied up in that sight | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

girlgenius1111 · 6 months ago

Text

behave

ingrid leaves for 2 weeks for national duty. sol and mapi try to stay out of trouble and fill the time. they are successful at one of those two objectives. some medical trauma discussed.

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“And I have an extra one of her inhalers, in the medicine cabinet in our bathroom. She hasn’t had an asthma attack in a while but-”

“-But just in case, Solstråle has one in her backpack, and you have one in the medicine cabinet. Ingrid, relax. It’s going to be fine. You’ve left the two of us before.”

“I know, but this time it's for longer, and she’s still not really herself. So many things have happened and I’m so worried,” the Norwegian rambled. It had only been a few weeks since everything had happened, and you were doing better. You were adjusting. Ingrid still didn’t really want you out of her sight, but she was due at the airport to fly back to Norway for the international break. She’d already said goodbye to you back at the house, and now she was very anxiously trying to give Mapi some words of advice before she had to go. It wasn’t the first time she’d left you with Mapi to play for Norway, but it was the first time since your mental health had really declined, since Ingrid became aware of how hard of a time you were having.

“Ingrid, amor, I know. I will take good care of her. Do you trust me?” Mapi said calmly, squeezing one of Ingrid’s hands.

“Of course, María, I’m sorry, of course I trust you. It’s just… keep an eye on her? Please?” Ingrid’s worry bled through her tone, eyes pleading with Mapi to agree to her request.

“I promise, Ingrid. We’ll be completely fine. And if we aren’t, I’ll call you.”

“Okay.” Ingrid said quietly.

“Alright. Fly safe, mi amor. I love you.” Mapi said, pulling Ingrid into a hug. Her girlfriend clung to her, and Mapi rubbed her back softly, trying to provide some comfort.

“I love you too.” Ingrid whispered, pulling back to leave a sweet kiss on her girlfriend’s lips, before turning and walking into the airport.

Mapi sighed, a bit relieved because she honestly wasn’t sure she wouldn’t be returning home with Ingrid after a failed airport drop off. The Norwegian had been increasingly anxious about you in recent weeks, and Mapi knew that leaving you, now, felt like she was failing you as a sister, and as a guardian. She also knew, however, that she had the situation handled. You were comfortable with Mapi, and she was confident in her abilities to keep an eye on you, and make sure you were doing okay.

She understood Ingrid’s anxiety. The Norwegian had always been a person who needed to feel control. Leaving her very vulnerable sister behind while she went off to play football for two weeks would certainly not give Ingrid the sense of control she craved in every situation that scared her.

Ingrid had gone, though. Entered the airport, gotten on the plane. And now it was time for Mapi to get back home to you, and begin the 2 weeks of fun she had planned.

------

Mapi wanted to bond with you, in a way that didn’t involve heavy emotions and tears being spilled. She wanted to do something fun that you enjoyed. Even if it wasn’t something that she necessarily wouldn’t have chosen. When you enthusiastically suggested that you both go to your rock climbing gym, she’d agreed easily. How hard could it be? She was a professional athlete. She was fit and strong, and she knew she could do it. She’d checked with the trainers at Barça, and she’d been cleared for the activity. An important piece of information that she’d forgotten, however, was that she wasn’t the biggest fan of heights.

Well, it wasn’t that she forgot. It was more that she just didn’t think it would be an issue. Her fear of heights had decreased significantly in recent years. She went on hikes often up tall hills and mountains, and was barely bothered. She didn’t stop to consider that being tied to a wall and climbing to the top with very little support would be harder.

It was easy to get on the helmet, the harness, and all the gear. It was adorable to watch you expertly tie the knots to her carabiner, very nonchalantly, though Mapi could tell you wanted to impress her. It was fun to learn all the silly little commands she was supposed to shout. It was fun that you knew all the right pointers to tell her, easily getting her going up the wall. It was even fun climbing; it took a specific muscle strength that was slightly different than the one she possessed, and it was just difficult enough to present a challenge, without being overwhelmingly difficult.

As she got higher up, though, she became more and more aware that the only thing between her and falling a very significant distance to the ground was a rope and a self belaying machine. She kept herself calm, though, until she got to the top of the wall. She allowed herself a small smile, glancing down at where you were cheering for her.

That was her mistake. The ground was so far away. And once she started to panic she couldn’t really stop.

You were yelling instructions up to her, ones she could barely hear.“Okay, like I told you. Flip the hand brake to the other side, and let the slack of the rope slide through your hand.”

“NO!” Mapi shouted, surprising even herself with the volume of her voice. “I can’t.”

“What do you mean you can’t? Is it stuck?” You replied. It didn’t even occur to you that Mapi might be scared. She was Mapi. She was fearless and confident and she was brave for you when you weren’t sure you could be.

“No, Sol, I can’t. I can’t.” Mapi said again, and you were floored to hear her start to get choked up. She had a white knuckle grip on the rope in one hand, holding tight to one of the handholds with the other. She looked like her whole body was trembling, and you floundered for a minute, entirely lost on what to do and how to help.

Though after thinking about it for another minute, the solution was clear. Ingrid could fix Mapi, just like Mapi could always fix Ingrid.

“Okay, Maps, hold on I’m gonna help you.” You shouted, seeing her nod weakly. There was no getting her down like this. You had to have some confidence in the equipment, and yourself, in order to repel down the wall, and Mapi clearly possessed confidence in neither of those things at the moment.

You grabbed your phone and called Ingrid. It went right to voicemail. You called again, waving off the worker who came up to ask if you needed help.

“I’m calling Ingrid, Mapi, just hang on.”

Ingrid didn’t answer for a second time. You dialed Caro’s number, one you had for emergencies, and she picked up on the first ring, no doubt concerned at the sight of your name on the caller ID.

“Hello?” Caro said.

“Caro, are you with Ingrid? Can you get her for me?”

“Uh… yeah. She’s in the gym, I’ll grab her. Is everything okay?”

“No, please hurry.”

It was unsettling to see Mapi this distraught, and you were absolutely flooded with guilt that you’d made her do this. She was clearly terrified and it was all your fault.

You heard some muffled voices over the phone before Ingrid’s absolutely panicked one came over the line.

“Solstråle? What is it?” She asked, beside herself with worry.

“Um. Mapi and I went to the climbing gym. And she made it to the top of the wall but now she’s… stuck.”

“Stuck? What do you mean stuck?”

“She’s too afraid to come down, I don’t know what to do.”

Ingrid fought off a smile. The mental image of Mapi stuck at the top of an indoor climbing wall, securely attached to a rope, a thick mat underneath her, in absolutely no danger at all, was comical, she couldn’t lie.

“Switch it to a video call.” She instructed, for no other reason than to get photographic evidence of this. Alexia would be getting a late birthday gift this year, in the form of this moment, framed.

You did as she asked, flipping the camera around to show Mapi up at the top of the wall. It was the shortest one in the place, and Ingrid had a very clear view of her girlfriend, holding onto the wall and the rope for dear life.

“Oh, María.” Ingrid chuckled, finding the whole situation very amusing. She took a screenshot, before you spoke and the situation became significantly less funny.

“Ingrid, I think she’s crying.” You murmured. That sobered up your sister pretty quickly. It was one thing for Mapi to be scared, and entirely another for her to be so terrified she was moved to tears. Ingrid very suddenly remembered Mapi’s fading fear of heights. Or, what was supposed to be a fading fear of heights.

“Shit. Can you get up there? With me in your pocket or something?”

You sounded almost cocky when you responded. “I could get up there with my eyes closed. It’s the easiest wall.”

Ingrid rolled her eyes. “Okay, get me up to her.”

You did as your sister asked, attaching your harness to the ropes and getting the self belay machine all set, before you slipped your sister into your pocket, and climbed up the wall, at a speed that could only be described as a sprint. It took longer than it could have, because you went slightly diagonal, trying to get as close to Mapi as you could. When you reached her, she seemed completely spaced out, every muscle in her body tensed, a few tears on her cheeks.

You pulled your phone out of your pocket, turned the volume up, and held it up so Mapi could see her girlfriend.

“María?” Ingrid said soothingly.

Mapi snapped back into herself, her head whipping around to look at the phone, and at you.

“Ingrid.” she said, relief clear in her voice.

“Hey. Are you scared?”

“No, I am staying up here for fun Ingrid.” Mapi snapped. Ingrid looked unimpressed, and Mapi mumbled an apology.

“Can you listen to what Sol tells you to do? And do it with her?”

“Isn’t there another way I can get down?” She asked in a quiet voice.

“Yeah, I can cut the rope and you’d drop right down.” You deadpanned. Mapi looked horrified at you, and you choked back a laugh.

“Solstråle, that is not nice!” Ingrid scolded. “María, my love, you are completely safe. You’re going to do what Sol says, and you’ll be back on the ground in a second, okay?”

“Okay.” Mapi agreed, glaring at you.

“See you in a sec Ingrid! If we make it down alive,” you added, tucking your sister back into your pocket before she could yell at you again.

When you spoke again, though, it was soft and encouraging, and Mapi knew that you were taking her fear seriously. It is one of those little signs that you loved her, too. You weren’t as good at saying it, having not heard it said to you for a lot of your life, but you showed it. When you’d squeeze her hand during a Barça game, knowing how hard it was for her to sit out. When you’d find a silly cat tiktok and send it to her, even though she knew you didn’t find whatever it was very funny. And now, when you talked her through the whole thing, assuring her that she’d be safe the whole time.

“It’s gonna be fine, Maps. Flip the handbrake off, and hold tight to the rope. You won’t go anywhere until you let yourself.”

Mapi found herself following your instructions without much thought. You just very clearly sounded like you knew what you were doing.

“Okay, good. Now loosen your hand on the rope, just a little. A bit will slide through and you’ll drop. The less you let go of, the slower you’ll descend.” Mapi let the rope go a bit, lowering maybe an inch. You nodded encouragingly, lowering down with her. “Keep your feet on the wall. You’re just going to walk yourself down. You can go as slow as you need to.”

Very slowly, at the pace of a wounded snail, you and Mapi moved down the wall. You didn’t stop talking the whole time, forgetting, honestly, that Ingrid was in your pocket.

She was sitting in the hallway, all the way in Norway, wondering what she did to deserve such a sweet sister, who cared so deeply for the people around her. Who adjusted to her girlfriend without a second thought. Who was sensitive and loving, even if you pretended not to be.

When Mapi got down the wall, she was still shaking too badly to undo the harness. You handed her your phone, un attaching her from the wall, as she spoke quietly to your sister. When she was free, and you were free, you shoved your face next to hers, greeting Ingrid again.

If Mapi was worried you’d make fun of her, she didn't have to be.

You just smiled at her. “Ice cream?” You asked hopefully. Mapi and Ingrid felt their lips both tug up into smiles, matching smiles.

“Definitely.” Mapi agreed.

The day had been a bonding experience. Just in a very different way than Mapi had anticipated.

------

You enjoyed spending time with Mapi, you really did. But you were also a person that needed a lot of time to yourself. Maybe it was a consequence of having no one around who paid much attention to you growing up, or maybe it was just how you were wired. Either way, after almost 2 weeks of spending every minute with your sister’s girlfriend, you needed a break.

Some silence, and a break.

Which is how you found yourself on a long hike, two days before Ingrid was due home. You’d gone yourself, without Scout, which wasn’t a common occurrence, but you wanted to be gone for a while. Just you and nature and nothing but your thoughts to echo around your head.

When you got to a fork in the path, you stopped to consider. The right path would lead you back down, and you’d be home within the hour. The left path would lead you through a tricky boulder section of the hike, and you’d be gone another 2 hours.

Your only hesitation with the left path was that Ingrid had very specifically told you not to take it alone. You’d talked to her before you’d left, and she’d warned you that the boulders were really tricky, and you shouldn’t do it by yourself. She promised to go with you when she got back, if you promised not to do it today.

Mapi would never know, though. You’d just tell her you stopped at the top to enjoy the views for a bit, before you headed down. And if Mapi didn’t know, Ingrid wouldn’t know. And you really, really, just wanted some more time to yourself.

So you set off to the left, ignoring the nagging feeling in your gut that you were making a mistake.

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You didn’t remember it hurting this bad, having a broken bone. It was definitely broken, though. You’d heard it go, even as your body hit the ground with a loud thump.

The boulders had been tricky. So incredibly tricky. They were slightly loose and wobbly, and there were big gaps in between where you could easily fall. You had to get up and over a pile of rocks to keep moving, and you were tired. There were only a few more, by your estimations, and you were so relieved to almost be done that you were a bit more careless on the last few.

It was the final obstacle that you fell from. You lost your footing towards the end of the boulder pile, rolling and tumbling down the last boulder, and onto the dirt path. You threw your arm out to catch yourself, and that was all it took.

Sitting for a moment, you assessed your hand. It was broken. You knew instantly. You’d felt this before, you knew what it was. You felt strangely calm after making that assessment, carefully testing all of your fingers, and trying to move your wrist.

Ouch. No, it was definitely broken. You had a couple options. You could call Mapi to come get you. She’d freak out and call your sister, who would be furious that you’d done exactly what she warned you not to. Or, you could finish the hike and get home. Pretend you were tired from your hike, or sick or something, and sneak away into your bedroom. Sleep it off.

Logically, you knew the second option was bullshit. You couldn’t hide a broken arm forever. The thought of going to the doctor, though, was not something you would even consider. You only had one choice.

You rose to your feet, the movement jostling your arm just enough to make your stomach turn. You bent over, throwing up onto the path. Straightening up again, you set off down the path, arm cradled close to your body. You could do this. You were strong and independent and you didn’t need anyones help.

------

You felt like the universe was on your side, with the way things were going. Aside from the broken arm, of course. You were able to slip past Mapi, telling her a small lie that you’d grabbed food on the way home and weren’t feeling well, before you made it to your room. She popped her head in to say goodnight, and if she thought your behavior was weird, she didn’t say anything.

You waited until she was in bed to shower, knowing she’d be up early for training the next day. You weren’t quite sure what your plan was past that, but you were taking this step by step.

If Mapi didn’t know, she wouldn’t make you go to the doctor. She wouldn’t tell Ingrid. And Ingrid wouldn’t be mad.

It was very poor logic, but logic nonetheless.

You probably could have kept it up for longer, too, if your damn dog wasn’t so intelligent.

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Scout wasn’t sure what a broken bone was. Nor was he sure what was wrong with you. But you were hurting, had cried yourself to sleep the night before, and no one was doing anything. The helpful tall one was gone, leaving him with only the annoying and loud short one. Scout didn't think she was very smart, but he’d try to get the message across that someone should probably do something about you, his favorite person on planet earth.

He followed her around when she arrived home from training. She ignored him.

When she sat on the couch and turned the TV on, he stood right next to her, staring daggers at her face. She ignored him.

It wasn’t until he started to whine loudly, and paw at her hand that she got fed up and finally looked at him.

“Scout, chico, I am begging you to leave me alone.” Mapi sighed. The dog just looked at her, taking a tiny step closer to the Spaniard and letting out a quiet whine. “I swear to god.”

She stood from the couch, heading for your room. If Scout would listen to anyone, it would be you. And she assumed that he was just pouting because you had shut your door, not allowing him inside. Now that Mapi thought about it, though, she realized she hadn’t seen you at all today, though she had exchanged texts with you while she was at training. Upon arriving at your door she raised her hand to knock, but before her hand could make contact with the wood, she heard a quiet, pained yelp come from the room.

Mapi frowned. “Nena?” She called, knocking on the door before trying to knob.

It was locked.

You never locked your door.

Mapi paused for a moment, looking down at Scout next to her, who was panting and staring up at her. See, his eyes seemed to say. I told you something was wrong.

“Solstråle? Can I come in?”

Inside, you had clapped your good hand over your mouth, realizing that Mapi had heard the sound you’d made. You’d been trying to pull a sweatshirt on to hide the awful sight of your arm, but even the soft brush of the fabric against your arm was horribly painful.

Fuck. Fuck. Mapi wasn’t going to go away, not without seeing you. You struggled with the sweatshirt further before responding, but you were unable to muffle a cry of pain when your forearm twisted slightly.

You shut your eyes, fighting back tears. “I’m fine, Mapi.” You replied, though you knew very well that it would not be enough for the Spaniard.

“You don’t sound fine.” Mapi said, twisting the knob again, as if it would have magically unlocked itself in the last few seconds.

“I am. All good.” You said back, fighting against the urge to open the door and collapse into her arms; your arm was on fire, the pain so bad that you were barely keeping yourself from openly sobbing.

On the other side of the door, Mapi shook her head, growing more and more panicked. You didn’t sound right, not at all. Scout next to her had begun to pace, and she was trying to figure out if she could break the door down before she spoke again.

“Open the door, nena. I am not asking. I need to see that you’re safe.” Mapi said firmly, closing her eyes and praying to god that you were okay.

You had no choice. You stepped forward, unlocking the door, and Mapi’s eyes fell to you, cradling your arm close to your chest. You arm that looked wrong. It was bent at a slightly awkward angle, turning an ugly shade of purple, and it was twice the size of how it normally was.

“Jesus.” Mapi sighed, stepping closer to you, she missed the pure panic that flashed across your face, but she saw you flinch violently away from her, backing up until you were on the opposite side of the room. There were tears in your eyes, and Mapi froze, raising her hands in the air.

“Sol,” Mapi began, her heart shattering when you shook your head rapidly, wordlessly begging for something, although Mapi wasn’t quite sure what. “It’s just me, Sol. I won’t touch your arm. I just want to look at it, okay? I promise, I will not touch you.”

You blinked at her for a minute, before nodding slowly. You moved over to your bed, taking a seat on the edge, sitting rather stiffly. It was a testament to the trust you had in the Spaniard that you held your arm out for her to see, a quiet sob falling from your lips.

Mapi moved closer slowly, like you were a wild animal she didn’t want to scare off, until she was standing right in front of you. She kept her hands behind her back, simply looking at your arm. It was broken. Mapi wasn’t a doctor, but this wasn’t a difficult determination to make. A broken arm is pretty obvious.

“What happened?”

“I fell.”

“How did you fall?”

“I was hiking along those rocks that Ingrid told me not to climb on and I lost my balance and fell on my arm.”

“This was yesterday?” Mapi breathed, sick to her stomach at the thought that you’d been hiding this from her for so long. That you’d been hiding it at all, but that you’d gone to sleep with an untreated broken bone, that she’d left you alone while she went to training, while you had a broken bone.

“Yeah.”

“Oh, cariño.” She sighed. “You must be in so much pain.” She studied you closely, and she decided that now was not the time to have a conversation about hiding things from her. “Nena, do you want a hug?”

Now that she knew, it was even harder to pretend that you were fine. She was right. You had been in a lot of pain. You were acutely aware of that pain, now, and how desperately you wanted someone to take charge of the situation and make everything okay.

“Please,” you whispered, leaning in her direction. Mapi very carefully wrapped her arms around you, gently rubbing her hand up and down your back. You trembled against her, and Mapi thought at that moment that she would break her own arm if it meant you weren’t in pain.

Mapi hugged you tight for a minute before she very regretfully pulled back, putting her hands on her shoulders and studying you. “Okay. Okay. Here is what we’re going to do. Tomorrow, we are going to have a talk about hiding injuries from us. Because Sol, this is so dangerous. I don’t know why you didn’t tell me, and you can explain later, but right now we need to go see a doctor.”

“No.” You said simply, your face hardening as you looked up at the Spaniard. And it wasn’t that Mapi hadn’t expected some resistance; she knew that you had an issue with doctors. It was the decisiveness with which you spoke, and the barely masked fright on your face.

“Solstråle, we need to get that x-rayed.”

“No. It’s fine, Mapi.”

“It isn’t fine! It looks broken, nena, we need to get it looked at.”

“No. No doctors, no hospital, no x-ray.”

“Solstråle, I will call your sister if I need to. We are going to the doctor.”

A look of betrayal flashed across our face, and you held your arm tighter to your body in a protective manner. “Please don’t make me.” You whispered.

Harsh wasn’t working. Demanding wasn’t working. Mapi knew she couldn’t force you. She just had to convince you. She stepped closer, putting a comforting hand on your shoulder. “You are scared, that’s okay. I’ll be with you the whole time, though, nena. Do you trust me?”

“Yeah.” You said, your voice cracking a bit, looking up at Mapi with wide, wet eyes.

“I promise you, I am not going to let anything happen to you.”

You considered for a moment. You knew, realistically, that you had to go in. And you also knew that Ingrid was probably going to be furious with you. You craved comfort from your sister, though, you needed to hear her voice, telling you that you were safe. Ingrid knew a bit more than Mapi did about your issue with doctors, even though she didn’t have the full story. Ingrid was safe, and so was Mapi, but you really just wanted your sister.

“Can I call Ingrid on the way there?”

And even though Mapi winced internally at mere thought of how upset this would make her girlfriend, she nodded. “Of course you can. Come on, let’s go.”

The care with which Mapi helped you down the stairs brought tears to your eyes. She put your shoes on for you, double knotting the laces like you always did, before she paused, crouched in front of where you sat on the bench by the front door.

“I promise you, Sol. I am not going to let anything happen to you. Okay? I’ve got you, kid.” She said, watching as you blinked hard, clenching your jaw and nodding.

“Yeah, thanks,” you murmured, your voice barely audible. Mapi helped you up, then, and you both exited the house.

Mapi dialed the phone in the car, connecting it to the speaker. Ingrid picked up on the first ring, almost like she knew something was wrong. “Hi mi amor,” she greeted warmly.

“Hola. We’re in the car, Sol is with me.”

“Hi solstråle,” Ingrid said.

“Hi,” you replied, not uttering another word.

“Tell her what happened, mi sol.” Mapi encouraged

“Tell me what? What happened?” Ingrid asked, her tone much more concerned and serious.

“I hurt my arm. We’re going to the doctor.” You mumbled. Ingrid sighed, but she got the feeling that this wasn’t the worst of what you had to tell her, that it was going to get worse.

“How? What’s wrong with it?”

“I was hiking and I fell. Mapi thinks it’s broken.”

“Broken…climbing… on the trail I told you to be careful on- wait, Sol that was yesterday. This happened yesterday!?” Ingrid shouted. “Why are you just taking her now, María?”

Mapi winced. “I didn’t know until now.”

“YOU DIDN’T TELL MAPI UNTIL NOW?” Ingrid yelled, so loudly that the speakers crackled slightly.

Mapi glanced over at you to see that there were tears pouring down your cheeks, and your bottom lip captured in between your teeth, as you tried valiantly not to cry. Shit.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. Relax, let’s all just take a breath.” She soothed, turning to pull over on a side street.

“María, I will not relax, this is not oka-”

“Ingrid, stop.” Mapi said firmly, her voice more stern than you’d ever heard it. Ingrid fell silent. “Sol, breathe. Ingrid isn’t mad, she’s just worried. We are okay, everything is okay.”

You nodded frantically, trying to get a handle on your emotions, which were, frankly, overwhelming at the moment. “Sorry, I’m sorry Ingrid, I’m so sorry.” You sobbed.

Ingrid felt her heart shatter. She hadn’t meant to shout. “No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled, honey.”

“I just- the last time I hurt my arm mom didn’t believe me and you told me to be careful and I didn’t want you to be mad, and I didn’t know if you’d think I was lying, and I don’t want to go to the doctor, Ingrid, but Mapi is taking me and she says I have to, and-” you cut yourself off with another loud sob, before arms were reaching over the center console and wrapping around you.

“Shh, nena, it’s okay. You are safe, you are loved. You are okay.” Mapi whispered, loud enough that Ingrid could hear it over the phone. Tears were falling down her cheeks, too, for a combination of reasons. Mostly, though, because her girlfriend was being so absurdly sweet and patient with you. Not that María would ever be anything different, but Ingrid would never stop appreciating it.

Once you’d calmed down a bit, you leaned back away from Mapi, looking at her desperately. “María I really don’t want to go to the doctor, please don’t make me,” you begged. Even as everything in Mapi wanted to give in and take you home where you felt safe, her eyes flickered down to your arm, which was black and blue and swollen, and she knew that wasn’t an option. Before she could speak, though, Ingrid chimed in.

“Solstråle, switch the phone to a video call and let me see your arm.”

You did as she asked, fighting back another wave of tears when Ingrid’s face popped up on the screen, looking sympathetically at you. You held up your arm, holding back a groan of pain as you did so, not happy when Ingrid frowned at the sight.

“Sweetheart,”

“No,” you cried, hiding your face in the crook of your elbow. This was absurd. Your arm was clearly broken, you were 18 years old, and you were afraid of the doctor. Like a child. It was humiliating and you wanted nothing more than to pretend that this was fine, that you were fine going to get a few x-rays and a cast, but the feelings of anxiety and panic were only rising in you again, and your whole body shook at the thought of letting a doctor anywhere near your arm.

“I know, I know,” Ingrid whispered, sounding like she really did know. While your parents had always dismissed your fear of doctors as you being dramatic, ingrid had always been able to tell that you were completely and utterly terrified of going in for a check up, or going into the hospital. The pure horror in your eyes whenever you had to do so was proof enough, but she’d had to take you once, just to get your flu shot, and you’d silently cried the entire way to the office, thrown up in the bathroom upon arriving, and almost broke her hand with your strong grip while the shot was being administered.

You hadn’t always been like this, though. It had started when you were 10, and Ingrid had never known the reason. You’d never told her, and your parents hadn’t either.

“You’re scared, yes? Can you tell me what is making you so afraid?” Ingrid asked gently.

You took a few shuddering breaths before hesitantly looking at her on the screen. “When I broke my arm? They had to reset it because mom waited to take me to the doctor and the bones were in the wrong spot.

They told me they were going to put some ice on it and a bandage and then the nurses were holding me down and the doctor was forcing the bones back into place.”

You took a minute, trying to stop the incessant shakes that were running through your body at the memory. You jumped slightly when Mapi’s hand found your uninjured one, but you grabbed on tight, closing your eyes to finish your explanation.

“I cried and I screamed and mom told me to stop being dramatic, and that I was embarrassing her in front of all the doctors. They made her leave the room then, and it was just me and the doctor and the nurses. The bones didn’t go back right on the first try, and they had to do it two more times before it worked. Mom only came in when they were done and they were putting the cast on. I asked her if I could call you, and she said no, because you were too busy for me.”

It all made sense, now. Ingrid remembered coming back from international duty after you’d broken your arm. You’d seemed so depressed and withdrawn, and she’d assumed you were upset about the injury. Never could she have imagined what had gone on while she was gone.

“That is awful, nena. You did not deserve that, and I am so sorry that happened to you.” Mapi began, her voice softer than you’d ever heard it. “I understand why you’re scared. I promise you, though, I won’t let anyone touch you until you say it’s okay. They’ll tell you what they’re going to do before they do it, and I’ll be with you the whole time.”

Your sister could tell that you were slightly more convinced, now. You really trusted Mapi. She’d never given you a reason not to trust her.

“Solstråle, you really need to get it looked at. I’m sorry I’m not there, I’m sorry I wasn’t there the first time, but Mapi is going to take really good care of you, okay?”

“Okay.” You agreed, another tear sliding down your cheek. Even as you did so, though, even as you gave Mapi permission to start the car and resume the drive to the hospital, you weren’t sure you could do this. You understood the importance of getting your arm taken care of, and you’d try. Whether you’d get through this hospital trip, though, was a different story.

--------

Mapi was relatively sure she was going to need an x-ray herself; you were holding her hand so tightly, your knuckles were white. You were shaking in the hospital bed, a vacant expression on your face.

You’d been sort of… despondent since returning from your x-ray. The doctors had insisted you go alone, and after some convincing, you’d agreed. When they walked you back into the room where Mapi was waiting, though, it was clear you were in another place. All she could do was wait for you to come back a bit.

“Mapi?” You said quietly, getting the attention of the Spaniard, who had been looking down at her phone, texting your sister.

“Sí nena?” Mapi replied, very gently squeezing your hand. You looked at her, then, making eye contact for the first time since returning from x-rays, and Mapi winced at the terror in your eyes.

“I don’t feel safe.” You whispered, unsure of what else you could do or say. You needed help, your fear was rapidly becoming overwhelming, especially because you knew that any minute, the doctor would be returning.

Mapi nodded sympathetically, reaching out with her free hand to push some hair off your forehead. She knew that physical touch was often the only thing that could comfort you when you were feeling anxious. “Is there anything I can do to make you feel more safe?”

“Promise you won’t leave? You won’t let them hurt me?”

“I will stay right here with you the whole time. And I will never let anyone hurt you.” Mapi looked at you with such conviction, spoke with such confidence and finality, you had no choice but to believe her.

“I want to go home.” You whimpered, your voice cracking.

“Soon, mi sol. Soon.”

It was only a few minutes later that the doctor returned. She was a kind woman, gentle and cautious. She had some understanding that you were afraid, and she’s respected that. She told you everything she was going to do before she did it, and she hadn’t once made you feel ridiculous for how you were acting.

“Alrighty. Got your x rays here. We’re looking at a bilateral forearm fracture, which means both the radius and the ulna are broken. The fractured are clean across, nothing is displaced which is good news for you; that means we can put the cast on, and nothing has to get put back into place.”

Mapi watched as your body practically deflated next to her, a long sigh of relief escaping your lips.

The doctor continued. “I am curious, though. Have you broken this arm before?”

You stiffened slightly, and Mapi shifted next to you, moving closer unconsciously in a protective manner.

“Yeah, when I was 10.”

The doctor nodded. “I can see it on the x-ray, there’s a line here, where it didn't heal exactly right. That white dot? You’ve developed a bit of a bone spur there where the bones weren’t properly aligned the first time. Does it give you pain?”

You shrugged. The relief was gone from your face, and you only looked defensive now. “Sometimes.”

Mapi guessed that sometimes meant often, and she wondered if you ever would have told her and Ingrid that you were having issues with your arm, if this hadn’t occurred.

“Well, the good news is your bones are not at risk for healing in the wrong spot, so you should avoid a repeat of the first injury complications. There are options, though, if that bone spur continues to give you issues. Physical therapy, steroid injections, and surgery are all on the table.”

You nodded, jaw clenched tightly shut. Mapi could tell this wasn’t a conversation you wanted to have, and she figured you’d been pushed far enough today.

“Thank you, very much. What is the recovery time like?” She said, effectively drawing the attention away from you as the conversation turned to casts and braces and slings.

You might as well have been in another room, for all you heard. You didn’t need to get the bones reset. Just a cast. You could handle that.

Or, you thought you could. It was much more stress-inducing than you expected, when the doctor came in with the items to make the cast, and reached for your arm. You flinched away from her violently, looking helplessly at Mapi. You were thinking about how she said she wouldn’t let anyone touch you if you didn’t want them to, and Mapi knew that.

“Can you give her a second, please?” Mapi said, not taking her eyes off of you as she slid into the hospital bed you were sitting upright in.

The doctor nodded, for her part lacking understanding, but not needing an explanation to respect that you were clearly terrified.

“Sol, breathe. It’s just the cast. They’re gonna put it on, they aren’t going to mess with your arm. You can do this, I know you can.” Mapi encouraged, more than a little surprised when you took a deep breath, nodded, and held your arm out to the doctor.You turned your head away, pressing your face into Mapi’s shoulder, gripping onto her shirt with your good hand.

You were putting all of your trust in Mapi in that moment, to ensure that the doctor was gentle and didn’t do anything she hadn’t said she would. This wasn’t lost on the Spaniard, and she watched closely as they wrapped your arm, and began applying the plaster.

She could feel your tears soaking through the fabric of her shirt, though you were completely silent as you cried. Not for the first time, and probably not for the last time, Mapi cursed your mother with everything in her. The woman had given her Ingrid, and you by extension, but she had inflicted so much pain on you in your short life. Mapi ached for the day where these scars weren’t painfully obvious, for the day you could go to the doctor without fear, ask for a hug when you needed one, cry openly when you were hurting, believe with all your heart that you were loved.

She held tight to you, watching as the doctor put the finishing touches on your cast.

“I’ve got you, nena.” She whispered. “Almost done.”

You were too good to have experienced everything that you had. She just wanted you to be happy.

When you pulled away from her to inspect your arm, she could still see such apprehension written clearly across your face. She wondered how long it would take for it to fully leave. Or if it ever would. Some scars never faded.

You gave her a watery smile, though, nodding towards the blue of your cast. “Couldn’t get it blaugrana but this is good too, right?” You joked.

Mapi returned your smile, feeling a very familiar spark of hope inside of her chest. Of course you would be okay. Of course you would. You were one of the strongest, most resilient people she knew.

“Very good. I am going to draw something so inappropriate on there before your sister gets home.”

You laughed, and Mapi laughed, both of you felt a bit like everything would be okay. Even if Ingrid scribbled over whatever Mapi drew on your cast.

-------

You sat blankly on the couch upon arriving home, staring at the cast your hand was wrapped in. You weren’t really sure what to do now, and it didn’t seem like Mapi knew, either. She took a seat next to you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you into her.

“Talk to me, nena.” She encouraged.

“I just don’t feel good. I’m really tired.” You told her.

“It’s been a long day, your body is coming down from a lot of stress and anxiety. You’re okay, now, so let’s just lay on the couch and relax, sí?”

You agreed, shifting to move into your spot in the corner of the sectional, before you paused. “Can you stay with me?” You asked.

Mapi smiled at you. “Of course I can. Even if it means your damn dog is going to come lay on my legs and get fur all over my pants.”

You rolled your eyes goodnaturedly, but you couldn’t give much of an argument because Scout jumped up on the couch right after, flopping down on your legs, making sure to stretch a leg out to rest on Mapi’s legs, too.

You dozed off relatively easily, clearly drained from a very emotionally and physically exhausting day, and Mapi took the opportunity to call her girlfriend, who she had been updating over text frequently, but who would still be, no doubt, beside herself with worry.

When Ingrid answered the phone, and only Mapi’s face appeared in view of the camera, Ingrid half convinced herself that you’d locked yourself in a room somewhere and were refusing to come out. Mapi shifted the camera, though, showing you absolutely passed out on the couch, your uninjured hand holding onto her arm, something you’d done completely in your sleep.

“Hey.” Mapi greeted. She didn’t worry about the volume of her voice; you could sleep through anything.

“Hi.” Ingrid said, feeling ridiculously emotional at the sight of her two favorite people together. “She’s okay?”

“Yeah. It was really hard for her, I’ve never seen her that anxious. They just put a cast on, though, and she’s relaxed enough now to rest. She was so exhausted, Ingrid, I’d be surprised if she slept at all last night.” Mapi paused as Ingrid hummed. The Norwegian could tell her girlfriend was upset, just from the way her mouth was set stiffly, and the way her eyebrows furrowed slightly.

“How are you doing my love? That must have been really hard to see.” She commented, studying Mapi’s expression closely.

The Spaniard just shrugged, though. “I am sorry this happened, I know how worried you must have been being so far away.”

Ingrid shook her head. “Don’t do that, don’t try to distract me. I want to know how you are doing.”

Mapi nibbled on her lip for a moment, her eyes everywhere but on the phone in front of her. “I am so sorry Ingrid.” She said finally, the phone dropping into her lap as she wiped impatiently at her eyes. Ingrid had to be furious with her. Had to be. This was all Mapi’s fault, after all.

Of course, Ingrid had never considered blaming Mapi, not for a single minute. “No, baby, this isn’t your fault.” She said, as if she’d read her girlfriends mind. Mapi could only scoff. “I’m serious, María. These things happen, it’s no one's fault.”

“She didn’t tell me. She didn’t trust me enough to tell me.” Mapi whispered.

Ingrid frowned. “No, she trusts you. It’s complicated with her, when she’s hurt. You heard what she said about when she broke her arm the first time. Her response to being hurt was completely based on that experience, it had nothing to do with you.”

Everything Ingrid said was so logical, Mapi had a hard time coming up with a counter argument. She wasn’t quite ready to forgive herself, though, so she changed the subject.

“You come home tomorrow.” She said, a small smile gracing her lips.

Ingrid let the very obvious subject change go in favor of smiling back at her girlfriend. “I do. I’ve missed you both so much.”

“I have to make sure to sign Sol’s cast before you get here.” Mapi said thoughtfully.

Ingrid grew pale at the thought. “No, María, whatever you are planning to put on there please, please don’t. Just write your name.”

“Oh, my name will be on there.” Mapi smirked.

Well, at least it didn’t seem like she was planning something explicit. “Leave room for me to sign too.” Ingrid said grumpily.

Mapi almost jumped when you chimed in from next to her, throat slightly scratchy. “Ingrid signs first. Those are the rules.” You mumbled, barely opening your eyes to address your sister when Mapi tilted the phone towards you.

“Ha!” Ingrid said, looking very pleased with herself.

Mapi wanted to argue, she really did. She knew, though, that Ingrid felt insecure about her relationship with you. You were a bit more open with Mapi, a bit more outwardly trusting. Mapi knew this was just because she normally had a much softer approach, though Ingrid’s tougher one was definitely necessary. She knew, too, that Ingrid worried a lot that you preferred Mapi to your sister. So, she let this one go.

“Fine. I don’t need to sign it. I’ve already got that number 4 tattooed on you.”

Ingrid paled. “No. No you didn’t. María Pilar León Cebrian, no you did not.”

“She did. It’s huge, on my right ass cheek.” Next to you, Mapi stifled her laughter, and you did your best to keep a straight face.

“You better be kidding. I swear to god if I get off that airplane and you have a four tattooed on your ass I will kill you both right there.”

“How are you going to check? Are you going to pants me in the airport?” You laughed.

“Solstråle,” Ingrid began, her teeth clenched.

“Relaaaax Ingrid. I don’t have any more tattoos,”

She let out a sigh of relief. “Thank god.”

“...Yet.” You added, laughing with Mapi when Ingrid brought the phone closer to her face.

“NO! No, Solstråle, no no no no no.”

You and Mapi laughed so hard you could barely breathe, hearing Ingrid repeating no over and over.

Ingrid rolled her eyes, but she wasn’t annoyed, not really. You were laughing and that was a big change from before. You were on the road to recovery, and you looked adorable all curled up next to Mapi, grinning at your sister through the phone. How could she be upset at your [stupid, idiotic, immature] joke?

Though she really would murder her girlfriend if you had another tattoo when she got home.

-------

this took me an absolutely absurd amount of time.

hope you enjoy sol <3

ps. please tell me all your sol thoughts comments keep me living and breathing 🫶🏻🫶🏻

#woso x reader #woso imagine #woso one shot #woso fanfics #ingrid engen x mapí leon #ingrid engen x reader #mapi leon x reader #engen!reader #platonic reader #🍓☀️

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xiaoseminence · 2 years ago

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𓆩✬𓆪 𝕋𝕖𝕪𝕧𝕒𝕥’𝕤 ℝ𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕣𝕒𝕟𝕥 𓆩✬𓆪 (𝔾𝕖𝕟𝕤𝕙𝕚𝕟 𝕊𝔸𝔾𝔸𝕌)

Summary ➵✬ When you wake up atop a golden altar, surrounded by the beloved characters from your favorite game, you will learn how far their fervent devotion truly goes. (Harem, GN pronouns) Warnings ➵✬ Heavy Yandere, Worship / Religious practices, Dark Topics, Slighty Mature / Suggestive scenes

“May the sacrifices we offer you appease you, our beloved creator. In these times of hardship, please guide us and lend us your strength”

The words reverberated in the hall, making it seem as though they were coming from all around you. You hadn’t opened your eyes, and yet an almost blinding ray of golden light was visible even through your closed lids. You barely registered the horrified gasps and shouts of astonishment as the strong smell of incense burned your lungs with each breath.

Was this… Death? The last thing you remembered was a train speeding towards you, headed for an inevitable collision. By the time you even noticed it, it was clear that you wouldn’t manage to escape its trajectory - too engrossed in the game you were playing on your phone to save yourself.

The people you knew always thought that death would be painless, a void empty of emotions or sound. And yet… Why was it this loud? By now the gasps had been replaced by hectic shuffling, too many muffled voices yelling over each other to the point that you couldn’t make out a single word. As if you had just emerged from a frozen lake, your senses suddenly returned to you all at once - brain now on high alert. Where were you? With a movement so fast that it made your head throb painfully, you ripped open your eyes and sat up. As soon as your lashes parted to take in the sight in front of you, your (e/c) orbs were met with shimmering cores of gold and ruby.

It took you a second to realize that you were face to face with a person, as their skin as pale as moonlight and eyes as crystalline as jewels made it easy to mistake them for a delicately crafted statue. Yet your shock seemingly couldn’t compare to that of the man, who visibly trembled to the point that his legs gave out under him.

He fell to his knees, and then… he lowered his head so far that it barely touched the stone floor beneath. As your eyes quickly darted around the room to make any sense of this situation, you were met with many other people following the example of the man in front of you. Some of them fell to their knees in an instant, creating a loud thud that echoed in the large, temple-like building, while others lowered their gaze in more of a demure manner, letting their bodies slowly follow suit as they sank to the ground.

Where were you? And why did the man in front of you seem so familiar? His golden eyes, brown hair tied with a black ribbon, and elegant attire were connected to something in your memories, yet said memory evaded you like a word stuck at the tip of your tongue.

“Your grace-”, his breath shuddered as he spoke, yet his voice held a sense of desperation. “Thank you for honoring your worshippers with your presence”. You tried to speak, ask what kind of twisted afterlife you’d been sent to, when his next words caused your thoughts to fly into a frenzy.

“Your first apostle, Rex Lapis, is forever at your service. Command me as you wish, your grace”

Rex Lapis? This couldn’t be true. And yet… it made too much sense for you to deny it. He looked just like the character you had managed to acquire just last week, after hours and weeks of your time poured into collecting as many primogems as you could. And… you could have sworn that you heard someone mention the word “Teyvat�� when you first gained consciousness in this… hall.

It was as time had frozen still, as no one dared to move a muscle or even so much as breathe. When your eyes fell onto a statue at the far end of the temple, you too froze in place. It was your face. Etched into immaculate white stone. The statue depicted a person sat on a throne, long robes draped around their body and pooling at their feet. Even as a statue, the cloth was depicted perfectly. And even if the mighty posture and perfectly dignified expression did not resemble your current state at all… it was unmistakably your face staring back at you with lifeless eyes made of marble.

“Ningguang?” As if to test your theory, you had spoken the first name that came to your mind when you looked at the audience. There were many people, hundreds, maybe even thousands - but you had spotted her form kneeling in the very front row. Her attire was different from what she wore in the game, her white and golden dress was replaced by a red hanfu. But her long hair, which was colored like freshly fallen snow, with a red tassel tied to it was just like you had first seen her in the game.

At the mention of her name, she seemed to flinch a little in surprise, before she dutifully raised her head, albeit not fully. She lifted it only to the point of being able to gaze up at you, her ruby eyes peering through long white lashes, glinting expectantly.

“Yes, your grace?”

You couldn’t believe it. It was real. But… What would you do now? They seemed to revere you as maybe royalty - or even a deity. Closing your eyes, you allowed yourself just a moment to force your brain into thinking of a plan - any course of action that would seem reasonable and not put you in danger. For the start, this should be simple - play along while you discover more about this world around you. The only problem was… how would you play along when you didn’t know what they expected of you.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Reminiscing back to the moment you first woke up in this world is something that nowadays, you didn’t do often. On occasion you wondered whether you would have done anything differently, knowing what was to come. Though, as you now rested in the arms of one of your consorts, half aware of the sugary promises of love and servitude they whispered into your ears, you didn’t regret it as much. Yet the road leading to this state of peace in your mind and acceptance of your situation had been a very long one. ➵✬ to be continued

Word count ➵✬ 1.05k

#yandere genshin #yandere genshin impact #yandere genshin x reader #genshin cult au #genshin impact cult au #genshin sagau #sagau #self aware genshin #genshin impact sentient #sagau cult au #genshin impact sagau #yandere genshin impact x reader #yandere tighnari #yandere scaramouche #yandere wanderer #x reader #reader insert #yandere headcanons

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goosita · 11 months ago

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I LOVE your writing I get so excited when you post! Could you write something about rivals taking Billy’s Girl and him going CRAZY till he gets her back? And then the comfort after that🥹

ooo ough oh my god he would go insane like i truly mean he would level an entire city for you if he had to

the moment he finds you in the back of the house, bound to a chair and gagged, his emotions begin a war inside of him. he’s so filled with rage that his hands shake and his teeth with ache in the morning from clenching them so hard. blood is splattered across his shirt, flecks drying on his cheek from the men he’d gunned down and fought just to get in here, and here you finally were.

he lost track of how many rounds he’d fired. all he knows is that he’d dropped several bodies. if he counted, he would realize he’d taken out the entire gang who had plotted to take you and hold you for ransom with the eventual goal to turn in the famous outlaw. there was no way in hell billy would ever let that happen; he’d lay his life down in a heartbeat to keep you safe and sound.

“baby,” he breathes, voice trembling. he rushes over and makes quick work of untying you, releasing the handkerchief tied around your mouth to keep you quiet.

“oh, baby i’m so sorry,” he murmurs, pulling you into his arms. he can feel you shaking like a leaf, but you hug him so tight he thinks his ribs might crack; not that he’d care anyway. “i should have been faster, i should have known sooner that you—“

“shhh, billy. i’m okay. i’m fine, you’re here,” you soothed, clinging to him. he can feel your fingers digging into his back hard enough to bruise. he hopes they do, honestly. he wants any mark you leave on him.

“m’gonna get you home, okay? never gonna let you out of my sight. never, you hear me?” he shrugs off his outer flannel shirt, dressing you in it and pulling you in again to press a long and lingering kiss to your forehead. billy keeps you tucked into his side, leading you to the front door.

“i need you to close your eyes, darlin’,” he says, stroking your hair. “don’t want you to see…any of this. okay?” he doesn’t want you to see any of the trail of gore he’s left. you’re too sweet, too innocent to ever be subjected to the sight of such violence.

you nod and squeeze your eyes shut, but as he leads you outside, the sharp metallic scent of blood hits your nose and you suddenly understand just why exactly he doesn’t want you to see. things had gotten very intense, you knew this. billy was a dangerous man. he had been since the day you met him, but it never bothered you. you weren’t even sure if it bothered you now, when he was so kind and gentle with you.

he helped you up onto his horse and climbed on behind you, slipping his arms around your waist and clicking his tongue to get the animal to turn and head the other direction. after a few minutes, you felt his nose nudge your shoulder.

“you still got those eyes closed?”

you nodded, leaning back into his chest even more.

“you can open ‘em now, pretty girl. nothing bad to see out here,” he promises, kissing your cheek. your eyes flutter open and the sky above is a deep navy blue, clouds just beginning to glow with the promise of a sunrise.

“never gonna let anything bad happen to you ever again, i promise. i’m so sorry,” he whispers. you shake your head and turn to glance up at him behind you. billy stops his horse and drops one of the reins, lifting his hand to hold your chin gently.

“it’s okay, billy. i’m okay. you got there just in time,” you assure him. your eyes scan his face, now noticing the dried blood in a splash pattern on billy’s jaw. the way his bright blue irises looked stormy still, the tension in his body still tight. his thumb caresses your bottom lip, his face softening.

he looked down at you for a long moment before dipping his head, resting his forehead against the back of your shoulder. your violent man, your outlaw, your gunslinger. william h. bonney, billy the kid, wasn’t afraid of anything. that’s what most people assumed; but he was terrified of anything happening to you, his sweet angel. his darling girl who kept him sane.

“billy?” you whispered. you felt him hum, his chest vibrating against your back. “take me home.”

and so he did.

#billy the kid #billy the kid x reader #billy the kid x you #anon #tom blyth #tom blyth x reader #william h bonney

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edgeray · 3 months ago

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Unknown anon again. I'll figure an emote soon. I guess for know I'll just say uh... ??? anon.

So in the latest dragon Arlecchino fic, reader took a nasty wound yes? And well, medical supplies are hard to come by. So reader gets an infection in the wound and Arlecchino has to find a way to take care of them?

Dragon Hunter Mother Part 3

(Arlecchino x Fem! Reader)

A/N - Part 1 | Part 2 Guys. It is what you have been waiting for, the long awaited part 3 of dragon! arle. Hope this doesn't disappoint! Okay, um, wow, hi ??? anon, 🏹 anon, and ©️ anon. Guys, why are 5 of the asks in my inbox dragon-related. 5 separate ppl wanted more dragons. 💀💀 are you guys starved of dragon content? is this what this is? Is this a cry for dragon content? You can tell how late this request is and I really apologize for that. 😭. What's that? More worldbuilding? Unfathomable. Hehe. Tell me what parts of worldbuilding you guys want me to specify / go into into the next part, because there definitely is going to be a part 4 at least. Content warnings / info - follows part 2's events immediately, arle's pov for the entire time, mentions of injury, sickness, may be medically inaccurate, 3.2k words

You promptly pass out after Arlecchino came to rescue you, the two of you not even registering the intimate gesture that Arlecchino had done in the heat of the moment.

As soon as you lose consciousness, clinging onto her form, she lays you down, checking for your injuries. Miraculously, you haven't received many injuries: just a shallow cut on your side and a deeper laceration across the length of your forearm. She tears one of your sleeves from your shirt as well as rips the bottom half of your top off to access your wounds. You’re bleeding steadily, and Arlecchino knows that stopping the bleeding is a priority.

Stripping the apparels of one of the deceased dragon hunters, she ties around the cloth around the wound on your forearm, the one bleeding more heavily, applying pressure to it. Her clawed hands tremble slightly, careful to not nick your skin as she continues her ministrations. The cloth is darkened by the red that seeps into it, and she growls, before searching for another piece of cloth, using that to secure the bleeding. Once she deems that your bleeding is no longer a pressing issue, she carefully lifts you in her arms, traversing by foot to her cave.

Although there is no difficulty in carrying your weight–her draconic strength still remains in her human form–the journey by foot takes several hours and she has to rely on memory for partway of the trip. It's no help she can not run or leap, not if she wants to risk jolting you awake and disturbing your wounds. Eventually, her children finds her. She instructs Lyney to burn the corpses so that there would be no traces, while Lynette is to search and retrieve your belongings. Freminet leads Arlecchino back to the cave by flying overhead.

Once Arlecchino finally returns, she immediately places you in the nest, bundling the wool mat around your body. Around the second week, you ventured into town, gathering the fleece of animals and placing it along the bed of branches and stones to ‘insulate’ it. While Arlecchino is not aware of what that means, she notices that it made the nest considerably warmer to lay in.

Lyney and Lynette are already in the cave when you and Arlecchino have arrived. Once she places you down, the two creep up beside you, croaking and cooing in concern as they observe your sleeping form. Lyney perches on your chest, while the other hatchlings nestle between your body and arms, pressing on each side.

Arlecchino observes the sight, her human heart pumping rapidly. Seeing her children curls around you, it's a sight that she can never imagine. She allowed a human close to her, into her home, around her children. She grew attached to a human despite her best efforts. Had it been just two moon cycles ago, she would have never considered the notion, fathom the ability of allowing such, of enjoying a human's presence.

Not since Crucabena. That despicable woman. It brings her great joy at the memory of burning her alive. She shakes the memories away, focusing back on you. After all, you aren't Crucabena–you aren't like all humans. And perhaps that is exactly why she grew a fondness for you.

How can she not, however, when you’re the first that doesn't tremble at the sight of her claws, or behave cautiously around her? Perhaps you are a fool, no, she is sure of it, you are a fool who didn't know better. But still… how could she not, when you've fed them, cared for them, protected them when you needn't?

Arlecchino sighs, raising your head tenderly so she can comfortably sit while you lay on her leg. Gingerly, her fingers make her way into your hair, caressing the top of your head. She regards you with a soft gaze.

How can she not grow attached to the one her little ones call ‘Mother?’

Ah, she is having foolish thoughts again. She looks away from you, before falling asleep herself.

Arlecchino stirs awake as she feels the sun's rays peak through the cave's entrance. She notices your still unconscious form, strange, as you must have been asleep for half a day, if not more. Then, the closer that she examines your body, she notices you tremble relentlessly while panting heavily. Concern immediately spikes through her body, and she none-too-gently shoves Lyney off of you to relieve the pressure on your chest. Lyney protests the movement and harsh awakening with a grunt before turning to your unwell person, croaking and whining pitifully. This agitates the other two hatchlings, and all four dragons surround you.

Arlecchino leans over you, scrutinizing every muscle twitch in your form. You're ill, that much is clear, but with what, the dragon isn't sure. Illness is practically nonexistent for dragons, unlike other species; there is little that can penetrate a dragon's scales. Even in human form, little harm can come hhr way. Humans, she had learned a century ago, are quite vulnerable and susceptible to nearly anything. And you, you've always seemed so frail and delicate to Arlecchino, even when she knows better compared to human standards. No matter how formidable you were in the face of the other dragon hunters, even you are human.

Freminet coos as he nudged his head against your head, rough scales against your face but still you don't wake. Arlecchino tries herself to stir you, shaking you by the shoulders, but it's unsuccessful. You don’t wake, and your body seems warmer than it usually is–then for what reason does your body tremor like it does now?

Arlecchino's heart pumps rapidly, rapid thoughts running across her head. What if you were to never wake? What if you remained this way until you perished? The vivid image of her crying children croaking for their Mother as you lay cold and still gripped her tightly, fueling her with something she hadn't felt in a long time.

“Wake up, human, wake up,” she demands with a foreign desperation, her brows knitted and her teeth clenched. Lynette nips at your arm, a futile attempt.

“Archons-damn it,” Arlecchino grunts, taking you by the shoulder again before stopping. Her clawed fingers scratch at you lightly, faint red lines across your skin before beads of red manifest from the shallow cuts. The dragon pulls away, her hands turning into fists. How can she help you? She can't, not when she is so ignorant of humans and their bodies. You're not well, and yet she cannot help you.

For a dragon, she has never felt more helpless and weak than she is now. For the first time, she finds herself wishing that she was a human. If she was a human, she would know how to help you. If she was a human, she would know more than how to hurt and destroy. If she were human, then maybe she too would know how to preserve and save life. If she was a human perhaps you wouldn't be like this. If she was human…

She needs another human’s help. The realization comes to her and she stands up immediately. It hurts her more than she would like to admit, resorting to a human's help, but… her pride as a dragon is not worth your life–it never will be.

Arlecchino tells the children to stay in the cave and watch over you, before she takes off in her dragon form, heading towards the nearby town with a bag of coins in her hand in her claws. She perches at the edge before transforming back into a human, wandering the streets with a cloak to hide her other draconic features and eventually finding the town center. There, she shouts and cries out for a doctor, flailing the bag of coins but no one approaches her. Arlecchino can feel her dignity deplete with every bellow, and her hope draining as more time passes.

Doubt begins to creep up her mind, as she ponders what it’d be like to live without you. She's already so accustomed to your presence, to wake up to your warmth everyday, your brilliant smile, your care towards her and her children. What if Arlecchino can never find help? What if you truly die, and once more her children experience another maternal figure leaving them? What will she do then? She is not ready to part with you, not just yet.

Still, despair slowly sinks into her eyes until a figure comes up to her, a small, hooded woman, with long, dark strands of pink-tipped hair, and a white ribbon over her eyes. How the human is able to see is a fleeting thought before she scrutinizes the person, suspicion and reluctance present in her expression.

“You can help my friend?” Arlecchino questions, though she is in no place to deny help.

“Of course,” the woman smiles cryptically. “What are your friend's symptoms?”

“She's breathing heavily, trembling, and feels warmer than she is usually.”

“Has she received any injury or wound recently?”

“Yes.”

“An infection then. That is easy enough to treat. Yes, I can help you. Take me to her,” the woman states, and Arlecchino obliges, as she leads the other woman to the way.

“She is outside of the village, she lives in the middle of the forest.”

“I suspected that. Guide me.”

Arlecchino takes the woman to the edge of the town, now at the edge of the forest when the woman stops her. “Well, aren't you going to start flying?”

The dragon pauses and turns to her, her brows furrowed. Did the human know that she is a dragon? If so, how? Arlecchino made sure to hide all of the signs, hence the cloak. The dragon attempts to hide the shock in her expression.

“What?” Arlecchino gruffs with a bit of edge in her voice.

“You know. Use your wings?” The human suggests, making a hand gesture to emphasize.

“You know I'm a dragon?” Arlecchino growls, raising a clawed hand to threaten her as she narrows her eyes. If she knows, then she is a danger, a threat. She can endanger her little ones if Arlecchino brings her to her home. Should she kill her? No, she can't kill her now, not when Arlecchino needs her, or needs your life more.

“Of course, I do,” she answers merely.

“Then why are you helping me? Do you want to die?”

“Dragons that's come this far are rare. I believe it's only right to help fellow dragons, no?”

“You are not human,” Arlecchino says matter-of-factly.

“No, I am not,” the woman states with a smile. A pink light emanates from her being and blinds Arlecchino, the vibrant outline morphing from that of human-shaped to something ten times larger. Arlecchino steps away, as a large dragon replacing the form of the human, nearly as large as her own dragon form. White scales crisscross her black scales like x's. But most noticeably is that she has four pairs of wings, each one faded from ink to rose color at the ends, the wing bones covered in midnight scales while the flesh of the wings are colored with a similar roseate color to its tips.

“Let me reintroduce myself,” the dragon says, fuchsia eyes glaring back at Arlecchino. “Call me Columbina. It's nice to see another dragon such as yourself. I promise no harm will come to you or your ‘friend.’ It's more beneficial to make allies with one another rather than enemies, don't you think?”

Arlecchino can practically hear the smirk from her tone, but she knows better than to reject the offer. Arlecchino may be among the most powerful of dragons, but a four-paired-wings dragon is out of her capability. Columbina outmatches her by experience as well as magical ability, and she cannot fight, not when she doesn't know how severe your condition is. What Columbina can benefit from her, she would just have to see, but you need to be treated first.

“How can I be sure you can truly help me? You may be my elder, but I will not hesitate to strike against you,” Arlecchino snarls.

“Why don't you just show me to your human companion instead of waving around these useless threats? I swear on the dragon's oath no harm will come to the human or to any of your things.”

The untransformed dragon contemplates on her words before sighing. A dragon's oath is nothing to scoff at; draconic magic binds the swearer to the oath, and if the swearer breaks it, heavy reparations are placed on the dragon. Columbina is serious about not hurting her, though helping her is still in question. Nonetheless, little can be done. Arlecchino reverts back to her dragon form. “Follow me.”

As the two dragons make their way to the cave, Arlecchino cannot help but prod the other with questions.

“How do you know how to treat humans? Why were you in the town posing as a human?”

“A dragon lifestyle can be so dull. We live so animalistically, driven by instincts and basic biology. Why must we degrade ourselves to living as we do when we have the intelligence and consciousness of a human yet none of their weakness? Humans have proven themselves to be interesting. Working as a ‘quack,’ or what the humans tend to call me, has allowed me so many intriguing insights.”

“You're studying humans?”

“Yes, don't you find such an inferior species quite fascinating?”

“They are something,” she mutters absentmindedly. Frankly, she doesn't care about the other dragon's maniacal obsession.

“Their bodies and mind is something I can toy with for years. Humans lie on such a delicate balance of relying on their animalistic features and relying on their intellect and judgment for their survival.”

Arlecchino just nods along. The two finally reach the cave, where the hatchlings greet Arlecchino, clambering over her back and arms.

“Oh, little ones? How adorable,” Columbina coos, but makes no attempt to approach them.

“Don't touch them. The human is farther inside,” Arlecchino growls and Columbina follows inside, converting back into her humanoid form. She strolls up to your sleeping form, crouching, and examining your figure. She places a hand on your forehead.

“My, my, my, what a pretty mate you have here. It is no wonder you were so protective.”

Arlecchino halts, her brain freezing as she comprehends her words. Her eyes go wide at her proclamation, and she nearly stammers out her response.“Mate? A human?”

“No? Though, I suppose I assumed wrong. She doesn't have your mark. Though, it makes no sense why you've yet killed her,” Columbina hums, unwrapping the cloth around your arm to look at your wound. “Hm, just as I thought. It's infected.”

“Is it even possible to mate with a human? We are separate species.”

“Why? Perhaps you are interested in it yourself? Then it makes sense why you are so taken by this human,” the dragon muses, and Arlecchino flushes, shaking her head.

“No, I was just questioning the plausibility of your suggestion,” the dragon quickly retorts. “Do not state such a preposterous thing.”

Columbina smiles and turns to Arlecchino. “Well, I guess you are too young to know. It is possible, in fact our ancestry says so. We all originate from the same bloodline at one point, though that is about more than a millennium ago. To put it simply, Our ancestor mated with a human blessed by the Archons, and that is why we are born with magic in our veins, and have our human forms.”

So it is possible for dragons to mate with humans… still, Arlecchino cannot fathom such a thing. Even in her humanoid form, you still are so small… she shakes her head, ridding of the notion. Mate with you? She has no place of even considering it when there's no intimacy between the two of you anyways.

Columbina pours some type of translucent liquid over the wound before dabbing some type of fabric into it. She manifests a bottle, opening it and applying the contents over her clawed finger, then rubbing it over the wound. Afterwards, she wraps a clean cloth around your forearm.

“Come here,” she gestures to Arlecchino. Arlecchino approaches you, and the other dragon passes her a roll of cotton material. “As you must know, humans are quite fragile. Hence, this human became ill because the material around her was dirty. It's important for humans to be as clean as possible, as it's quite easy for them to attract impurities that can harm them internally. Use this to reapply the wrappings every day. Keep it clean.

“Make sure the human is properly hydrated, with warm liquids if possible. Do not be overly concerned with how much she sleeps. Humans use sleep to recover their strength. Keep her in preferable conditions, and make sure she is properly warmed. Do you understand?”

Arlecchino nods. “She will be fine just like that?”

“Do you not trust your elder?”

“I am still wondering if I should trust you. But, I can do nothing else but trust you. Thank you for your assistance.”

Columbina grins, the same mysterious smile she seems awfully fond of. “Of course. I look forward to meeting you more often. I am glad there are dragons nearby. I'll be off now. I do hope your human stays alive.”

The dragon heads towards the exit, altering into her winged-form before flying off. Arlecchino sighs in relief, her attention towards you. You’ve stopped shivering, it looks like the trio thought to cover you with your jacket. Although you're still warm, your forehead was no longer burning up.

Arlecchino’s attention is steered away from you when Freminet grazes his body against her leg, before squawking, making his hunger known. Right, she completely forgot about feeding them. She tells the twins to look after you as she and Freminet goes to the nearby river, to collect fish.

The dragon, in her human form, uses the fishing net just like you taught her, easily catching enough fish for the four of them, before returning back to the cave. As the two dragons return to the cave, they're met with a surprising, but not unwelcome sight.

“Arlecchino. Freminet,” you greet with a grin, as you're sitting up right in the nest, the twins cuddling up around you as you stroke their heads. Your voice is different, strained and it clearly takes quite a bit of effort from you, but nonetheless, it makes Arlecchino's heart bound.

Freminet all but drops the bag of fish in his mouth and dashes to you, charing into your stomach as pleased grumbles reverberate through his throat. Meanwhile, Arlecchino makes no rush towards you, simply strutting towards you with a faint smile. Hidden behind her eyes is relief.

“You're okay,” is all the paternal dragon says.

You beam brighter. “I will be. I still feel pretty bad, but…” You glance at your bandaged forearm. “I'll be fine because of you.”

You gesture her closer, snaking out your arm from the hatchling's grasp and extending it out to her. Curiously, Arlecchino places her clawed hand. Intertwining your fingers with hers, you guide her hand towards your face before placing your lips on her knuckles.

“Take this as my sincere thanks, Arlecchino.”

Arlecchino does not wrench her hand away, instead, scoffing in reply before looking away. Her tail flails behind her frantically, comparable to that of an excited dog. Her cheeks are tinged with red. “Getting better can be your thanks.”

#arlecchino x reader #arlecchino x you #arlecchino #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact x you #genshin x reader #genshin x you #genshin impact fanfics #genshin impact fics #genshin fanfics #genshin fics #edgeray.???anon #edgeray.🏹anon #edgeray.©️anon #edgeray.writes #edgeray.requests

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quivm · 1 year ago

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— Miles Morales' future.

Earth 42 Miles Morales x gn reader light light angst (?). minors can interact! major spoilers for across the spiderverse. ૮ ˶´ ᵕˋ ˶ა

wc: 1.2k

genre + warnings:

very light angst if it even is idk who to describe it. extreme possessiveness (yandere), implied manipulation, implied death, kidnapping, being followed, gn reader but feminine pet names are used

notes!! i saw @ichangedmycornyahhname work of 42 Miles and got so inspired i was so happy. i watched ATSV the day it came out and saw 42 Miles was working in alchemax when they looked at where the spider came from so 42 Miles is really smart and my brain went smart villain = dangerous / manipulative with his intelligence ?? i love this headcannon so part 2 or other ff with this hc is definitely pending o(≧▽≦)o

Your steps hastened, desperate to reach the end of the alleyway. Your unbridled heartbeat raged as the echoes of the rapid steps behind you increased. The dread and unease of the situation washed over your body as you came to the reality of the situation - you were being followed.

Anxiety at the forefront of the many emotions bubbling up worsened your ability to keep a level head. Realistically, your capture was unlikely. The claim Miles had on you was well known throughout the criminal world as an unspoken rule. Never touch any hair on your head. An immense help in day to day life in the overpoliced and crime riddled city of New York but you didnt know that.

This time though it seemed that unspoken immunity ran out, seeing as you were targeted after closing up shop and walking home. Words could not describe the terror that fell into your stomach as an icy hand lurched forward subduing you.

“Where are you going pretty? You have a nice bag, huh.”

This was it. Your end would not be in action or helping people. No, your deeming end was going to be by a group of thoughtless thugs way over their heads. When a frosty cloth was pressed against your nose it reaffirmed your thoughts. This was your deathbed.

____

A dreary house was the first sight you saw as you gained consciousness. The organised but messy state made it abundantly clear to you someone was in constant use of it, although it was not welcoming or homey. Fires and mayhem in the skyline gleamed in the window, a bittersweet view. Sadden because that was your life forever unless you leave NYC- which you could never afford but reassuring in the fact that you were still in Brooklyn as harrowing as it is.

Times like this made you resent Brooklyn, there was no one to help. The police had more problems than officers, criminals were rampant and encouraged. The city felt empty, everyone was on their own to see the next day. Community was fragile and easy to shatter into a moment of the past.

Fright jolted up your spine. The heavy steps clanged toward the door. Even though you were not tied up it was a matter of time. Maybe the men would let you go? Maybe they were here to tie you up? Racing through your mind all sort of nonsense was thought about, until the step stopped right outside the door. The door creaked open, on its last leg.

The illuminating light from the hallway and window shone on you. Survival was the only thought on your mind, though fleeting and hopeless. It seemed only achievable through pretending to be asleep. Your motionless body layed frigid, shallow breaths was all that seemed manageable as the heavy boot came to a stop right infornt of you.

“I know you're awake.”

The short and sweet statement shook your world. Fear paralysing you as you reacted by trembling inconsolably as you cracked open your eyes. The dizzying onslaught of purple welcomed you as you looked at your kidnapper. Horror consumed your soul. It was the prowler. Contradicting previous thoughts, you knew you were over your head.

Before the tears pooled in your eyes could drop, as well as your pride as you were getting ready to beg for mercy, another statement from the masked man was made in the same chilling voice although this time laced with amusement.

“Calm down princesa it’s me.”

The sound of the mask slowly unveiling the man underneath echoed throughout the room. Confusion bloomed in your mind. Everything you knew blown out the window leaving only fright and shock.

“Miles?”

Your rough around the edges, attentive boyfriend who treated you with the utmost respect was the prowler? The prowler who everyone in NYC knew. The man with no enemies as he took them all out. The man who created New York into the shit hole it was today was your Miles? The universe must hate you and everything you stand for because worthwise why would it play the shitest card it has on you.

You knew Miles was on the streets doing crime, he told you when the relationship got serious. As concerning as it was you knew you couldn’t stop it and tried to help him any way you could to make sure he got home safe. But you never expected he wasn’t just on the crime scene he ran it for the whole of New York. That changes everything.

“Mi vida, I know this is a shock-”.

“No! This is more than a shock Miles!”

Everything your relationship was built on was slowly chipping away. You both shared the most vulnerable intimate parts of your lifes, you thought you knew him. But he was practically a stranger. A second life untouched and hidden away which made him who he was today. This wasn’t something that could be blown over. With more confidence and left over adrenaline you stood up next to him.

“Why am I here Miles?”

This large reveal couldn’t take your mind off last night's events. You were kidnapped by a group of men and then you suddenly woke up here with Miles. Did that mean Miles ordered it? He could have come to see you though. None of it made sense and you needed clarity.

“Last night you were touched by some low lives. That's unacceptable princessa. I went over with Uncle Aaron and took care of them, don’t worry you're safe now.”

The gentle caressing of his hand on your cheek which would have been comforting in any other context wafted the smell of iron to your nose and felt inexplicably cold on your cheek. You knew what being ‘taken care of’ mean’t, you caused deaths. You were Miles’ and he was a possessive man, no one could touch you without facing the consequences. Your ability to walk downtown and come out unscathed made sense; you weren’t lucky you were a death warrant.

“Mi vida you are mine and no one could take you from me. Comprendido?”

Reality sunk in. You weren’t only Miles' partner, you were his future. He loved you, you were his lifeline to sanity after his Father died and he had shoulder the responsibilities of the family. The only semblance to normality and happiness in his life other than the close circle of loved ones that were Uncle Aaron and his Mother. And that circle only had one more space for you. He would never let go of you, he viewed you as an extension of himself. There was no where you could escape too, he owns NYC any manhunt he orders would end quickly. People feared his power and strength but laid dead from his intelligence and foresight.

There was nowhere you could run except into his arms.

#miles morales x reader #42 miles morales x reader #spiderman x reader #earth 42 miles morales x reader #miles x reader #miles morales x you #spiderverse x reader

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sinsmockingbird · 6 months ago

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PUNISHING THE WOLF | Zoya (Wolves Strike Soon)

PAIRING: Zoya x Afab!Reader

WARNINGS: Smut, NSFW, Dom!Reader, Sub!Character, Transfem!Zoya, Rough Fucking, Bondage, Muzzle Use, Degradation

AUTHORS NOTE: In my mind Zoya is 100% a Dom, but... I'm sure there are those rare instances where she'll at least bottom for you.

THE SIGHT before you was addicting.

Having the leader of the Legion on her knees for you was a rare sight, and one you treasured every time you got it. The growls emanating from deep in her chest were beautiful, and her eyes were narrowed, glaring up at you. She looked like a feral wolf like this, and it suited her wonderfully.

"Look at you," You purred, letting your eyes Trail across Zoya's body, taking in the sight of her dressed in leather, while you begin to circle her. "Bound, on your knees, and at my mercy."

Instinctively, Zoya strained her wrists against the rope binding her hands behind her back. She gave you a glare, her head slightly bowed, looking so pretty and obedient for you. Especially when she has that muzzle on that you had bought just for her.

"It suits you," You state, coming to a stop in front of her and crouching down, giving her a sultry smile, your satisfaction at having her like this clear.

Zoya, let's out a growl at your words, her irritation obvious at having been reduced to this state by you. She was honestly shocked of herself having even allowed you to tie her hands behind her back, no less allowing you to muzzle her like she was a fucking dog. Though, in many ways, she really was one.

"You hate this, I know you do, but I promise I won't be too cruel. Not after you allowed me to put you in this state to begin with," You promised, and you meant it. While with many others you'd tease and edge them endlessly, Zoya was a different case.

Maybe it was the fact that your relationship with her was different from others, holding a more emotional side that you rarely had with anyone else. Or maybe it was the fact that Zoya, the leader of the Legion, would bow to you in this way, leaving her at your mercy. You decided it was probably both.

You raised a hand up, hooking a finger into her choker and pulling her a little close, hearing her breathing become more heavy while you whispered, "You just have to be a good dog for me, and I'll untie you and let you fuck me wild."

You were a woman of your word, so after 20 minutes of teasing Zoya, jerking her cock and giving her blowjobs, you untied her hands from behind her back. Except... to still hold some control for what was to come next, you tied her hands onto the headboard of the bed, leaving her unable to use them still.

Zoya's anger about that was obvious, and she was currently taking that out on you in the best she could. Fucking you roughly into the mattress.

Your ass was in the air, head pushed into the pillows with tears in your eyes and moans escaping your mouth. Zoya was hunched over your back, growls and grunts emitting from deep in her chest as she fucked her cock repeatedly into your pussy from behind. She may not have her hands, but she still knew how to fuck you hard without them.

"F-Fuck, Zoya..!" You let out a loud moan, back arching up and off the bed as you felt the head of her cock repeatedly hitting against that special spot inside you that had you seeing stars. "Th-that's it... keep going, right there-!"

You whined as she went harder. Somehow, she was always able to go harder and faster with you. It always left you brainless, and it was an addicting feeling, one of the many reasons why you always looked forward to when the Legion's leader would come visit you.

Zoya leaned her head forward, wanting to mark you and bite your shoulders and back, but then she remembers the muzzle she's wearing. Instead, you only feel the cool metal of it pressing into you, the cold feeling making you jump over the searing heat coursing through your body. You heard her let out a frustrated huff and growl when she remembered the muzzle, preventing her from being able to mark you.

You let out a laugh as you heard the sound of her nails digging into the headboard of the bed, the wood beginning to split a little bit under the pressure. "A-Angry?" You looked back at Zoya as you asked, a smug smirk on your pretty face that only pissed her off more. She growled in response, driving her cock deep into you with a harsh thrust that left you breathless for a few seconds.

"Z-Zoya! S-Shit m' gonna cum!" You whined as she upped her speed. You heard her mutter something under her breath at your words, and you knew she said something about how she was close as well. "I-Inside! Cum inside me!"

Zoya grunted at your request, pressing her forehead against your shoulder and nodding weakly in understanding. Then she gave a few sloppy thrusts before letting out a gutteral groan and burying her cock fully into your pussy. You moaned loudly as you felt her filling you up, making you cream around her cock.

Once you both finished, Zoya's body slack above you, a whine emitting from her at the strain in her wrists, which were still bound to the headboard. With shaky hands, you moved up and undid the bindings before collapsing onto the bed in pure exhaustion. As soon as Zoya was freed, she tore the muzzle off and threw it aside without a care before stuffing her face into your neck while wrapping her arms tightly around you.

"I hate you," Zoya muttered before nipping at your neck and beginning to leave behind the marks she so badly had been wanting to leave for the entire night.

You let out a breathy laugh and moan, running a hand through her hair and cradling her head, allowing her to mark your pretty neck up. "If you hated me, you wouldn't keep coming back."

Zoya only growled in response to you before biting a bit harder on a particular spot that made you whine. It was a lie that she hated you. In reality, she was simply addicted to the fact that you were the only one she'd ever submit to. Because sometimes Alpha's will even submit.

ENDING NOTES: This has been in the drafts for a while now. I just finally finished it up for you all to enjoy.

#*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟsins writings #path to nowhere #ptn smut #zoya #ptn!zoya #sub!zoya #zoya x reader #zoya x you

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espinosaurusrexex · 2 years ago

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If Only You Would Know

HenryCavill!Sherlock x Female!Reader

summary: You and Sherlock are in love, Enola is sure of it. But she is forced to watch you tiptoe around the topic for an eternity. So when the opportunity arises, and Sherlock is forced to confront his feelings towards you, she does not hesitate.

a/n: we're diggin' out old old drafts for this one, but I needed a little Sherlock again :)

word count: 4k

warnings: a little arguing, pining, someone gets injured, idiots in love™️ (it's a new genre of mine)

･ﾟ✫* 𝒎𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 ｡✭･ﾟ

You sighed as Sherlock moved about his office with hasty determination. He was a strange man. Oblivious, too, time and time again. But that did not matter for you loved him. You loved him and every strange habit he harbored. Whether it was the way in which he arranged his coats on the brass hanger by the door or that godawful pipe he seemed to always have hanging from his lips. He did not even like it - he had told you one time. “’tis just a habit, dear,” it would muffle past the brown bit in his mouth before he would clip it back between his teeth.

But you did not care. And that must have been the very fact telling you just how deeply your heart had already fallen for the famous detective. Not a care in the world, especially not for what other people thought to say the least. Because all you ever thought about upon seeing him was love, warmth, and endearment. Nothing less. Not even a wretched criminal could ever shoot these feelings out of your heart.

Oh well, it did not matter, anyhow. For there was one issue keeping this fairytale from becoming reality. And this issue was that Sherlock Holmes, the brightest man you knew, was blatantly oblivious to the feelings you had harbored in your chest. To be fair, you had never mentioned it to him before. For you were simply terrified of the consequences such a confession would hold. It was one thing to pine over a man who you were lucky enough to be in the same room with, but it would be undeniably humiliating to be rejected by said man as well. So you had chosen not to act on the fiery desire burning within your veins whenever your eyes hushed a glance at him.

As much as that decision was made to protect your heart, it had turned out the circumstances provided the opposite of the desired effect. You were hurting more and more with every day you had to live with the realization that Sherlock Holmes did not love you back. In fact, he loved other women - many of them. And every single one more beautiful than the other. Sometimes you found yourself wondering if they were human at all. Never before had you seen such luscious hair as that of Sibyl or such a beautiful smile as that of Amelia. It was difficult to settle with these gorgeous women having a place in his bed and possibly his heart, but soon, you realized the importance of seeing him happy trumped your own desires. If he was happy, so were you. And if you weren’t the one making him happy, so be it.

You had just come here to see Enola from her home to the city. Stopping by her brother’s apartment had not been on the agenda, at least not yours. But Enola was adamant to have you come when she raced up the stairs to his door. You had gasped when Sherlock had opened, his hair slightly disheveled and the shirt loosely tugged in his trousers. Your heart was pounding - it always happened when you saw him, and you swiftly averted your eyes to hide the flustered look on your face from him.

Now you were standing in his messy home as you listened to Enola convince him to let her help him on a particular case of his - one she had a personal attachment to. Mixed emotions crawled up your spine at the sight of this professional yet intimate space. Not only one room over, Sherlock's bed was mockingly standing beyond the door, messy sheets indicating his prior endeavors, but there was no Sibyl or Amelia in sight. Still, your hands clamped around the silky material of your skirt, wrinkling the fabric harsher with every minute you spend in the deep-colored room. It smelled of musk and tobacco. Two things you had grown to miss whenever they were not surrounding you, but now, it was a shiver too much.

Sherlock stood before you and Enola with his hands on his hips, a look of annoyance and disapproval etched on his features, but nonetheless, a sense of amusement in the edges of his frown. You knew him too well not to notice the slight pride swelling from his chest at his little sister’s determination.

“I believe it is too dangerous for a girl like you to wander the streets, chasing criminals through London, Enola.”

“And I believe that you are an idiot, brother.”

“Perhaps,” your finger lifted in suggestion, stopping Sherlock’s head from tilting in disapproval at his sister’s array just in time. “She can be accompanied in her wandering?”

“And who would this accompany be?”

You knew it was not your place to negotiate, but you cared for Enola too much not to. And even though Sherlock’s stern eyes bore into your frame, you began to talk again: “I could-“

“Oh, dear lord. That is out of question.”

“Why brother? Do you not think Ms. Y/N and I can defend ourselves?”

A short silence lay upon the siblings as you watched the man’s shoulders draw up with a tense jaw. “I said no.”

“You are being irrational.” Enola cried. She was not one to accept defiance easily, you were well aware of it.

“No, you are being irrational. I will not vouch for having two women hurt on a mission to gather intel for my cases.”

“You cannot stop me.”

There was something itching in the glimmer of his eyes when the words left his lips, though you weren’t quite sure what to make of it.

“Enola!” Almost fearfully, Sherlock turned to you, his eyes wandering and desperation conveyed in his stare when you heard the young girl open the door.

“I am sure we can negotiate a way to have both parties satisfied.” Enola halted as you spoke. “I am certain your bother has other tasks that need fulfilling and are less prone to danger. Isn’t that right, Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock was not entirely satisfied with this turn of events, but his sagging shoulders told you that he accepted the compromise. A sigh eluded from his lungs and Enola turned to the dark-haired man with excited eyes. “I presume, there would be things you could do.”

“Thank you–“

“But,” his eyes turned stern again, “In the office only. No more wandering, is that clear?”

Enola beamed. “Yes.”

❁ ❁ ❁

It was not long after the discussion when you and Enola went about home from the city. Still, however, despite the seemingly fair compromise negotiated just minutes prior, the younger woman sloppily trudged next to you.

“He is an idiot, that is what he is.” Enola stomped past you with a pouty face. It was not ladylike, but luckily, she knew that you were not one to care about that.

You understood Enola’s frustrations, but simultaneously, your heart were to break if anything ever happened to her. So you understood the settled worry in her brother’s words as well. He was a good man. “He is just worried. It means he cares.”

“Well, he could care a little less and let me do my job.” You hid a smirk. Only Enola would be as adamant about saving a boy she had only met days ago. She was just as goodhearted and justice-seeking as Sherlock, and your heart warmed at the similarities the siblings shared.

“It is not your job, Enola.” Sometimes you genuinely admired her fixation, though it mostly converted into trouble, still. Enola had a lot more freedom than you did when you were her age, and you too would have sprung at any chance to go and wander about, seeking adventures and perhaps a little more than that. Which was in turn, why your heart felt torn between the fulfillment of having her seek childhood dreams, and the subtle but strong tug Sherlock Holmes held you with.

“Did you forget what we just found out yesterday? It seems no one cares about him. And if nobody else will do it, I consider it my duty to help.”

“Enola, dear.” You held her shoulders gently. “I understand your worries, but I understand your brother’s as well. I would be just as worried about you if something were to happen, and I do not want to see you hurt, either.”

“But we have to do something!” This was true. It would not be right to leave the boy framed with false accusations when you had the power to change his fate. There was something you could gather - information that may help him be acquitted.

“How about I go?” You silently cursed your good intentions as Enola’s eyes lit up. It was a blessing and a curse. But other than Enola, there would be nobody worrying for you, and in turn a lot less hearts broken if something were to happen - which it surely would not. “You can stay in the study and I will see to it that we may gather more information.”

“Alright, but be careful. And make sure to come back by five. Otherwise, someone will get suspicious.” The girl smiled, but her shoulders shook with excitement.

“What? Do you think I’m stupid?” You teased, awaiting a sassy ‘of course not’ which you returned with a wink.

❁ ❁ ❁

Enola watched the clock next to the window. Seconds, ticking by too fast for her liking. She needed more time - you needed more time. Her brother had given her files to sort and he would be coming back soon. Upon your agreement yesterday, you had gone out to gather information on the woman who accused the boy. But you would be back soon, she told herself.

“Is Ms. Y/N not here with you?” Sherlock’s voice called through the room and his steps approached her steadily.

Enola was stiff. “She is out,” she told him while her fingers counted the pile of files on the desk.

“Out? With who?” He stepped around the polished mahogany, settling in front of her with his hands behind his back. “I didn’t realize she was being courted.”

Oh. Enola’s eyes sparkled with amusement when she obtained a glimmer of jealousy in her brother’s. She had always had her suspicions. And she knew of your being madly in love with her brother, but Sherlock had always been secretive regarding the topic of love.

“She went to shop,” she smiled, averting her eyes. Waiting - no, anticipating a response from him.

“So she is not with anyone.” Sherlock leaned forward with squinted eyes. For a man as good at solving puzzles as he was, he did need an awful lot of confirmation.

Enola finally looked up. “Ugh, you really are an idiot.”

“Would you quit calling me an idiot?” Disapproval swept his features and made a frown settle instead.

“I would, but you won’t quit being an idiot.”

“Whatever do you mean?” It was quite amusing to see him clueless for once. And even though you tried to hide your feelings or the way you responded whenever he was as much as in the same room as you, it did not go past Enola how long your eyes lingered on his frame or the way the sadness overtook your features at the mention of another woman.

“Ms. Y/N is head over heels in love with you. And I do not understand why you refuse to see it, she is not hiding it very well, you see?”

Sherlock stumbled back, his hands seemingly finding their pace over his heart when he repeated her words. “Ms. Y/N? In love with me?”

“And you really call yourself the greatest detective of our time.” Enola shook her head. Still, the thought of the two of you together was one she liked to entertain. And she asked herself just how much you could talk Sherlock into once you were together. He was already caving when you suggested things - the possibilities of Enola getting her way when the both of you finally gave into the pining were endless!

“Oh, hush. I just never thought she would...” Sherlock trailed off, and if Enola was not mistaken, she caught a whisper of pink settle over his cheeks. Could it really be? The great Sherlock Holmes in love? Even better with a woman Enola adored as well?

“This is exactly the problem, brother. You don’t think when it comes to women.” Her mind wandered back to the women you had seen leave his chambers by the break of dawn. And just like then, Enola noticed a familiar sense of sadness wash over her brother’s eyes - the same one you hid from her in these moments.

“Enola...” But his words died on his tongue and Enola thought it wiser to resume her task. Sherlock was aware of his idiocy. For Enola knew just how insignificant all the other women were to him. And she hoped he had realized this fact.

A moment or two passed in which Sherlock paced the room mindlessly. His hands disappeared behind curtains and in bookshelves, until they reached for the pocket watch in his coat and a subtle grumbling eluded his lungs. “She should be back soon, anyhow. Should she not?”

“I suppose, yes.”

“Well, it is quarter past five already. The shop is closed well over an hour now.” Sherlock did not hide the impatience in his tone, now. And Enola felt a wave of success wash over her.

It was difficult to hide her nervousness, though, for she now worried about you as well. But you were fine - she consoled herself. You were tough and intelligent, simply a little late - that was surely it. “She will come soon.”

An unusual tension fell over the room and Enola was certain, her brother had already dismissed her little story. But she would not falter. Her fingers kept cramming through the papers, counting pages she had analyzed and sorted two times by now. Her movements, however, became more frantic, and soon, her heart was pounding in her wrists.

“Enola, what in heavens did you do?” Sherlock urged impatiently, a look cold as a stone set on his face.

“Nothing.” She did not look at him, then he would know instantly - the little lie she told.

“You sent her out to spy didn’t you?”

Why did he keep asking if he already knew the answer? Enola did not speak. She was fairly ashamed, though. She wanted to show her brother just how capable she and you both were. But having you not come back made for a serious difficulty to her plan.

She looked up at him now, just in time to see his shoulders sag and his head tilted up in frustration. “After I told you not to?”

“You only ever forbid me from going!” She cried, suddenly feeling attacked by his irrational outburst.

“I did not want Ms. Y/N out in the streets alone, either.” Sherlock was pacing again, his shoes clicked on the polished wooden floor until the reached the coat hanger by the door, only to gruffly rip the dark cloak from its place.

An accusing finger reached in his direction and a small smirk appeared on his sister’s lips. “So you are in love with her.”

The man frowned and his chestnut locks shook with annoyance. “That is not important right now. We need to find her.”

He did not deny it and Enola Holmes viewed it as a success.

❁ ❁ ❁

Sherlock swept through the streets as fast as his feet could carry him. Never had he thought that he would need to worry about your well-being. Enola’s? Yes, constantly. She did dangerous things all the time. But you were the one with the rational mind, the trait he adored most above all, for it eased his own every so often. It was enough to look out for Enola as much. He loved her and that was what love did: It made for weaknesses. Though Sherlock never wished to not adore you as much as he did, at this moment, it would have spared him trouble.

He passed another alley filled with dubious fellows and willed his thoughts not to stray to dark paces. Normally, he could stay focused. Normally, he was able to separate his feelings from his tasks very well. Normally, he needn’t worry about you, however.

Enola was many steps behind, he could hear her heels clicking in haste in her catching up, but Sherlock would not budge. He would keep on searching, keep on going straight until his sister gave him another direction to follow. She knew where you were after all, and he could not even begin to indulge in the worry-consumed anger this fact fueled him with.

It did not take long for the detective to reach the house of the last suspect he had abandoned in his search for answers. You must have gone there. Enola had been especially furious about his dropping the woman upon questioning, urging her brother to stay on the lead. But Sherlock had already gotten enough information to place her in the entire scheme. Enola did not know this of course - he had never told her. So it was only plausible to send you to spy on said woman. What you had not known, however, was the dangerous affiliates this woman had, and the little to no hesitance of hers to pursue them.

The house lay empty on the street once the siblings reached its steps, no light shining through the glass windows, not the smell of dinner lingering in the air. It was odd, though nothing to be upset over. You had been here, Sherlock knew it. He was disappointed to find out, however, that you were not anymore. Of course, you had realized the danger of the situation and left, but where to?

His head jerked to the left once Enola caught up to him, following the rattling of bins coming from the alley close by, where a faint trail of blood droplets mixed with the rain.

“Bloody hell,” the detective mumbled with every inch it lead him further to your location. And sure enough, beyond the shielding confines of a wooden palette, he spotted your coat pressed into the wall.

A small hiss, and then: nothing when he called your name.

“Ms. Y/N, heavens!” He rushed over once his eyes caught your distraught face behind the wood, your entire hand covered in blood, pressed to your head, where more seemed to have already dried on your scalp.

“Mr. Holmes?” Your voice was weak, your eyes hazy - growing in the confusion the head injury most likely brought to you.

Sherlock's arms reached out to engulf you, a handkerchief quick to be pressed on your head as he knelt beside you and let your body rest against his torso. “Enola, go and get help, immediately!” He commanded with urgency, having the young girl run off with a shocked nod.

His attention traced back to your body, where his eyes focused on your heavy lids and his heart clenched at the sight. You were hurt - seriously hurt - and Sherlock could not shake the feeling of it being his fault. Had he only consulted you in his case, had he talked to Enola, had he been less cowardly and finally admitted to his feelings. This all might have never happened.

“You should not have gone out alone!” He cried as he rocked you back and forth, his arms held you a little tighter, and he was certain that his heart beat through the several layers of clothing separating you.

“You have no right to rule over me.” Your hands pressed against his chest, forcing him to let you pull away from his embrace, and Sherlock instantly missed the warmth holding you had given him. He needed it back - confirming you were fine.

“But I told you not to go!” Big eyes stared up at him, but there was disappointment simmering beneath the sheer gleam of anger.

“Why are you upset? I can do whatever I desire!” It was meant to come out strong, but not even a woman as tough as you were able to hide the weakness taking over your body.

“But you got hurt!” Sherlock was juggling with empty arguments, he knew this much. But there was no right way to express what he wished to pursue with his words. It was all too much and not enough, all the same.

“Mr. Holmes, I can take good care of myself. I have done it my whole life.”

“And you shouldn’t have.” This seemed to have caught you by surprise. For you stopped in your shuffling away and held his gaze equal in confusion and intrigue.

“Whatever do you mean?” You shrieked softly, your breath staggering when he came closer to you.

Sherlock found it incredibly difficult to talk, suddenly. His hands were clammy and that stupid tie around his neck seemed just a tad too tight. Christ, he could not even look at you. He was left staring towards the wet grounds with his hands wringing beneath him.“I- it has come to my attention that I lack perception in some categories.” He hushed a look at you and was not surprised to see utter confusion seeping through your stare.

Sherlock sighed and his shoulders jumped heavily once he mustered up the courage to explain: “I do not wish to see you hurt.”

“Why?” Your eyes were big and wondrous, much like a curious child prying up in awe over what it was to become privy of.

Sherlock tried, he really did, to be steady and informative, but there was no use, for his heart had decided otherwise. “Because... because, I- my heart hurts when I imagine something happening to you.”

“But what about Sybil or Amelia… or Babette?” Every name stung another hole in his heart as your eyes saddened naming the woman he had spent previous nights with in order to get over you. He never loved them, never adored them the way he did you. They were simply a distraction. A petty compromise for the actual being he was sure would never return his affection. Now that he found out the opposite, Sherlock was uncertain about how to act.

“These women... they were just compensation for the one I couldn’t have.” He confessed slowly, his hand reaching for you and finally getting ahold of your chin. “I did not think you would be interested in me.”

“Oh but I am, Sherlock.” Your fingers came to cover his. “I am.” And an unbelievable force of warmth and calmness washed over him. Despite the blood, despite the worry. Despite everything being wrong at this very moment, he was calm. You had this effect on him.

“I know that now. My sister told me.” Sherlock sent a silent prayer to the stars. Had his sister not been as persistent he would have never gotten the opportunity to hold you close - feel you the way he desired.

“She is quite a smart lady isn’t she?” A low chuckle echoed through the darkening alley, though a shy blush crept upon the detective’s cheeks.

“As much as I hate to admit it, she is a good detective.” His thumbs stroked gentle swipes over your skin, a sliver of warmth tasting your body with every movement, and it felt good to have you indulge in his touch. He would have never dreamt of having you this close, having you feel the same feelings he did. And to be perfectly honest, experiencing it, in reality, was a hundred times better than anything he had ever imagined. “God, Y/N. If only I had known earlier.”

“Let us not grieve what is already done. Embrace the possibilities of the future with me.” Your eyes locked with his once again and your aura seemed to pull him even deeper into a trance. Sherlock could not look away. He was captured by every loving emotion radiating off of you. It was unlike anything he had ever felt before. But he would keep it guarded in his chest for eternity, even if nobody were to ever ask him about it. It was precious - this moment was worth hundred terrible ones.

“You are right,” he agreed, and then, beyond his control almost, Sherlock pulled you into a warm kiss.

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kaedekolya · 8 months ago

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clarence and his counterparts: man or monster?

So we were talking about Clarence’s new android SSR (Faint Night Light) in the LBC discord server, and it got me thinking about the monster allusions that seem to be a common thread across Clarence’s main stories. Then we discussed the diary entries from his White Day event, and it occurred to me that this monster imagery also ties into his modern-day counterpart – and with that, this post was born.

In other words: is Clarence a man, a monster, or somewhere in between?

[ SPOILERS: Clarence’s main stories and Chrono Theatre diaries. This meta analysis is structured as story-specific sections, namely Godheim, Eden, and the modern world, so you can skip over the world(s) you haven't read yet. No Awakening spoilers, don't worry! ]

- ☽ -

Godheim: Archmage Clarence

First, let’s talk about Godheim Clarence. As the Archmage, he bears a heavy responsibility upon his shoulders – to oversee the Magi Tower, to fight the Glacial Butterflies, and, ultimately, to protect the country and its people.

In order to fulfil this duty that he has chosen to undertake, Clarence seals his heart and shuts others out. He denies his emotions, and resents himself for having these emotions, to the point that he disparages MC for “[acting] impetuously” and belittles her capabilities when she shows concern for Amelia’s wellbeing. Archmage Clarence’s impassivity is his shield against the emotions he views as a hindrance.

Yet he was not always this way. Clarence is a casualty of cruel circumstances, a tender soul torn apart by trauma. When MC is confronted with the truth of the mages’ magic, having witnessed a mage die before her very eyes, she notes that “[there] is no pain or compassion on Clarence’s face,” because “[this] is a sight he has seen all too many times before.” Decades of watching his fellow mages succumb to the Glacial Butterflies that nest inside them, and decades of having to end the lives of mutating mages under his purview, have conditioned Clarence into numbing his heart to such pain. How else could he have stayed sane, after a century of bearing witness to suffering wrought by his own hands?

Archmage Clarence’s disposition is initially described by MC as an “[icy] presence,” but this is the facade that he projects as a defence mechanism, not his genuine self. Clarence is so accustomed to the chill of the Glacial Butterflies within him that he has taken on the frost as a personality trait, believing that his frigidity defines him. He does not view himself as a human capable of warmth; instead, he thinks of himself as a mutant, as an icy monster.

Even so, Clarence cannot deny his innate inclination towards kindness. When he notices that Amelia isn’t feeling well, he tells her to sit in the carriage. When Amelia’s temperature drops, he casts a spell to warm the shivering child up, even as he grumbles that he’s wasting his time and magic. When Amelia’s death is imminent, he tries to send her off in the gentlest way possible, then grants her final wish by conjuring a connection to the water mirror. Clarence may insist that he does not care, but his actions reflect his compassion.

It is this very kindness that steers him towards a path of selfless sacrifice, for the sake of his country and its people. The life of a mage may have been forced upon him, by the man that gave a gravely injured child no other option but the potion that would transform him, yet Clarence learns to harness his power for good. He spends his youth eliminating Glacial Butterflies and protecting the village of the snow plains, and despite the harsh conditions of the path he now treads, he does not hold a grudge against the family that sold him off and thrived in the resulting profit. Instead, he returns to check on them from afar, and when an onslaught of Glacial Butterflies attack, he protects them with every last bit of energy within him.

Still, his family’s betrayal left an indelible mark on his psyche. Back when he’d been given the potion, he’d resolved to succumb to his injuries rather than drink it. Despite his instinctive desire to live, MC notes that his “will to live [had been] virtually non-existent,” because there is “[no] despair greater than being betrayed by your own family.” The young Clarence had not seen a reason to live, when his family had forsaken him. It is only when MC saves him, urging him to live on, that he resolves to survive and repay this debt. Each time MC encounters him in her voyage through time, he is on the verge of death, and each time, his dwindling will to live stems from his despair over those he could not save. What ultimately keeps him alive is the vow he swore to his saviour.

This characterisation is one that carries through his immortal lifespan. Clarence does not live for himself; he lives for others. Whether that means risking his life to defend a village, or sacrificing himself in a ritual to save the country’s inhabitants, the underlying premise is the same – Clarence lives for the person who saved him, and for the promise he made to them. He allows others to form negative opinions of him based on the assumptions they’ve made, in order to keep the secret of the ritual and the Glacial Butterflies from them, because their scorn towards him matters less than their safety. He closes himself off from others, never permitting them to reach out to him, because he cannot allow companionship and compassion to distract him from his purpose. He “[cannot] afford to be sentimental,” because he cannot have anyone or anything clouding his judgement. Better to be the enemy of the state that saves it, than the friend of the state that cannot do anything as it crumbles.

It is ironic, then, that Clarence’s devotion to his promise leads him from striving to live and fulfil it, to voluntarily dying for that same promise. His life, his existence itself, is secondary to the promise he has made. He will live to protect the world for his saviour, but if the only way to protect it is to die, then die he shall. Perhaps he views it as a penance of sorts, an atonement for the sins he’s committed. Perhaps he believes the new world would be better off without a monster like him.

For all his calculative callousness and stoic solitude, Clarence is deeply self-aware. Not only is he conscious of the suffering he inflicts and the ramifications of his actions, but he also ruminates upon his sins until they turn to guilt in his gut and self-loathing in the deepest recesses of his soul. He does not turn a blind eye to the pain he witnesses; instead, he looks it straight in the eye, internalises it, and forces himself to feel nothing at all.

Clarence may appear to have no qualms about exploiting people and reducing them to cogs in a plan greater than its constituent parts, but his interactions with Amelia prove otherwise. Right before he sends her off on what is meant to be a suicide mission, his carefully-crafted defenses slip, and he asks whether she hates him. Clarence believes that he has failed to live up to the Archmage’s title, that he has fallen short of being a “guiding force for all the mages” and a “protector.” He condemns himself for his callous strategies and merciless manipulation, since he has been treating people like chess pieces and “using them as [he sees] fit.” He disparages himself for “[standing] by on the sidelines, safe and sound.” He believes others hate him because he’s given them all the reasons to, because he deserves to be hated, because he, too, hates himself. All this while, he fails to recognise that he has taken on the greatest sacrifice of all – the burden of leadership, of decision-making, of being responsible for all the blood on his hands.

This downplaying of his own suffering, alongside his disregard of his own well-being, is what drives Clarence to self-sacrifice time and time again. When a theory about the Glacial Butterflies begins to take shape in his mind, he does not test it out on one of his mages, because he does not view them as expendable despite what he claims. Instead, he uses himself for his experiment, slicing his chest open and bearing the agonising pain in order to ascertain the truth of the magic within him.

On the verge of being overcome by the Glacial Butterflies, despite having prepared for this eventuality by shackling his limbs, he makes one last selfless request. “My Lord, you must kill me before I turn,” he entreats, willing to relinquish his own life for the safety of others. Even when Philip protects him from the Glacial Butterflies, refusing to kill him, Clarence believes that there is no place for him in the future that his Lord envisions.

Decades later, he still echoes this same sentiment. “There is no future without sacrifice,” he tells Lars, and he does not see himself as part of that future, does not see himself as deserving of that future. Archmage Clarence thinks of himself as a monster, not a man, and a monster is better off dead than alive.

It is a revelation, to him, that Amelia does not hate him. MC does not hate him. Lars, Alkaid, the mages that carry on the legacy of the Magi Tower, none of them hate him. They do not view him as a monster; they view him as a martyr, a protector, a saviour. Someone who did his best, and gave his all. Archmage Clarence leaves behind a legacy through his sacrifice, spurred by the human heart he still harbours deep within.

- ☽ -

Eden: Falcon Clarence

Next, we have the Falcon Clarence of Eden. The lone ranger of the desert, the mercenary that eliminates Sandswimmers with impeccable precision and works with no one else.

“A bait that only knows how to cry is a burden,” his mentor tells him, and Clarence internalises that into his cognitive framework and guiding compass. It is “the first lesson Liore taught [him];” that he must prove his worth in order to live. His scent lures the Sandswimmers to him, and so he must make himself useful by seeking out danger.

Valued only for his utility as bait, Clarence learns that his worth is determined by his fighting skills. With no other way to survive, he becomes a NEOS by fusing Sandswimmer gems into his body. Clarence pays the price of this acquired power through the gradual erosion of his memories, but that is far from the only thing he has lost. His decision to accept the integration of these foreign, beastly objects into his body has changed him irrevocably. He thinks of himself not as a human, but as a mutant being only one step away from becoming a monstrous Lost. Still, he endeavours to “remember [his] humanity,” because he refuses to become a “mere weapon [that knows] nothing but destruction.” Falcon Clarence understands that he is, by definition, a monster, but he refuses to relinquish the last shreds of his humanity.

In his first encounter with MC, he is rational and pragmatic as always, scrutinising her motives and seeing no reason to work together. Years of solitude, with no one else to depend on, have honed Clarence’s reflexes into an “instinct for self-defence.” Yet his reaction to MC’s request reveals that his solitude has been shaped by circumstance, not entirely by choice. When MC explains her reason for seeking out Eden, even though it does not sound particularly convincing, Clarence accepts it as sufficient and agrees to lead the way. Despite the potential risk of allowing a stranger close, he offers MC a ride on his motorcycle. Subsequently, he continues to help her out, defending the children’s shelter and giving her the gems he’d collected, even as he refuses to follow her any further.

Falcon Clarence claims that he works alone, but everything he does is for the sake of protecting others. He fights in the desert to protect the shelters from Sandswimmers, and he fights in Eden to protect Lin and the other NEOS from the Lost. He brings MC to the NEOS Association, so that she can rest for a night and learn essential skills from Lin. He knows that the night is dangerous, so despite his own preference for working alone, he ensures that MC has a community of protection around her.

Even as he dismisses everything and everyone else as burdens, his actions speak otherwise. Despite having met MC for only a single day, he offers his assistance to her time and time again, from rides on his motorcycle to filling water bottles with her. He could easily leave her to fend for herself, but he chooses not to leave her behind even when that would be the easier way out.

Perhaps the reason Clarence refuses to work with other people is that he’s afraid. Afraid of dragging them down, afraid of becoming their burden. He fears that history will repeat itself. He cannot bear to lose someone he cares for again, so he refrains from caring about anyone at all. Each time Clarence chastises others for being a hindrance, he is reproaching his past self for his inadequacy. Each time he risks his life to protect others, he is atoning for his failure to save his mentor.

MC says that she understands how Clarence feels, because “acting alone means nobody will be hurt because of [him].” In a way, acting alone also protects himself from being hurt. It is a defence mechanism born from his past, when he had to “learn to accept [his] losses” from a young age. He couldn’t afford to grieve Liore for long, not with the constant threat of the Sandswimmers, and so he could do nothing else but “live on with what memories [he] had left.” He’d forced himself to harden his heart to his emotions, but he could not suppress them entirely.

Clarence blames his moment of weakness, of emotional folly, for causing Liore’s death. It was her humanity, even in her final moments as a Lost, that held her back from killing him and caused her to die. He regrets his choice to this day, and perhaps it is this survivor’s guilt that pushes him to fight harder until he reaches the brink.

It is this same guilt, alongside his resolve to not lose anyone else he cares for, that drives him towards self-sacrifice. When he realises that MC needs a soul stone – his soul stone – to open the door within Central Control, he unflinchingly raises his gun to his head, as if it were the natural and logical decision to make. He is ready to offer his life without a moment’s hesitation, because that is the utility he can offer in this moment, in order to keep MC safe and help her achieve her goal. She has given him a reason to fight, and he will die trying to fulfil it.

Ultimately, it is his encounter with MC – and the companionship which blooms from it – that saves him. Without demanding anything in return, she cries for his pain, fights by his side, and shoulders his burdens with him. Clarence doubts his humanity, even as he holds fast to it, since he is all too cognisant of the monstrous traits within. In turn, MC’s unwavering trust reaffirms the humanity within him, reminding him that he is worthy of living.

Falcon Clarence may not be fully human on a biological level, and he may still succumb to the effects of the monsters within him from time to time, but he has managed to preserve his heart and his humanity. His tale is one of healing, of opening up, and of learning to value himself for who he is and not what he can do.

- ☽ -

Modern World: Clarence

Finally, let’s circle back to modern-day Clarence. At first glance, he’s the calm, collected, and capable Student Council president, who always seems to have affairs in order and circumstances under control.

Then, in his Chrono Theatre diary entries, we learn that he had a psychiatrist observing him from a young age, due to his gifted aptitude and exceptional intelligence beyond that of his peers. This revelation sparked a discussion in the LBC discord server, which spurred this message of mine that then became the basis for this meta post:

Clarence is well-versed in decorum, but that doesn’t necessarily mean it comes naturally to him. It’s likely that he learned social etiquette by picking it up from observing how other people behave, so he knows the appropriate responses to give and the socially-acceptable ways to carry himself. However, because this social understanding is not an innate trait but a learned one, there are often times when he doesn’t recognise the need for social niceties, and instead his instinctual response – founded on his internal logic – comes through.

One example of this can be found as early as his second interaction with MC, after she paints an artwork of him:

The polite thing to do would be to express interest in or appreciation of the finished product, regardless of one’s actual feelings towards it. However, Clarence “doesn’t show the slightest interest” in MC’s painting. Does this mean that he doesn’t care for it, and doesn’t see the need to put on a pretence? Quite the contrary. Instead, it’s because he thinks he doesn’t have anything useful to offer in response, and thus he stays silent.

Here, we see a disconnect between how Clarence understands the world, and how other people tend to view it. While most people would appreciate receiving praise or validation, Clarence doesn’t particularly see the need to receive either, and thus doesn’t immediately think of giving them to others. Rather, he takes a more pragmatic approach, focusing on utility; a piece of work deserves feedback for the effort poured into it. However, as a law major, he does not have sufficient knowledge or expertise regarding art. As such, he believes that his feedback would not be useful, and thus it is better not to say anything at all.

This ties into how Clarence views himself as his roles, and the functions he can serve. He understands that he has worth, but he evaluates this worth through his services as the Student Council president, or his contributions as a law intern. When he assists others, he doesn’t think of it as going out of his way to help them; instead, he views it as part of his rightful duty.

As a result, Clarence doesn’t view himself as simply “Clarence.” Rather, he thinks of himself as Clarence, the Student Council president; Clarence, an upperclassman; Clarence, a friend. If he can fulfil someone’s needs through a role that he holds, he will do it, even at the expense of himself.

We see this most prominently in Clarence’s “Break Time” R card story:

When the senior who’s supposed to interpret for an academic speaker falls ill and fails to attend, Clarence steps up to fill their shoes last-minute. William notes that Clarence can be counted on to show up whenever and wherever he’s needed, and MC agrees that he’s “the only one who’s up to the task.”

However, what most people don’t recognise are the sheer lengths Clarence will go to in order to fulfil his duties. On top of his regular responsibilities, filling in for the interpreter caused Clarence to “[burn] the midnight oil” preparing for the speech, and taking care of the sick speaker meant that Clarence could not sleep for two days. He doesn’t recognise that he’s constantly going above and beyond, because to him it’s a given, but he is in fact pushing himself past his limits, and past the line that most people would draw.

It’s interesting to examine MC’s thoughts here, because she interprets Clarence’s willingness to take a nap as a rational understanding that he needs to rest in order to keep functioning. However, this only happens after MC coaxes him into taking a break. If she hadn’t intervened, Clarence would have continued pushing himself until he completed his task – he was already at “the brink of collapse,” and he “only agreed to sleep after [MC] practically begged him to.” Clarence prioritises his responsibilities to the point that he does not recognise his own needs, and thus neglects to take care of himself.

Although modern Clarence doesn’t think of himself as different, or as anything less than a person, it’s evident that he views himself as the roles he fulfils rather than simply as who he is. In turn, this mindset is reflected in his behaviour, which then shapes other people’s perceptions of him. This is how Clarence becomes characterised as the aloof and intimidating Student Council president in the students’ eyes, even though he cares so deeply and helps out so much; most people are unable to look deeper and see Clarence as the person that he is, because he perceives and presents himself through the lens of his roles.

As such, other people often view Clarence as different from themselves – as if he’s operating on a different wavelength, or existing on a separate plane entirely. Modern Clarence’s genius sets him apart from his peers, but more than that, his perspective of himself winds up alienating himself from other people. Clarence views himself as like others, but others view him as unlike them. He blends in well enough, but he doesn’t quite fit in; he has a place in society, but he doesn’t quite belong.

- ☽ -

Clarence, across time and space

Out of all the Clarences thus far, modern Clarence is perhaps the most well-adjusted, and this reflects the importance of having a support system. Godheim Clarence and Eden Clarence were isolated from a young age and survived alone throughout most of their lives, whereas modern Clarence had family and friends around him. He may not have had the most conventional childhood, but he grew up with his older sister Jaclyn and his close friend Luca, and he also had his psychiatrist Ford observing and monitoring his development. Subsequently, after he enters St Shelter Academia, he gains a circle of friends he can rely on, such as William, O’Connor, and, of course, MC.

Expanding upon Clarence’s St Shelter Academia bonds, we see that Clarence has people around him who genuinely like him for who he is, and are willing to support him unconditionally. O’Connor affectionately refers to Clarence with a nickname – “Shi-kun” in the Japanese voiceover, or “Little Si Lan” in the Chinese one – and for all his devious teasing, it’s clear he looks out for his Student Council successor. As for William, he may whine about Clarence’s by-the-book discipline, but his clumsiness and complaints do not preclude him from helping out when needed. For all that Clarence often chastises William, he still relies on him to assist with Student Council matters, and he knows William is someone he can trust.

Compared to these two, MC is a relatively newer connection, but her bond with Clarence runs deep. Right off the bat, she’s able to meet him on his level and banter with him, and he lets down his guard enough to subtly tease her for trying to trick him. As their relationship develops, Clarence grows to trust her, sharing his inner thoughts and admitting his vulnerabilities. MC is a safe haven for him, and she understands him on a level deeper than most. While the other students may fear Clarence for his aloof disposition, or hesitate to approach him due to his detached rationality, MC sees the earnest sincerity woven into his actions and the warmth laced through his words. Others may think of him as an unfeeling robot or a terrifying monster, but MC loves him for the human that he is.

There’s a subtle but interesting juxtaposition here, in which Godheim Clarence and Eden Clarence – both possessing monstrous mutations within them – view themselves as monsters while most others do not, whereas modern Clarence – wholly human – views himself as human while most others do not. All three Clarences are keenly aware of what constitutes them, allowing this biological understanding to shape their perception of themselves, but they do not recognise that their actions paint a different picture to others.

Regardless of the world he inhabits, Clarence constantly straddles the line between man and monster. His selfless nature and dutiful diligence often lead him to self-sacrifice and superhuman feats, creating the illusion of a monster – but beneath this facade lies, always, the heart of a human.

- ☽ -

thank you for reading!♡

if you have any thoughts about this post, i'd love to hear them! responses are always welcome, and my ask box is open~

up next: android clarence, and the inevitability of tragedy. where is the line between human and machine? stay tuned for my thoughts on clarence's awakening main story!

#sol's meta analyses #lovebrush chronicles meta #lovebrush chronicles #for all time #lbc #lbc spoilers #clarence clayden #lbc clarence #lovebrush clarence #godheim clarence #eden clarence #modern clarence

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raven-ovs · 3 months ago

Text

On This Night Of Ritual | Papa IV x f!Reader

Summary: On Lust, and Love, and all the sweet emotions in between. Copia and his partner choose to spend their night in a special way, expressing their devotion to Satan and to each other through the pleasures of the flesh.

Content: ~6.5 words, 18+ MDNI, established relationship, religious imagery, ritual sex, body workship, mutual masturbation, vaginal sex, soft, they're in love love

Ao3 link - Full art

🥀

You shiver in anticipation, pulling the robe tighter over your chest, your eyes flitting around the bedroom. Your shared bedroom, you remind yourself, little bits of your own style scattered around, mingling with his, a quiet reminder of how your lives have intertwined since he asked you to move in with him.

The fabric feels soft against your bare skin, reassuring. He gifted it to you for this occasion specifically.

You glance down at your bare legs framed by the rich blue silk, a sigh escaping your lips.

Faint sounds of him getting ready reach your ears from the en-suite bathroom. A thud followed by a muttered curse makes you smile. He must be just as nervous as you, even though you've both agreed to this. You've talked about it so many times, fantasised about it, dipped your toes into it without fully committing.

But now... You're ready. Or at least, you want to be.

The bathroom door creaking open snaps you out of your thought, and you look up to find a very flustered Copia making his way to you.

He looks stunning, to say the least.

Divine.

He's wearing a silk robe as well, matching yours. His is in a deeper blue, though, and has golden embroideries all around its lapels and cuffs. It fits him.

A familiar warmth settles low in your belly at the sight of him, all your anxieties starting to melt, replaced by a much more intense eagerness.

You can spot a few lines of his tattoo, barely hidden by the robe tied loosely around his waist. His facepaint is pristine as always.

"Hey," you smile tentatively, searching his eyes. The white one almost seems to glow in the faint candle light of the room, and its magnetic pull only gets stronger as he steps closer. It's mesmerising.

"Amore," he whispers back as greeting, the mattress dipping when he sits down on the edge of the bed.

"Everything's ready." You gesture vaguely around you, a shiver of anticipation running down your spine as he looks around as well.

The crimson red sheets underneath you, the candles burning on every free surface of the room, the little bowl of red paint waiting on your nightstand.

He nods in approval, and you see that flicker of excitement in his gaze that always makes you swoon, until he jolts up, genuinely scaring the shit out of you.

"Copia, che cazzo!" you exclaim, only getting a dismissive "sorry" in return before he's padding off to the other side of the room, mumbling to himself.

"Shit, how could I forget? Eh... Just gotta... Where the hell did I put it?"

You raise an eyebrow in his direction, but don't comment further. Silly rat man.

How you love him.

A pleased little "ha!" follows, and before you know it, soft notes are filling the room, coming from his record player.

Oh... Right.

He's back at your side in an instant, and his grin tells you that he's waiting for a reaction from you. And that this is meaningful to him.

You listen carefully to what sounds like religious music at first, the sort of solemn hymns that you used to hear echoing in Catholic churches, a long, long time ago.

You're confused, until you begin to make out the words of this first song. They're definitely not Catholic.

It sounds like a Ghost song, but not quite... It's softer, more intimate in way, despite still having a grandiose feeling to it. A bit of an oxymoron, just like the man in front of you.

"Unreleased," he chimes in, filling the gaps in your thought process.

"Hm?"

"I... wrote this. Some time ago. Never released it." he explains, a vulnerable note to his voice that you don't fail to notice.

"Oh." You take another moment to listen in silence, feeling goosebumps raise on your skin as his rich voice reaches your ears from the recording. *Oh.*

"Copia... It's beautiful. Why didn't you release it?"

A shrug, dismissive. You nod, realising that it'll be a story for another time.

You both have a plan now, and you want to get through with it.

The music is just an unexpected, yet perfectly fitting addition.

“So…”

“So.” He gives you one of his lovely smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners, his cheeks, you assume, turning pink under his facepaint. You melt on the spot.

You've come up with it together, this… ritual you're about to do, if one might even call it that. It's a mix of you two, really. Your beliefs, your journeys, your shared faith. A manifestation of your devotion, for each other, and for your Lord, Satan.

You return his smile, and adjust your posture, sitting cross legged in front of him, a silent confirmation that you're ready, that you want this.

He mirrors you, running his fingers through his hair in an attempt to fix it and then folding his hands in his lap. The gray strands at his temples stand out in this light, and you love it.

So… There you are. First step. Soul gazing.

You scoot a little closer, trying to get comfortable before your eyes meet his. You sigh. Focus.

This part is all about building connection, stating your intentions, tapping into the right mindset.

“Our Father who art in Hell…” You hear him whisper, his low voice taking on that edge he has when delivering a sermon during Mass, but more muted, just for the two of you. You glance down when his inverted cross catches the light, shimmering in the middle of his sternum, then your eyes return to his as soon as he starts speaking again. “Guide us through this journey. Let the worship of our bodies be a token of our devotion to You. Watch us sin, and rejoice.” A pause, a breath escaping his painted lips. “Nema."

“Nema.” you repeat, your voice small compared to his, but no less firm.

You already feel the hypnotic nature of this exercise, your breathing slowing down the longer you look into his eyes, trying to sync to his. The mismatched green and white of his irises draws you in, and you can see every emotion playing out on his face, just as he can do with yours, you think.

His soul… Can you really see a person's soul, through their eyes? What does it even mean, soul? As a child, you were taught that your soul would be damned and cast to Hell if you sinned, but you don't believe in any of that anymore. It's not you, and it's definitely not him.

What you can see in his eyes is an energy, burning bright. It's the same energy you see when he's singing to his fans, when he's eating his favorite dish, when he’s petting his rats, when he's making love to you. Now that energy is focused, though, and it's all on you.

It makes your breath hitch, but you immediately school it back into the slow rhythm you two have built. In… Out… Again. Again.

His pupils are dilated, be it from the darkness or from arousal, you cannot tell. Most likely both.

You're not sure how many minutes pass like this, but it doesn't matter. Not when his hands reach forward, nimble fingers gently tugging your robe open. You do the same to him.

Step two.

You break eye contact to take in his revealed torso, the brown and gray dusting of hair on his chest that turns into a darker trail from his belly button down. So beautiful. Yours.

His gaze almost burns your skin in its intensity, and you imagine him already painting symbols on your body, his fingertips tinged red, making you shiver and sigh with every brush. Not yet.

“Still good?” You hear him ask, his voice barely above a whisper, an hopeful light in his eyes.

“Yes, yes, of course.” You smile.

The music has already faded in the background of your mind by now, but you're still grateful for its presence, for the way it fills your silences between one breath and the next. With measured movements, you each bring your right hand to the other's chest, over the heart, and then cover that hand with your own left one. A deep breath, and then you’re gazing into each other's eyes again.

There's a part of you that wonders at the single minded focus he shows in this moment. He's usually easily distracted, his thoughts scattered between his endless tasks and nerdy interests, fluttering from here to there like a moth at a lights fest. But not now.

The more you breathe, the clearer you can hear his heart thrumming under your fingertips, your pinky finger barely grazing his nipple. If he feels it, he doesn't let you see his reaction. When he's thoroughly fucked you, and lets you rest with your head on his chest, that's when you feel his heartbeat the strongest. That, or when he gets really anxious, and comes to you for reassurance. When he looks at you with eyes wide, a little lost, and you place your hands on his chest, guiding him to breathe until the darkness dissipates enough to keep going.

Now it feels just as strong, a steady, reassuring rhythm that proves to you that he's actually there, in front of you. The man of your dreams. Not a figment of your imagination, but real, solid, human.

You wish you could read his thoughts right now. Is he thinking about you the way you’re thinking about him? You almost want to ask him, whisper a “penny for your thoughts” just to see one of those smiles that light up the whole room, but no… No, this is about something else. This is about laying yourselves bare for the other to see, and to love. Words are not needed for that.

You breathe in his love for you, and breathe out your love for him. An exchange. Again and again. Time passes, but again… It doesn't matter.

For the next step, you need to be bare. Literally.

You're not sure who reaches out first, who switches position first, but your next breath is taken on your knees, his hands on your shoulders, sliding the robe off of you. You let it fall somewhere behind you, and watch him kneel as well, his own robe open, splayed out from his back down to his feet like a wedding veil.

He almost looks too good to take it off, but you know it's part of the process. Both of you naked. Vulnerable.

“Sei bellissimo,” you find yourself whispering as your hands find his sides, sliding up his torso and towards his arms to start guiding the robe off. The blush you earn in response is enough to make your heart stutter, the red so vivid that it's visible even under the layers of white paint.

Copia averts his gaze, but you know he's silently preening at your words. Always a sucker for praise.

He shimmies out of the embroidered sleeves, and then the robe falls behind him just like yours did, discarded. It almost feels like unwrapping a gift.

“I can feel Him,” he mumbles, making you look at his face again.

“Who?”

“Satan. Watching us…”

“Oh.” You blink, finding that notion a bit foreign, but not unpleasant. You can't deny the buzz in the air around you, the almost palpable promise of what's coming. Your Papa knows what he's talking about, that much you're sure of.

“Is He pleased?”

He lets out a quiet huff of laughter, his shoulders raising a bit. Cute. “Think so. But… He, eh… He's waiting for the next bit.”

That makes you chuckle, and you find it reassuring that now, now that should be the most ritualistic phase, you’re acting more casual, connecting in the way that you're used to, that's familiar to you.

“Right, yeah.” As if on cue, you turn around to grab the little bowl you had left on your nightstand, bringing it between you two and placing it on the covers. Strategically red, yes, but alluring too. Red paint on red sheets. That will look good.

You discussed which symbols to draw and on whom. You remember his words distinctly. The way his rich voice explained to you the meanings and differences between each one, the fervour of his belief as he spoke to you of his life’s work. That had ended in a very intense, unforgettable night of sex. But tonight will be different, in a way.

“Should I, uh… Should I start?” you ask tentatively, seeking his approval.

He nods, laying his hands back against the mattress, leaving his whole front open to your view and to your touch. You know he'd trust you with his life.

Trying to rein in your trembling, you dip your fingers into the bowl, shivering at the feeling of the cold, burgundy liquid. Not blood, of course, but it does look like it. You take in a shaky breath, and let it out, and then your clean hand is cradling his jaw, tilting his head up as you lean closer.

As precisely as possible, you draw a small, inverted pentagram on his forehead. The first symbol of your faith. The stark contrast between the red and his black and white face paint is striking. Gorgeous.

Next, you draw an inverted cross on his left arm. The design matches that of your own makeup, a gothic feel to it that reminds you of the tapestries and stained glass artworks you always admire around the Ministry. He simply kneels there, watching you, embracing the solemnity of this moment.

One last symbol for him. The Sigil of Lucifer.

You take your time drawing it, your index finger sliding along the curves of his stomach. His abs tense as you pass over them, and you have to bite your lip at the noise he makes when you draw the little swirls at the bottom, framing his happy trail. Framing his cock.

You've tried not to focus on it, but it's near impossible now, knowing that you’ll be touching him soon. He's been hard since the moment you started all this, but now… Oh, by now he's leaking, his head flushed a deep red, the vein on the underside evident as his cock twitches against his belly, almost smearing the paint you've just placed there. You barely stifle a giggle.

“Don't be so smug about it,” he grumbles, his brow furrowing as he glances down at himself. He worries his bottom lip between his teeth for a few moments, his lipstick fading in that spot, but as soon as you're done painting he lifts his head again, an air of confidence about him that makes your cunt throb. “Your turn.” he declares, reaching down to grab the bowl and slide it closer to himself.

You brace yourself, but nothing could have prepared you for the feeling of his fingers dipped in red tracing lines around your nipple, drawing a pentagram of his own. You clench your thighs together, and you know he notices, but he doesn't say anything. Only smirks.

“Turn around, tesoro,” he instructs in that seductive voice of his, a voice that could bring a nation to its knees if he only ever asked. He doesn't need to, though. He has you on your knees for him, almost every night.

You do as told, and present your back to him. Your ass, actually, as you shift to place your hands on the mattress, on all fours. He actually groans at the sight, the little bastard.

You huff in reply, your head hanging low between your shoulders to hide your blush. “Don't get distracted…”

“Never, piccola.” You can practically hear his shit-eating grin in his voice, but you press your lips together, silencing yourself from further remarks. Not the time for banter, as much as you love it.

Without another word, his fingers meet your skin again. He starts at your hip bone and makes his way along your ass, drawing another pentagram. This time, though, he adds more strokes, tracing lines with practiced ease to form the Sigil of Baphomet.

He hums once done, sounding pleased with himself. You turn around again, careful not to sit on your heels any longer, not wanting to mess up the paint before it has dried. A small penance for the ineffable amount of pleasure that you're going to experience soon.

“Last one.” He reminds you with a smile, his expression softer now, more caring. You wonder what came over him. “You're being so good, baby.”

That really makes you blush, hard. You're not sure who likes praise more in your relationship.

“Ah… Grazie.” you mutter, your gaze falling to the bowl in front of you, unable to sustain his stare.

He laughs fondly and shakes his head before dipping his fingers in the paint one last time. You did his belly, so it's only fair that he should do yours too. Satan's Cross. Right in the middle of your stomach. All goes well until he draws the infinite under your belly button, his finger scorching like fire on your already over sensitised skin. You moan, unable to stop it. He winces, his hand trembling as he pulls away.

“Amore… If you keep making sounds like that, this will be over much sooner than we want.”

You sigh, giving him an apologetic smile. You're both more worked up than you've probably ever been, and you can't help but wonder how exactly you're going to last as long as you're meant to, edging each other to ecstasy. Satan will guide you in that, you hope silently.

You take a moment to appreciate how perfect he looks with all those symbols painted on his skin. A fallen angel, worthy to stand beside Lucifer himself.

You wipe your fingers on the sheets below you, and watch him do the same. The paint is sex friendly, sure, but you don't want to stain his whole body with it. Neither does he.

“I want you, Copia… I want you so bad.” You search his eyes, finding that same desire reflected in them.

“I'm all yours.”

That's all it takes for you to move forward, still on your knees, and cup his face in both hands. Is this what they mean when they talk about holding the world in your hands? The thought makes you grin.

“What?”

“Uh? Nothing.”

“What?”

You can't deny him when he's looking at you like that.

“I love you,” you whisper simply, hoping it can somehow convey the depth of your feelings. You're not sure, but if his smile is any indicator, at least part of that sentiment reached him.

You brush your thumbs over his temples and at the corners of his eyes as he whispers an “I love you” in return. You must have heard those words coming from his lips thousands of times, but they still make your heart flutter like the very first.

“May I kiss you?” As if you even need to ask. He hums, pretending to think about it, that mischievous twinkle crossing his gaze as he leans closer, your lips now mere inches apart.

Copia looks up at you through his lashes, in a way that looks almost coquettish, and you're unsure whether to slap him or kiss him stupid.

“Ti prego…” he murmurs, his breath fanning your lips.

Fuck, this man.

Before you can stop yourself, you've closed the distance between you, capturing his lips in a searing kiss. You don't know if it was the synced breathing, the symbols, or just staring into each other's eyes for so long, but this kiss feels so powerful, so meaningful that it makes you swoon, and you have to grab his face tighter, ground yourself. He moans in response, feeling that same intensity.

Heat pools in your core as you feel his tongue swiping along your lower lip, asking for entrance. His arms snake around your waist to pull you closer, and could almost swear you heard a muffled “please” against your lips. You’re powerless.

The kiss turns messy the moment you part your lips and let him in, your tongues pressing against each other, lips fusing together as if you can't get close enough fast enough. You swallow each other's moans, licking and nipping until you're both panting.

You pull back just enough to breathe, your gaze falling to his kiss-swollen lips. Fuck.

“Amore…” he starts, but goes silent again when you wipe the spit off his bottom lip with your thumb, your fingers grasping his chin.

It shouldn't be like this. You should go slow, keep that energy going. But dammit, it's hard.

“Sorry, sorry… I know.” Your hands leave his face, and you breathe harshly. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Like before. Kinda.

“I can't get enough of you.” you admit, your fingers trailing down his chest, following the contours of his tattoo. Focus. Focus.

You always knew there was something about you, a craving that you never seemed to satisfy. You deemed it wrong for so long that it almost felt like second nature to chastise yourself. He's taught you to indulge, though. He has embraced that part of you, and that flame has grown, threatening to consume you both. What a way to die, that would be.

Still, he looks hopeful now, and his eyes are burning, yes, but so soft. So soft that it makes you think you would do anything to make him proud. Suddenly you feel calmer, and reverence replaces hunger. After all, works of art should be admired quietly, carefully, taking your time. And he's the ultimate masterpiece.

“That's it, sì…” He nods down at your hands on his torso, and soon reaches out to touch you as well. Slow. Gentle. Light as if touching the most delicate porcelain. It's almost funny, when you know that he can fuck you hard enough to make you cry. And that you can do the same to him.

Your hands wander, fingertips still stained red, even though the paint has dried by now. You do nothing to suppress the sighs and gasps that his touch elicits, knowing it emboldens him, lets him know it's okay to make noise. Knees parted, you both lean closer, breathing each other in as fingers graze the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. He mirrors you, you mirror him. Like a dance. A slow… Slow dance.

You let your nails scrape lightly at the juncture of his pelvis, and he groans, a deep, needy sound. You love it.

He spreads his legs some more, encouraging you, and you take in on his offer. Of course you do. You reach his taint, your touch so light that it's almost ticklish, and you can hear the thought forming in his head even before looking at his face. He's grinning like an idiot.

“You're impossible.” You shake your head, unable to suppress a smirk of your own, and then press harder on the spot, your thumb massaging his skin until-

“Oh! Fuck…” His eyes widen, the noise coming out of his mouth sounding positively sinful.

You won't be going into a full prostate massage, but you know what it does to him. Indulge, no? That's the whole point.

You keep rubbing there until he goes a little cross-eyed, and you have to stop then, worried that he'll come right then and there. You can't have that.

He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to regain his bearings. “Cazzo, amore… You can't just do… That.” He pouts, and it's the most adorable look he's given you all night, with his lips still puffy from your kiss and his lipstick smeared into a dark gray around the edges.

You giggle, but retreat your hand, resorting to stroking the top of his thigh in soothing motions. Copia huffs, running a hand through his hair to brush some unruly strands out of his forehead.

“Better?” you ask with a small, self-satisfied smile which earns you a glare from him.

His hands find your waist again, and he pulls you closer, one of your knees going between his. He leans back with one hand on the bed, exposing himself to your gaze in an almost challenging manner, his eyes roving over your body, almost as if trying to commit it all to memory. Then, his hand reaches between your legs for the first time tonight, and you're done for. You're drenched. So drenched that it actually draws a gasp from him as he dips his fingers between your folds. Satan below, how are you meant to last?

His thumb finds your clit as his eyes meet yours again, your lips parting in anticipation. “What a sight you make, piccolina…”

“Copia…” You close your eyes, trying to maintain at least a semblance of control even as he starts rubbing tiny circles around your clit, his moves practiced and precise.

He's grown confident with it. Not that he wasn't great to begin with, but oh, now he knows just how to play your body, how to make you gasp, and moan, and whimper, and scream until your throat feels raw.

You try to focus on your breath, as you're meant to, and let your hand slither back towards his crotch. It needs to be mutual.

You cradle his balls in your palm, feeling them hot and heavy in your hold, ready to burst. His lips part in a silent moan, so close to you that he could kiss you if only he leaned forward a little bit. He doesn't. So instead, you slide your fingers up and wrap them around his cock.

“Ahh-” His eyes widen, and he does brush his lips against yours then, his tongue barely peeking out. He slides a finger inside you, another step in your dance.

A stroke, all the way up to his tip, and his finger pushes further in. Your thumb swipes over his slit, slicking him up with his own precum, and his finger curls inside you, the pad of it pressing against your front wall just right. You're staring at each other through half-lidded eyes, and it doesn't feel like you're fighting anymore. You’re both breaking in front of each other, bit by bit, unashamed.

“Copia…”

“Mmmm…” He leans in properly, and your mouth finds his. It's wet, and just as messy as before, with him licking past your lips, and you sucking on his tongue. That makes him growl. The sort of noise that you sometimes beg him to make. Deep, and feral, and so fucking hot.

You clench around his finger, desperate for more, and he seems to sense your need, sliding a second one inside you with almost no effort at all. Your left arm rests on his shoulder, your fingers tangling in his hair as you pull back to look into his eyes again. They're almost pitch black now. Two pools of pure Lust, surrounded by thin crowns of green and white.

You stroke him faster, the slide made easier by his own arousal. “Cazzo, ahh…”

“I'm… I need you. Fuck, I need you. Please…”

Your words snap him out of his pleasure fueled haze, and he blinks at you before glancing down between your bodies. So connected and yet so distant. It's not enough. His fingers pull out of you with a sloppy sound, making you whine at the sudden emptiness.

“Shhh… I know.” He reaches down to grasp your hand, stilling it with your palm against his tip. Your fingers intertwine with his, and for a few precious moments, you move together, your thumb rubbing along his frenulum as he guides your palm back and forth, your slick on his fingers mingling with his own. He whimpers, actually whimpers, resting his forehead against yours. And then he's pulling your hands away, to your disappointment.

“Amore, please…” You watch him pull away, and rearrange himself so that he's sitting with his legs in front of himself instead of kneeling.

“Come here, piccola.”

You scramble towards him, eager, and straddle his firm, perfect thighs. “Like this?” you ask. He shakes his head.

Last step.

He reaches for your hips, squeezing affectionately, and guides you up. “Oh…” You know what he wants. What you both want. Yes. Oh, yes.

You reach down, grasping his cock and lining it up with your entrance. The way he twitches against you is almost enough to make you come.

“Breathe, yeah?” he reminds you, even though he's pretty far gone himself.

“Yeah, yeah.”

He waits for eye contact, for your nod of consent, and then slowly, slowly pulls you down, breaching you.

“Ah- Fuck… Fuck…” It's agonising, almost, how good it feels.

You have no idea how much time has passed since you started, but it feels like hours. Hours in a constant state of arousal, each sense heightened, bringing you higher, until every touch feels like pure bliss. Pure, damned bliss.

“A-amore… Mmmm.” He holds your hips in a death grip, and you can almost feel the bruises forming, knowing you’ll smile at your reflection tomorrow when they'll remind you of the night you had, of the pleasure you shared.

He bottoms out, your ass meeting his thighs, and you've never felt so full. Physically, yes. But not only that. You're in tune with him, your chests rising and falling in sync, even as your breaths grow laboured. You can't look away from his eyes, not for an instant. You're one.

No more words are needed then. There's just him, and you, an “us” that feels more genuine than it ever has.

You breathe, and breathe, feeling the pleasure building despite you both staying still. A thought strikes you then, that Satan actually is watching, and that he's letting that energy build more and more. How could it feel so good otherwise?

You shift forward, angling your hips so that his tip can press against that perfect spot inside you, your arms circling his neck. His hands unclench from your hips, and he hugs you. Properly hugs you. His arms around your back, his chin resting on your shoulder. You close your eyes, sighing. You can practically feel his heartbeat inside you.

It's intimate, more than you think you can bear. But it's with him. Him, whom you've loved for years. Him, whom you've admired for even longer, silently, from afar. Him, who’s yours. Your Papa. Your Copia.

It's intimate, and raw, and a little scary. And perfect.

You stay like that for as long as your bodies allow, your walls clenching around him in a vain attempt to get some friction. You hug, and breathe, your nose buried in the crook of his neck. And then, you start moving. A slow roll of your hips, a timid rock up of his. You gasp in unison, stars sparkling under your closed eyelids.

It wouldn't be so bad, dying like this, so wrapped up in each other. And if you did things right, you will die soon. A wonderful little death, or a few, maybe.

The rocking of his hips soon grows more purposeful, and you feel him pressing deeper, where he belongs. You moan against his neck, your lips parting to mouth at his earlobe.

“Ohh… Oh, please…” He squeezes you tighter against himself, snapping his hips up until you feel like you're going to pass out from the pleasure.

“S-shit. Slow down. Oh, Satan… Slow down.” you pant into his ear, not wanting this to end yet.

Not yet. You're greedy like that.

He groans in frustration, but eventually stops moving, just in time. You pull your head back to look into his eyes, finding him with his brows furrowed in concentration, his lips pursed. It reminds you of when he's trying to poke the straw into one of his juice boxes. You giggle.

“I love you… So damn much, you know?” you whisper, your voice rough from all the moaning, and shaking with the effort of still holding back.

“And I love you. Ti amo.” he whispers back, just as wrecked at you.

“Ti amo.”

And with that you're moving again.

It builds much faster this time. It's exhilarating, and it goes straight to your head. You're both overstimulated, your bodies quivering. And yet… More. More, more. Satan, please, more.

You don't want to stop. And that fire spreading in your core tells you that you can't stop. Not now.

“Amore- I can't… So close…” He seems to voice your own thoughts, and you nod desperately, struggling to keep looking at him with your eyes rolling back at his every thrust.

You brace your hands on his shoulders, and ride him as you've done countless times before, but with more purpose now, more focus, and with hours, fuck, hours of buildup. You start out slow, lifting yourself up almost all the way, and sinking back down, your thighs burning.

He's holding on for dear life, and you can see it clearly. His chest is heaving, his eyes unfocused, his lips parted, a flush spreading from his ears and cheeks all the way down to his chest. Debauched. And yours. You're sure you're not doing much better.

He grabs your hips again, and makes you speed up, the litany of moans escaping his lips telling you that he's past reason. Like a destructive tsunami, it can't be stopped.

You cling to each other, and it builds, and builds, and builds. And oh, the edging worked, because the more you move, the surer you are that you’re going to touch Heaven, only to fall down past the crust of the earth after, down right into the pits of Hell. You'd be welcome there.

His moans and yours mingle in a symphony of your own, and an outsider could almost think that they're in time with the music still playing in the background. That you're part of that music now.

You climb higher and higher, and wonder for an instant if that is how the people of Babel felt, as they got closer and closer to God. But you're not looking for God. You have your own piece of divinity right in front of your eyes. The love of your life.

“Ahh- Ah!” your love cries out, and you feel him tense beneath you, rocking his hips as far up as they'll go, burying himself fully inside you as his eyes roll back into his head, and his orgasm hits him. You feel his cock kicking inside you, his familiar warmth flooding your core, and you hold him tighter, hoping to prolong his high.

You're right on the edge yourself, and he's still twitching in you when he reaches his hand between you two to rub your clit. Just a few strokes, and you're joining him.

You press your mouth against his still open one, muffling your scream, and clamp down around him, your walls, your whole body really, pulsating with ecstasy. It's all consuming.

He gasps sharply when your climax seems to trigger another one from him. Unlikely, but even if it is just one, it lasts an ungodly amount of time. Thank Satan.

You keep grinding down on him until every last ounce of pleasure has been pulled from your body, and you're left drained, completely. You don't really know how many orgasms those were. Maybe one, maybe five. Who cares, when you're practically about to pass out on top of him.

Copia pants against your shoulder, sounding pretty close to hyperventilating. But then it dies down, the euphoria, leaving just buzzing static in your minds, your ears ringing, your hearts still racing.

“That was-”

“I think-”

Your voices clash, and you end up laughing, his cute little chuckle in your ear making your heart do a somersault.

“You first, amore,” you prompt, pulling back a bit to meet his gaze. He's a whole damn mess, but you know you look the same.

“Eh, just… That was… One of the most intense experiences I've ever had.” he mutters, sounding back to his usual self, not the agent of Satan on earth, just Copia.

“Yeah. It was… A lot.”

“Mmm.”

You smile at him, but then that smile splits into a full on-grin when you watch him making a face and shifting his legs under you. You know what that means, yet you ask anyway. “What?”

“‘M sticky…”

It's true, you can feel his seed dripping down your inner thighs as he goes soft inside you, but it doesn't bother you, it never does.

You roll your eyes, but still gently lift yourself off of him, wincing when he slips fully out. You miss him already. He flops down on his back over the mattress, and you join him, draping yourself against his side, your arm around his waist and your head resting on his shoulder.

Sometimes he likes it too, staying inside you, letting the feeling linger. Sometimes that turns him on again, and he fucks his seed deeper into you, until you’re both completely exhausted. Other times, he just wants this, and you love it just as much.

“Shower?” you offer.

“Hmm, in a bit.”

“Alright.” You tilt your head up to place a kiss on the underside of his jaw. It always makes him shiver. “I think He liked it.”

“Huh?”

“Satan, He liked it. I could feel it, I think, near the end…”

That makes him peek down at you, a hint of a sleepy smile tugging at his lips. “He likes you.” he tells you in that rumbly, sultry voice that never fails to make you weak.

“Well…” You avert your gaze, blushing, and fix it onto the inverted cross resting over his chest, your fingers coming up to toy with it. A reminder of the power that this man holds. Your man.

He hums, clearly not pleased that you looked away from him, and you feel his hand cupping your cheek, covering half of your face, really.

“Your Papa still demands your attention, topina.” He pulls you up to him, guiding your face towards his so that he can kiss you, nice and slow, almost languid, the way he kisses you when his mind is still floating in post-orgasmic bliss.

“Want me to wash your back, Papa?” you whisper against his lips, and he smirks, making your stomach flutter. Maybe the night is not quite over yet.

“If you'll indulge me…”

“I always do.”

The moment after, he’s dragging you to the bathroom, his eyes sparkling with teenage-like excitement. As if you didn't just go through a whole damn sex ritual.

But you do indulge him. You always do.

You'll just have to remember to put off all the candles before collapsing back into bed, loved like only he can love you.

#the band ghost #ghost #ghost bc #papa emeritus iv #papa emeritus 4 #copia #oc #my art #fanart #ghost fanfiction #ghost fanfic #papa emeritus iv x reader #copia x reader

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frickingnerd · 2 months ago

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marry that girl!

pairing: shinjiro aragaki x fem!reader

summary: after years of dating, your wedding day is finally here and shinjiro can't wait to finally make you his wife!

tags: wholesome fluff, established romantic relationship, akihiko is shinji's best man, emotional & crying!shinjiro, emotional wedding vows, kissing & holding hands, shinji & reader love each other so much, former s.e.e.s.!reader, high school sweehearts

a/n: the banner for this post is from @aragaki ! i've come across their 3D renders before & this post just desperately needed a happy image of shinjiro (but canon doesn't offer a lot of those)! if you like shinjiro, you absolutely need to check out their blog!

“i never would've took you for the type of guy to get married, you know?” akihiko chuckled, as he tied shinjiro's tie around his neck. shinjiro himself was way too jittery to tie the tie by himself, eagerly and anxiously awaiting to finally see you in front of the altar.

“if you had told me in high school that i'd one day marry that girl, i would've told you you're crazy!” shinjiro huffed amused. “but now i can't imagine a life without her anymore…”

shinjiro smile softly to himself, as he thought back on those times. back when he had that huge crush on you, but thought that eventually it would go away. yet here he was, years later, ready to finally put a ring on you and make you his wife.

“you've turned sappy, shinji” akihiko teased, before pulling away from his best friend, taking a step back to check him out. “alright, you're looking good! it's time you finally get out there!”

shinjiro glanced towards the mirror again. he never cared too much about his appearance, but at least for today, he wanted to look good. he had to look good, if he had such a pretty bride waiting for him!

as shinjiro entered the wedding hall, akihiko by his side, in place of a father that shinjiro never knew, all eyes were on him. while akihiko held his head high, walking shinjiro down the aisle, shinjiro couldn't help but let his gaze wander through the crowd. there were so many people here, so many people that cared about you and him. if his high school self knew how many people he had in his life that cared so deeply for him, he likely wouldn't believe it.

“relax a little.” akihiko whispered to shinjiro, as the two men stopped at the altar, both of their eyes locked to the big door that you'd come walking through any moment now. “she won't ditch you.”

“shut up, i never even thought about that!” shinjiro quietly huffed in response to akihiko's teasing, before the two men chuckled softly.

just then, the door opened. a bride in white emerged from outside and entered the room, all eyes on her. but she only had eyes for shinjiro.

“fuck…” shinjiro mumbled under his breath, the sight of you alone bringing a little tear to his eye. this was real. he really got to marry you now. shinjiro still couldn't believe his luck, but it slowly began to sink in for him.

when you finally reached him, after a walk down the aisle, that felt like an eternity for him, shinjiro gently took your hands into his own. he wanted to kiss you, right then and there, but he knew he couldn't. so he had to settle for a small touch.

“you look absolutely beautiful…” shinjiro whispered, leaning in slightly, so only you could hear him.

though before you could answer, the voice of the registrar snapped shinjiro out of his little world, where you and him were the only ones to exist:

“we'll now be hearing some words from the bride and groom!”

shinjiro and you exchanged a short look, before you smiled and nodded, silently letting your soon-to-be husband know that you'd start.

“from the moment i saw you, i knew you were the one for me.” you began, with a little grin resting on your lips. “i've had a crush on you ever since you moved into the dorms with us, back in high school. i always knew that you weren't as bad of a guy as you wanted people to think you are. you've had a soft side, that i'm very grateful you showed to me over time…”

shinjiro still held onto your hands as you spoke, gently giving them a reaffirming squeeze, before you continued your little speech.

“i've been with you for years now and i always knew that one day, i wanted to marry you. but the moment it really sunk in for me was when i woke up one morning and you weren't in bed with me. you had went into the kitchen, to make some breakfast, but there was a small moment that i panicked. and i realized then that i want your face to be the first thing to see when i wake up in the morning…”

you smiled fondly at shinjiro, as you concluded your speech. there was a moment of silence, in which shinjiro took a deep breath, squeezing your hand once more, before it was his time to speak.

“you were never… supposed to become so important to me…” shinjiro started, already having a few people in the audience, including akihiko, chuckle. “i've always tried to stay away from you, because i knew that once i let you into my life, i couldn't live another day without you. but you were persistent to get to know me and become someone special to me. and as everyone can see, you succeeded!”

you smiled amused, as shinjiro continued his speech, his voice a little shaky, with the next sentences being particularly hard for him.

“even when things weren't easy for me, you stuck around. you were there during my darkest moments and loved me despite them. when i couldn't love myself, you loved me enough for both of us. your love saved me and if it wasn't for your love and kindness, i don't think i would've allowed myself to ever be happy.”

shinjiro had rehearsed that part so often, always trying not to cry. but now as he stood in front of you, your kind eyes meeting his, it was hard to hold back tears. and as you reached out against wipe them away gently, he leaned his head into your hand, a small smile hushing over his lips.

“you've always been my better half. i wouldn't be where i am without you. i wouldn't be without you.” shinjiro paused. “i can't imagine a life without you anymore. and i'll work every day, to become a man worthy of your love.”

“you're worthy of love already, shinji…” you whispered, both of your eyes teary already. there was a moment of silence, before it became clear the speech was over and the registrar spoke up again.

“it's time for the vows then.” he spoke, as akihiko pulled out the rings and handed them to the two of you, with pride on his face.

“i take you, shinjiro aragaki, to be my husband. i promise that i'll love and support you for the rest of our lives. through good and bad times, i vow to be there for you. and when you can't find the strength to love yourself, i'll love you enough for both of us. ‘til death do us apart.”

as you finished your vows, you took shinjiro's hand into your own, to gently place the ring on his finger. when you looked up at him again, you could already see him close to tears again, before he quickly got to his own vows.

“i, shinjiro aragaki, take you to be my wife. i promise that i'll love and support you for the rest of our lives. through good and bad times, i'll be there for you. i vow to cherish and protect you, to show my love for you in everything that i do and to become the best person i can be for you. ‘til death do us apart.”

shinjiro slipped the ring onto your finger as well, longing to finally finish the ceremony, so he could kiss you and officially call you his wife. with an eager look, he glanced at the registrar, who nodded quietly and smiled, before he spoke:

“you may now kiss the bride.”

and shinjiro didn't hesitate for even a second, pulling you into his arms and finally kissing his wife, something he had dreamed of doing for so long now.

around him, the people clapped and cheered and shinjiro could even faintly hear akihiko congratulate him. but he only had eyes for you. for just this moment, you were his entire world and shinjiro only pulled away from your lips again, when he absolutely had to, desperate for air.

“i love you, shinji” you softly whispered, as you caressed your husband’s cheek.

“i love you too, miss aragaki.”

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theemporium · 2 years ago

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Hi can you please write 136 and 131 with Daniel ricciardo from the smut list ? I miss him so muchh 😭

131. “oh don’t mind me I’m just enjoying the view”

136. “don’t cover your face, i want to see you”

The whole world was shocked when Daniel Ricciardo rocked up to the first race of the season with his girl on his arm.

There had been hints and whispers of the Australian being in a relationship, but it had never been confirmed by the driver. He teased and he joked and he would have his fun, but he never gave a definitive answer on the question until now.

The action was bold and proud and so very Daniel, all things considered. He wanted nothing more than to show the world who his girl was. He wanted to scream it to the world—or even to anyone who would just listen.

You, on the other hand, were the opposite of the Australian driver.

He thrived in the spotlight, you preferred hiding off to the side. He always had a bright smile on his face, you were glaring at whatever annoyance was bothering you nearby. He loved to make people laugh, and you truly didn’t care about most of the people around you.

Opposites attract was a phase known by many but they never once expected their sunshine driver to be the one involved with it.

But Daniel loved that about you.

He loved that despite everything you still showed up to race weekends to support him. He loved that you didn’t care what people said and had no issue putting people in their place when PR had his hands tied. He loved that you were so unapologetically you.

And he fucking loved reminding you of such.

“My pretty girl,” he cooed in a low voice, his hands rubbing up and down your thighs as he took in the sight of you.

“Danny,” you whined, your hands reaching to hold him and the boy had no issue in taking one of your hands, intertwining your fingers before pressing a kiss on the back of your hand.

“Shh, patience baby,” he murmured as his eyes glazed over with an emotion you knew all too well. “Gimme a sec.”

Your chest was heaving, soft pants of anticipation escaping your lips. “What are you doing?”

“Oh don’t mind me, I’m just enjoying the view,” Daniel said with a cheesy grin on his face as his gaze caught yours, the same look on his face that he got after he won a race. “Love seeing you like this, all fucked up and desperate for my cock.”

“Shut up,” you grumbled under your breath, moving to pull your hand away from him but the boy held on tight.

“Don’t cover your face, I want to see you,” he hummed as he kneeled on the bed, letting his eyes wander over every inch of naked skin left on display to him, the flushed cheeks and the messy hair.

He had been on a high after the last race weekend, the three wins in a row making him cockier and more arrogant than usual and you weren’t complaining—and definitely not when he had his face between your legs until your body was shaking and withering beneath him.

“Danny, please,” you whined, and it was a little pathetic and if anyone else saw you, they wouldn’t fucking believe it was you. But no one else would see you liked this—nobody but him.

“My pretty girl needs more, hm? Two not enough for you?” he teased, a hint of a mocking tone to his voice and it made you want to clench your thighs together. But before you even think of doing so, both large hands were splayed against your thighs and holding your legs open. “Nuh uh, baby, keep ‘em open for me.”

Your hooded eyes watched as he laid between your legs, arms hooking around your legs to keep you where he wanted you and his lips softly kissing up your thighs.

“You’re in luck, baby,” he murmured, warm breath fanning over your soaking cunt. “Three is my favourite number.”

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bardic-inspo · 1 month ago

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aeterna nostalgia

chapter one: as it was

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x Vampire Bride Tav

🩸Full Chapter List (Coming Soon) 🩸BG3 Fic Masterlist

Series Summary:

Astarion’s carefully crafted empire is thrown into upheaval when his bride falls victim to a modify memory spell. Without any memory of her lover or her own vampirism, his dark consort is a threat to both herself and her sire.

Astarion must win back her trust and affections, all while hunting down whoever sought to break the most powerful bond in Faerûn.

Chapter CW: Blood kink, masturbation, minor character death, Astarion being racist/hateful towards gnomes

A/N: This fic incorporates vampire bride lore and headcanons. Special thanks for the wonderful @locallegume for beta reading.

Click here if you prefer to read on AO3

“Sometimes, however, the emotion may be close to what mortals classify as love. The happiness of the vampire becomes tied up with the prospective bride, and its well-being depends on hers. In these cases, the vampire might actually believe it is bestowing a gift when it turns the mortal into its bride - the gift of freedom from aging and death.”

-Van Richten’s Guide to Vampires

Come to me.

Astarion allows their connection to slacken. With each step she takes nearer to him, springy anticipation pulses through their bond. It’s not unlike the wag of a tail.

And the slow dawn of his smile behind the fan of his fingers isn’t so different from the sun peering between the clouds. The sight of his most precious pet stokes that same delectable warmth inside of him.

“My sweet sunlight,” he calls to her, “how was your trance?”

His voice echoes off the vaulted ceiling of the throne room. There’s enough space in the chamber to hold dozens, but there’s only seating for two. The lavish chair at Astarion’s left is vacant as it always is. And this morning, only one needy patriar comes to the Crimson Palace to pay its lord homage. Lord Ventris is stout for a human, with a face lined in age and a dark, well-manicured beard. His attention follows Astarion’s eyeline as the gilded doors at the head of the hall groan apart.

Finer company comes his way, following the red runner that crosses the checkerboard marble. Naomi’s shift sways just past her knees. The silk robe draped over her shoulders hardly offers any modesty; she didn’t bother to cinch it.

“I was well,” she answers primly, “until I woke without you.”

Astarion adores her in that shade of mauve. It wakes the faint trace of pink in her cheeks, the flush that only blooms after she’s fed. There’s hardly any hint of it now. Astarion’s smile fades.

Lord Ventris balks, scandalized by the sight of those lithe, lilac legs striding past him. “My lady!”

Naomi matches Astarion’s unflinching stare, a slight lift at the corner of her mouth. His heart skips to the soft sound of her bare feet climbing the dais.

“It’s nearly midday,” Ventris prattles on, “surely some shoes, at least slippers--”

“Are you worried I might step on something sharp?” Her voice is steel as she stops, her cheek only halfway turned.

“I-I’m merely expressing benign concern. Not many drow hold title here, so perhaps you’re uneducated on the typical decorum befitting your husband’s house. But--”

“You shouldn’t worry so much. This is my home. I know exactly where all the sharp things are.”

Astarion pats his thigh expectantly. Like a sword to a sheath, Naomi slides into her customary place in his lap. He lets out a long, satisfied sigh while she settles against him. Her smile curves against his collar.

To Ventris, he snaps, “Our house is the reason why you still have one. And I understand it’s a further favor you came here to ask. Do get on with it.”

“I-- “ he stammers, “of course, Lord Ancunín. As I was saying, you’ve invested greatly in the city’s revival, in the restoration of so many of our most prized institutions. I know you recognize the value of legacy, and its role in the renewed prosperity of the Gate. The preservation of its eldest, most distinguished lineages…”

Ventris speaks as he’s commanded, but Astarion doesn’t deem to listen. His head dips to the fine edge of Naomi’s ear, nosing past a stray wave of ivory hair hanging free of her bun. His arm winds her waist, clutching her close.

“Are you well now, darling? Now that I’ve remedied my wrongs?”

Naomi hums contentedly, eyes shut, head tucked into the crook of his neck. And yet, he’s acutely aware of the disquiet lurking at the fringes of her happiness, circling their safe haven like a mangy dog seeking scraps.

“I think not,” Astarion murmurs darkly. “You're hungry, aren’t you, sweet thing?” His fingers stroke beneath her chin and guide her gaze to his.

Even as the ascendant, he can’t curtail her hunger entirely. He can only see to it that she never feels it for more than a moment.

“Only as much as you allow me to be,” she says, batting her eyes open again. There’s a glimmer of laughter in them, among his favorite shade of cherry. He expected her eyes to change color when she turned, but he hadn’t expected she’d keep a tinge of her former violet. A lovely surprise.

You’re full of surprises, he’d told her once, when they were only just beginning. Aren’t you?

Astarion had known he was making a bride, and not simply a spawn, the night she knelt for him. He’d known they’d be bound for eternity. Aeterna Amantes. As it should be. As it was always meant to be.

As it will be. Forever.

But how was he to know how heady her delight would feel, when it fluttered like a hummingbird from her mind to his? How intoxicating her submission would taste, when he could witness the very moment her thoughts bent for him, feel her mind yield before her body gave way exactly the way he wanted?

Without compulsion. Without question. Without barriers. With a bond like theirs, nothing between them is secret and all of it is sacred.

Perhaps accounts of other such unions exist. But there’s never been a vampire ascendant before; there’s never been an ascendant bride, either. None of the crusted scrolls he inherited from Cazador could’ve warned him how utterly offensive her slightest discomfort would come to feel.

That he’d feel it exactly as his own discomfort.

“How could I sit idle while my precious treasure starves?” He implores her with a blooming pout. “What manner of husband would I be, hm?”

Ventris, on the other hand, seems to have forgotten his manners entirely. He dares a step towards the dais, volume rising with the red in his cheeks.

“...and so I ask you, Lord Ancunín, what manner of philanthropist makes donations to some Sharran sanctuary? Hasn’t this city seen enough fanatics? They say those cultists have a new compound, thanks to you! And the Upper City has a new, so-called theater in your so-called lady’s name! Well, sir, I see no lady here! And that should tell you what opinion I have of that den of debauchery she’s opened!”

Astarion arches a brow. Ventris’ lower lip quivers as he babbles on.

“And you build all of this while my own house remains half-ruined! It was a proud estate before that business with the brain. Curious how all of my neighbors managed to escape the worst of the debris. Curious how they’ve already rebuilt what was broken!”

Naomi raises her head, surveying Ventris lazily. Astarion hears her effortlessly, as if the words were said aloud. Were you going to kill him with or without me?

Astarion’s answer is honest, if not innocent at all. You’d be fed either way. It’s simply a happy accident.

“It’s quite simple, Ventris,” Astarion shrugs. “You’re not necessary. Your daughter will marry that sweetheart of hers that you hate so much, what’s remaining of your pride will be inherited by their heirs, and the world will be better for it. Without you and those gaudy pillars in the way of what should be a pretty sea view from the Upper City. A pity the mindflayers didn’t finish leveling your estate. Though, I suppose they made the job easier.”

“How dare you!” Ventris fumes, spittle flecking his beard. “I’ll have your name dragged through the streets! The city will know you spent coin on the Sharrans-- and that gods forsaken whorehouse--”

“You won’t. Besides, Grand Duke Ravengard already knows. He’ll suppress any slander because he knows every other patriar is in my pocket. After all, their own coffers are so pitifully empty these days. That’s why you’re here, Ventris. To beg.”

Ventris shrivels into his ill-fitted suit coat. Astarion’s free hand curls around the armrest of his throne.

“So I’ll say it a second time,” Astarion sneers, “There won’t be a third. Get on with it.”

“I--” Ventis stammers, cheeks purpled with indignation. “You won’t get away with--”

Naomi snaps her fingers. Violet light sparks between them. “On your knees.”

It’s not the kind of compulsion Astarion can wield, but a spell that works in the same vein. Ventris drops with a shrill cry, kneecaps crunching against the hard stone.

Naomi slinks from his lap. Astarion catches her hand as she goes, brushing a kiss to her knuckles. The faint, lingering thrum of her magic tingles pleasantly against his lips.

She stalks forward, predatory. As her hands slip from his, her robe slips from her shoulders, pooling like spilled wine at her heels. Ventris quivers, a little leaf buffeted by the wind, but he can’t flee. And he still can’t help himself from staring, ogling at what isn’t his.

Astarion’s grip on the armrest tightens to a chokehold.

Sunlight slices the room in brilliant rays, as righteous as any flaming sword. And in it, Naomi is scintillating. The sheer fabric of her shift seems more mist than material. His eyes burn across her supple shape, taking in the ripple through her breasts with every step, and the tease of her nipples, pushing pert against her nightgown.

Astarion wets his lips, letting a fang tug at the tender flesh. Anticipation thrums through him again, only now, it’s hot. Thick. Permeating.

His grip on the armest eases as he leans back in the chair.

Ventris’ mouth hangs open, a great gaping maw for such a middling, waste of a man. His wide eyes bore into the last sight he’ll see. And what a sight she is. Naomi tilts her head one way, then the other, peering down at her meal like a bird choosing a worm.

She’s careful, picking her vein. She’s not, when she claws a hand into his hair, lifts him from the floor by a fist of it, and rips into his throat.

Because she wants it to hurt.

Screams slap wet against the palace walls. Astarion’s head falls back in his chair, his eyes slitted. The ceiling swims in a blur above him. He can feel the blood flooding warm in Naomi’s mouth, the spray of it coating the back of her throat. The thickness of it, swelling stiff within his trousers.

He parts his buttons hastily, stroking his hardened length, scarcely feeling his own touch. It’s her tongue he feels instead. Surrounding him. Sucking so greedily. Taking, just as he taught her to.

Her cheeks hollow as she pulls for more, more. And of course, more is what she gets. Blood leaks sticky sweet down her chin. Astarion’s cock throbs with her every moan.

It's effortless now, to pretend it's her mouth around his girth and not his own hand. He doesn't even have to picture it. She lets him feel every pleasure that ever paints her pretty lips. Like they were his own.

She is his own. Naomi and all her tenderness belong to him. Every pleasure she takes, Astarion takes, too. And while she’s taking her fill, she feels the familiar fit of his cock in her mouth, pouring fresh heat into the body he made perfect forever. Into the woman he’s unmade an untold number of times.

His hips buck into empty air. A groan splits through his teeth. Naomi peels from her meal with a slick pop of lips, gasping with the raw edge of a growl. Astarion’s release spurts warm across his fingers. He slouches limp and boneless in his seat, relishing in the feel of her soaked within and without. Just as she should be.

He blinks blearily, chasing the breath he takes for pleasure and not for purpose. Slowly, the room steadies. He sits up, wincing as he tucks his sated, sensitive cock back into his trousers.

Naomi eases back, crouched over the corpse that was Ventris. Her chest heaves. She pants in tandem with Astarion. Not because she has to; her body echoes his own, reeling from the feel of his ascended heart thudding within his ribs.

When they’ve both come to their senses, Astarion comes to her.

“What memory kept you tranced so late, dear?” His voice is soft, even as he scolds. What could ever be sweeter than meeting again in the flesh?

“I missed you, too.”

Astarion raises his hand lazily, and she leans forward, still kneeling. One by one, his fingers slip between her plush lips, her tongue wicking away the spend still left on them. When they’re clean, he grips her chin and turns it aside so he can see the marks on her neck that made her his evermore.

Blood blooms in stains near the neckline of her shift. It reminds him of the flowers found in their courtyard garden. His eyes drip with the leak of her leftovers, roaming over her the fresh flush waking in her skin. What a lovely, murderous, and reverent thing she is. Pride flares like a lively hearth beneath his ribs, fed by the warmth billowing from her head into his.

She’s hungry no longer. And happy. An easy smile lifts his lips.

“Well?” He prompts, expectant.

“I was remembering our wedding hunt,” she answers dreamily, eyes-half lidded.

Astarion’s smirk widens, his fangs peering out. What a delicious memory to sink into. Savory enough to trance the day away.

There was the night they wed truly. After taking her fill of him, Naomi knelt, and Astarion had his fill of her. He bit her thrice, drained her dry, and bound her as his bride for all of time to follow. The papers that came later put her surname on record as Ancunín. But they didn’t make her his; she belonged to him already.

There was the party. Mostly, they hosted it for the patriars they intended to weave into their web of influence. They spared no expense for the lavish affair. He could think of no finer way to spend Cazador’s fortune than on his and his darling’s debut into Baldurian high society.

And then, there was the hunt.

Wordlessly, it slips into his mind from hers: not the extravagant soiree, but the party of unfortunate souls that stumbled into the palace drunk that very eve. They later woke to white, opalescent stone walls. Pearly bricks laid where Astarion had once shrieked and bled uncounted times beneath Godey’s blades.

But that night, not a speck of blood or dirt stained the corridors to the old kennels. Astarion still hasn’t settled on the chambers’ future use, but he rather likes them better this way, as a polished blank slate. The sheen is crisp enough, he can see his clear reflection every time he stalks those halls.

He sees his own stunning visage again in the play of Naomi’s memories. He sees the seven huddled, sniveling figures that awaited them there, and feels their spines shudder again. His mouth waters at the mere recollection of it.

“The last of you alive will live forever,” he told them cheerfully, before cutting them free of their bonds. “Run along now! Go on!”

And off they scampered, scrabbling over each other in their desperation to reach a destination forever out of reach. There’d be no escape. Not a living one, anyway.

Astarion had turned to his bride. So beautiful, sheathed in an ivory gown with the finest of shimmers, her long white hair plaited back, a sheer veil draped over it. A teardrop train of lace fanned from the flared edge of her skirts, and her eyes glowed with the promise of violence.

He lifted Naomi’s chin in a delicate grip. “Now, feast, my sweet.”

The memory smears, vivid red. Red, like the dripping trails down the walls. Red, like color she stained his pristine coat when their lips collided, a hungry mess of blood and adoration. Red, like the streaks across her wedding gown as Astarion tore through it. He swore he saw handprints at her skirts, in the brief blur before he ripped her free of them. Perhaps her victims gripped them for mercy.

Astarion’s grip on her hips was anything but merciful. Binding, perhaps. And liberating, all the same.

It was hours later, his body weak with bliss, Naomi bare and drifting towards trance in his arms, that he lifted her from his throne and brought them both to bed.

Presently, she muses, “It took me forever to find that fucking Harper. Could’ve been her that you made spawn instead of Zylar.”

Astarion smirks. Naomi drained all but one of their late-night guests that evening. Their final victim was a promising twenty-something human named Zylar with no surname, no family, and nothing but a fervent dedication to his duties as a Flaming Fist. Astarion took that dedication for his own. Now, Zylar will be young forever, live out all his small dreams of climbing the Fists’ ranks, and, most importantly, serve the interests of the Ancuníns above all else.

When Zylar rose as Astarion’s second spawn, gaping in horror at the blood-smeared walls that surrounded him, Astarion told him, “Clean it up. With your mouth, if it pleases you.”

Within the hour, the old kennels were spotless once more.

Now, he snaps his fingers at the cloaked shadow lurking at the edge of the audience hall. At once, Zylar peels from the perimeter, prowling towards the corpse at the heart of the room. There’s barely blood on the tiles at all, but Astarion’s sure there won’t be a speck of it left by the time they return here.

“Your lessers will see to the scraps, my dear,” he says, offering Naomi his arm. She takes it, rising to his side. “I have something to show you. A present.”

The happy hum in her head is a knowing one. They enter the ballroom, where the white marble tile swirls with gold, and a long, windowed wall overlooks the palace gardens. There waits her latest gift, shining radiant in the sunlight. Her smile is a fitting match for it.

“It’s beautiful,” she breathes.

They’ve had three such marvels call this ballroom home in just as many years. She’s said the same of the other two as well. He’s inclined to agree. The grand piano shimmers, resplendent. All but the keys and its insides are coated in gold leaf. The lid is propped, shedding light on landscape painted on its underside: Baldur’s Gate, by view of the sea, vivid in the setting sun.

Astarion allows her to part from his arm and rush to the piano, as if it’s a lover she’s running towards, and not away from. His arm sways, empty at his side, in the wake of her momentum. The delicate stroke of her fingers down the keys plays the most delectable shiver down his own spine. A long, stuttering sigh leaves his lips.

Strange that, only three short years ago, she didn’t know what to do with the first piano he gifted her. He remembers, crystal clear, the timid trepidation that crept across her face, the hesitancy with which she reached and just barely brushed the keys.

“Little love,” he’d purred in her ear, “whatever could be the matter?”

“I-I don’t know how to play it,” she’d confessed, sheepishly retracting her fingers. He’d seen those same nimble hands curl the neck of a fiddle and flit effortlessly across a flute at least a hundred times over.

Astarion only grinned, letting his teeth graze the slant of her ear. “You’ll learn it. We’ve an eternity now, darling. You can take as much time as you wish and never run out of it.”

He never tires of taking his time with her. Taking her here, in the ballroom, even at the expense of their most expensive furnishings. No, this one won’t last any longer than the others, he decides as she saddles over the cushioned bench, her hands poised. He wets his lips, mulling over at least a dozen ways to put an arch in her back as she straightens tall.

But, in the interest of not breaking her gift so soon after it's been given…

He turns, like the perfect vision of restraint he is, and says, “Why don’t you play me something as pretty as you are?”

The instrument was made for her, and Naomi plays it as if it’s what she was always meant to do. What pours from the piano melts across his ears and leaves a saccharine taste on his tongue. It carries the tang of her magic with it, as all her music does. Tantalizing. Mesmerizing. Numbing, in its own way. Astarion could spend hours soaking in it. He’s spent so many mornings this way, warmed by the sun, staring out over the city he and his consort share, complicit with her in shared contentment.

Siren, some call her in whispers. They’re right to whisper. Astarion’s seen Naomi kill with one.

He stiffens to the sound of a throat clearing. It’s a cutting, and unwelcome intrusion. Claude, the rancid little gnome who tuts at him so expectantly, is eternally an intrusion.

It’s the carrot of vampirism Claude chases. It’s easy enough to dangle it, just out of reach. He served Cazador with a religious fervor. He serves Astarion with even more zeal. He’s mortal, still, and Astarion can’t think of a single good reason to turn a servant already so eagerly playing their role. The thought alone makes his stomach roil.

“My Lord,” the nasally wretch says, “they’re waiting for you in your office.”

Astarion scowls. For all the patriars they’ve killed, there’s still a bumper crop of them crowding into his office every other week. Wanting the favor of Baldur’s Gate’s best-loved benefactor. Unknowingly begging at the heels of the one and only Vampire Ascendant.

Such is the ignorant bliss of the cattle. He’s more than they know. But they know well enough to beg while they still can.

What they do know is that he’s a hero. A savior of the city. The holder of its purse strings, while his heroine lover pulls the strings of the city’s heart. All in service to the web of power and influence that will see him named Grand Duke by summer’s end.

“Shall I tell them you’ll reschedule?” Claude asks.

“No,” he relents with an exasperated groan. “You shall not.”

Naomi plays on as he passes, but he feels a tug in the back of his mind. A flicker of a familiar feeling: her hand leaving his, and his arm left loose with an empty grasp.

I won’t be but an hour, my sweet. And then, I think, it’s back to bed with you. I think you might never leave it.

Her answer floats about his mind like a dandelion buffeted by the wind. I think I died happy.

Happy, Astarion muses, already half a palace away from her. He pauses by the mirror in the corridor, adjusting his high collar before he makes for his office door and the waiting patriars. As you should be.

Astarion drums the richly polished oak with restless fingers, his chin situated in his other palm. From his seat at the table’s head, he has a prime view of today’s entertainment: a pair of bickering magistrates. They hold the table’s attention as they trade barbs, too ablaze in their own irritations to notice their host’s growing disinterest.

Do try to pay attention, dear, Naomi snickers in his head. We paid a hefty sum to get this little feud off the ground, after all.

Ostensibly, Lady Ancunín isn't interested in politics. Such manners bore her, and would detract from her management of the city’s finest theater. In reality, it's as if his little love never left his lap at all. She should be in this chair. He’s the one who's bored.

Naomi’s left the piano now, though it plays on without her. Her steps patter in the back of his mind as she takes to the footpath through their gardens, her music still wafting pleasantly with the scent of the roses. With their minds linked, she listens more closely to his meeting than he can bear to.

Astarion’s gaze drifts to the open windows, to the bustling Gate, throbbing with life. Ripe for the taking, all due to his careful tending. A breeze ruffles the curtains, carrying the salt of the sea with it.

It used to thrill him, to sit here, steeple his hands, and watch his empire be built brick by unwitting brick. He’s amassed enough influence to carry a current, even while sitting entirely still. There’s an inevitability to it all now that should please him. Instead, he feels the restless urge to pluck those bricks from the pile and dash all the heads in this room with them. To hear fresh screams instead of circular whining. But instead, he must endure their peevish--

Silence.

Abruptly, Astarion stiffens. The patriars prattle on unbothered, but beneath their noise, a stagnant quiet furls through his halls like a fast-moving fog, setting his hairs on end. Across the palace, the piano ceases playing. It’s not a remarkable change on its own; the magic expires after some time without Naomi’s touch.

That familiar, slipping sensation comes again: the feel of Naomi’s palm sliding from his and leaving it empty. His head feels empty as an echoing, vacant cathedral, only home to his own thoughts. His own mind.

Darling? The word reverberates inside his skull, making it no farther than it would if he said it aloud in this room without her. His nails claw the table’s edge.

Naomi? Answer me. He calls again, anger flaring, but it feels futile. Like banging his fists against stone.

Footsteps race down the corridor. His head turns for the door before the knob even moves. By the time it opens, he’s already standing. Every head in the room turns to Claude stammering frantically in the doorway.

“M-My lord, a visitor--”

Astarion grips his collar, storming from the room with the little wretch in tow.

“Lord Ancunín,” an old crone of a tiefling barks from the other end of the table, “what is the meaning of--”

Astarion slams the door on her inane protest, not even pausing to savor the flinch that passes through his captive audience.

“Where is your mistress?” Astarion growls.

“The throne room,” Calude answers meekly. “W-we think.”

“You think?!” Astarion releases his grip on Claude’s shirt, wiping his hand on the leg of his pants.

He doesn’t wait for Claude to elaborate. Astarion sheds his form and flies. Moments later, he materializes again before the great shut doors to his audience hall. A blue veil of magic simmers over them.

With a boiling vitriol, he rounds on the other elf kneeled near the doors. Strictly speaking, Emilia is his favorite of his lesser spawn. It isn’t the highest of praises; her only competition is Zylar, and her knack for magic makes her useful. And yet, he feels a dawning hatred for her as she crouches there, glowing hands outstretched in vain.

“What in the hells is this?” He shouts, the sound bounding like fitful thunder.

“A magical barrier, my Lord,” Emilia says, strained. “It’s elaborate, but I’ll have it down shortly.”

“Who cast this? Who’s in there with her?”

“We received a visitor at the front door. He said the gatekeep allowed him entry, that he was a scholar from Waterdeep here to inform you of something of great import. He didn’t give a name. We intended to turn him away, but Claude went to Lady Naomi to inform her, and the lady said she would see him in your absence. She awaited him here, but all the doors closed when he entered, and the barriers appeared at once.”

Astarion grits his teeth. “And the guards at the gate simply let him pass?”

“It seems so.”

How could that be?! Astarion snarls, his fist curling with flame. He hurls it at the barrier, but the firebolt only melts harmlessly against its surface, dissipating into useless smoke.

His bond with his bride can be turned like a faucet on either end, but neither of them can stem the drip of it entirely. Naomi would never wish for such separation. But even if she had, she could never hide from him fully.

And yet, he hadn’t even an inkling of this stranger’s arrival. The last he felt her, she’d been in the gardens raking her fingers through thorns, savoring the sting of the cuts, and thinking of his fangs.

“I believe Zylar is in there as well, my Lord.”

Astarion tenses, thoughts racing. Zylar never stays anywhere alone with Naomi if he can help it. Ever since the wedding hunt, he’s stayed terrified of her.

His mind blanks abruptly. The barrier dissipates, flecks of magic raining down from the doorway like sleet. The doors part. Through the narrow split, he sees Naomi as her knees buckle against the marble.

A cloaked figure looms over her, one hand outstretched, the other clutching a fluttering scroll. Red magic twists just above Naomi’s forehead, coiling on itself like a knotted vine. Astarion surges towards them.

Ascension made him swifter than anything he’s yet to encounter. Sharper. Stronger. But now that he’s near enough to see the spell reflecting in Naomi’s irises, near enough to see them washed in fear, his bones feel leaden. Slow.

Weak.

The spell flares into a blinding, burning orb. Bloody light scorches the room. Astarion feels the heat of it spear through his temples. Carving, like the tadpole used to. Cutting. His lips split around the pain, but it’s Naomi’s scream that pierces his ears.

The quiet that comes after lays against the room like a knife to a throat.

Naomi wavers where she kneels. Astarion skids across the floor, catching her before she can collapse. The light vanishes as quickly as it came, leaving the cloaked mage crumpled in a limp heap.

“Master!” Emilia gasps. “Master wait-- she might--”

“Shh,” Astarion coos, caressing a hand through Naomi’s hair and down her cheek. Blood leaks from the corners of her fluttering eyes, drying in dark trails. The magic burns a ruby outline around her body before it sinks beneath her skin.

“I’m here,” he rasps, pleading. “Come to me, darling. Come back to me.”

He holds a taut breath as her eyes open wider. Naomi blinks dazedly up at him, lips trembling, face glazed in confusion. Her gaze settles to his and sharpens.

“W-who are you?”

Thank you so much for reading! It would mean the world to me if you let me know you did in box at the end here. It's scary and exciting and invigorating to share a new story!

And HUGE thank you to so many Tumblr moots and discord friends who have supported me along the way in drafting this one. 💜

#the fic otherwise known as modify memory #astarion #ascended astarion #tavstarion #dark consort #astarion ancunin #lord astarion #vampire lord astarion #bg3 #naomi tavriel #aeterna nostalgia #my writing

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whatitshouldvebeen · 1 year ago

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God I just had a massive angsty thought about Johnny’s girl, or captive for a better word, having to hide her pregnancy from the rest of the family. Nancy would be the only exception to this. Her sixth sense is crazy. But I was thinking about the delivery not going so smoothly, especially considering all the stress on the reader. You have to pretty much do it by yourself in a barn on a makeshift bed made of hay and a blanket, with Johnny only taking quick peeks in every now and then. The baby wouldn’t show any vital signs at first, and you’d like to think Johnny looks more concerned than he appears. You’re finally able to call him over, and get his help with things. The baby starts crying, though never having been a mother before, the reader knows the baby needs more right now than her and Johnny could both provide. Someone with more knowledge. You’d have to hand your infant over to Nancy and trust her with it for the first couple of days, not even knowing if it was going to be okay by the time it was returned to you. Johnny looks after you, despite feeling irritated and tied down in a seperate room in the house, arguments sprout over him thinking you’re overreacting, never having a hope in the world of understanding the emotions a new mother goes through.

Johnny Slaughter x reader

Daddy's a Killer

Contains: heavy angst, childbirth, and a mention of breastfeeding

MINORS DNI

Nancy never concealed her displeasure when Johnny decided to house you in the barn. A few months later, when he vented his frustration about you, she felt relief—finally, her son recognized you as the burden she always knew you were. Yet, when she and Johnny went to the barn to bring you back to slaughter, the sight of you stirred an unexpected reaction.

"You foolish boy," she muttered, eyes narrowing and shifting to Johnny.

"What, ma? I'm gettin' rid of her like you been sayin' to!" he retorted. One of his hands muffled your anguished screams, while the other gripped your wrists, holding you in front of him as you desperately tried to twist away.

"How many times has Drayton told ya not to mess with the meat?" she scolded, her nose crinkling.

"Ma, I—" he began to protest.

"She's pregnant," Nancy stated flatly.

Color drained from Johnny's already pale face. "W-what?"

"Can't kill 'er. She's got your blood." Nancy grimaced. "You think you want rid of her now, just you wait 'till she's hormonal."

In his shock, Johnny's grip slackened, and you managed to wriggle free, falling to your knees in front of Nancy. "Please, let me go," you pleaded. "If you want to be rid of me, I'll never speak a word. I'll disappear, I swear it!"

The stern, dark-haired woman displayed no signs of sympathy as a smile stretched across her face. "Honey, you got my grandbaby in there, and every baby needs a family. You ain't leavin'."

You looked up from her shoes to her cold eyes, tears streaming down your face as Johnny harshly pulled you back up. The realization set in that there was nothing you could do.

–

The subsequent months unfolded in an unusual manner. Nancy, with an insistence to have Johnny treat you better for the sake of the baby, managed to curb his physical abuse. However, his relentless verbal tirades persisted beyond her control.

During those prolonged months, a subtle transformation occurred within Johnny. The sensation of feeling his baby through your stomach seemed to evoke genuine affection in his eyes. Strangely, this newfound tenderness extended to his "relationship" with you. He provided a pillow and blankets for the barn, heated your food, and even allowed you some fresh air daily.

Despite the improved conditions, humane treatment remained a distant concept. His anger flared, and the majority of your days were still spent in the old barn.

The difficulty of your pregnancy grew, confining you to bedrest (as much as hay covered in blankets could be considered a bed) during the final weeks. At this point, Nancy visited more frequently than Johnny, yet her conversations were solely centered around the baby.

"Bet it's a girl," she remarked one day. "You got that girl shine. When I was pregnant with my girls, I looked the same way."

Inquiring about her pregnancies, she revealed none of them came to fruition, hastily correcting herself. "'Cept for my little angel Johnny, of course!"

Suspicion regarding Nancy's authenticity as Johnny's mother lingered, but in the grand scheme, it seemed inconsequential. Revealing your thoughts to Johnny might only worsen the situation.

Then, the day of your contractions arrived. Within hours, the pain became so intense that screams were your only outlet. When Johnny returned home, he came to see you, and instantly regretted it.

"Ma, why is she so pale?" he asked.

"Somethin's wrong," his mother replied, replacing the towel on your forehead. In the throes of labor, you lay on your back, pushing with all your weakened might.

Your strength had dwindled daily, and Johnny, not the most adept caretaker, had left you spending more time with Nancy in the last month of your pregnancy. Despite her care, you knew it was only for her grandchild's sake.

"Push! Come on now, I see their head!" she shouted, urging you on. You screamed, head thrown back into the sweat-drenched pillow. Johnny, stationed outside, smoked like a freight train, only peeking in occasionally. Comfort was beyond his capacity, a fact you came to understand long ago.

"One last push," Nancy urged, and you obeyed, your child slipping into her waiting hands. "It's a girl!" she exclaimed, but then fell silent, her face stricken.

"Is she okay?" you asked wearily, attempting to raise your head higher to see her. The baby had dark brown hair, like her daddy. She was limp.

Nancy flipped her over, holding her head and body, rubbing and slapping her back.

"What's going on?" Johnny said as he appeared at your side. You'd like to think he sounded worried. Your attention, however, remained fixed on your lifeless baby. Silent screams of anguish echoed as you witnessed Nancy's attempts to revive the child who had been kicking happily in your stomach that very morning.

Then, your daughter coughed, rasping for air. Water bubbled out of her lungs, wetting the barn floor. Nancy cradled her close, attempting to soothe the wailing newborn.

"Is she okay? Can I see her?" you asked, reaching out desperately. Nancy, however, refused to look at you.

"Always knew you was a piece of work, girl. Can't even birth a baby right when it don't die in your womb. She's weak and frail, like you. You don't deserve this girl," she said coldly, bouncing the baby gently as it laid against her shoulder, still crying.

"Please give me my baby," you wailed, stretching your arms out for her desperately.

Surprisingly, it was Johnny who took your little girl from Nancy. His mother glared at him with steely eyes as he placed his daughter in your arms.

"A baby needs their mama," he said, watching your face as it filled with affection for your perfect, tiny baby girl. He turned back to his mom. "She gotta feed her. You can take her back when she's done, but she won't get better without her mama."

"Fine," she spat, sitting up straight, the blood from your baby staining her dress. "But she's mine any time she's not eatin'. I gotta make sure she gets better, and your slut clearly don't know how to take care of a baby."

Johnny agreed, and you knew protesting would only strain your chances of spending time with her at all. It was true; she was your first baby, and you could tell she was sick by the bluish tone to her skin and her struggle to latch onto you. Yet, she was alive, in your arms, and that was all that mattered.

"Bring your girl into the spare bedroom. Better 'n me havin' to go out to the barn just to feed the baby," Nancy said, and Johnny obeyed, picking you up with what you could delude yourself into thinking was genuine care before bringing you inside his mother's house, your baby clutched tightly to your chest all the way.

–

As you recuperated in Johnny's mom's house, Johnny reluctantly assumed the role of caretaker. He assisted with your baths, helped you get dressed, and, surprisingly, inquired about your well-being at least once a day. It felt odd—a begrudging care, tinged with resentment, yet undeniably present. He wasn't accustomed to showing empathy.

During the feeding sessions with your baby, occurring five to eight times a day, Johnny surprisingly chose to be present more often than not, expressing a peculiar tenderness. He'd stroke your hair, murmuring, "She's gettin' stronger every day. She'll be okay in no time."

Yet, in moments when your baby was not present, Johnny's patience wore thin with your perpetual concerns.

"My ma's got her! You ain't gotta be so whiny!" he complained, rolling his eyes.

"But the last time I saw her, she seemed kind of out of it. Can you at least check on her?" you asked anxiously.

"Ma would tell me if she needed somethin'. You're overreacting like ya always do."

The desire to shout, to hurl the bedside lamp at him, surged within you, but you knew it would be futile. Johnny would never take you seriously.

After all, you were a year past your "expiration date", Johnny liked to "joke". You needed to make yourself useful, to show your thanks for the fact you were still alive. Your daughter needed you for now, but when she got older, Nancy could take over… and she wouldn't even remember you.

The thought made your stomach tie in knots. And as you looked into the fed-up eyes of your captor, you knew your place in his world would only become more and more tenuous. You had to be perfect for him. For your daughter.

Forever.

#johnny slaughter #johnny sawyer #johnny slaughter x reader #johnny sawyer x reader #texas chainsaw massacre game #tcm game #texas chainsaw game #tcm #x reader #pregnancy #childbirth #black nancy

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