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chocsra · 11 months ago

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✧ "Salvation; Devotion"

16! stormbringer! Chuuya x fem! reader

✧ summary: being targeted by paul verlaine after being chuuyas friend, though when he comes to talk to you with a european detective, it seems to be more than friendship. ✧ content: small oneshot, fluff, angst (kinda), adam + angsty teenagers ✧ w/c: 1.4k

Chuuya - meaning "loyalty, devotion"

Nakahara - meaning "central plain"

His devotion was not only his strongest attribute, but his most tender weakness.

You knew a boy. He was young and short, but fiery and strong. He was mysterious, born with unknown origins, and walked the wrong path, that's why he's not only humanity's most destructive weapon but a lowly, pitiful, criminal.

It was something you weren't, though you didn't mind much.

But under the guise of celestial imperfections, Chuuya was a constellation falling into place. He was beautiful. Sunkissed with the kind of foreign beauty you’d see in actors that would play some sort of prince. Your first examination of him was his wealthy and neatly ironed clothing—the kind of blazers and shoes that you’d find in a modelling campaign. Even the accented cuffs of his clothing were underlined with emerald or other precious stones. Then, his silky russet hair, one thrown into a low ponytail—the hairstyle itself still retained a strong masculinity despite the length. Or maybe that came from the musky cologne he constantly wore. A hint of cigarettes, strawberries and that strong scent of virile.

The soft glow from his copper locks then shifted to the fitted collar around his neck—an odd fashion choice, but it really accentuated the ivory of his skin. Soft, sun-kissed skin that’d make its way to his face. A beautiful face, really. Delicate and angelic features with a permanent scowl tugging on his lips—soft pink lips. Chuuya's eyes reflected a fine smoky quartz. His cheeks and nose kissed with a few scattered freckles.

You wondered why a boy so sublime had the status of an onerous beast. Even he took the words that held the weight of a blade and cut himself until he was reduced to the slit of a knife.

You met that same boy, a masterpiece ripped at every edge, not in the dangers of the mafia, but where a silver line stretches to the sea. Where the sun meets the sky, where the light shines.

But even then, you treated him differently. You didn't treat him like he was something fragile. Neither did you treat him like the monstrosity he was sought out to be. You didn't worship him, nor did you greatly depend on him. Instead, you found his humanity and treated him as such. Once a stranger, then a friend, then..

Nevermind.

"Chuuya?!"

You heard the calamity of each step he took to reach you, the boy stopping to pant. "[Y/N].. we need to talk." next to the redhead, was a tall European man with short brown hair, he didn't look tired at all compared to Chuuya. "Greetings, my name is Adam Frankenstein." You cocked a brow at his monotonous voice, the way his mouth moved didn't seem in sync with his words either. "You're rather special, Master Chuuya spent almost 7 hours looking for yo-" Adam explained briefly, causing the redhead to grimace and cut him off, "Shut it, will ya?!"

...

You heaved a bothersome sigh, elbows planted on a cafe table as the two men sat in front of you. "So.. why do you need me, Chuuya?" you question, fiddling with your fingers, "And who's he?.." your gaze uplifts to the brunette foreigner, which the man carefully takes a pack of gum and begins to unfold it, popping a piece in his mouth, before swallowing it. Your eyebrows furrow in a moment of youthful distaste.

Chuuya clutches the cup of tea between his gloved fingers and murmurs something intangible, "Adam's a detective from Europole, investigating Verlaine. He wants to know more about him, which is why he's been following me around.." he finally explains, taking a calculated and almost frustrated sip of his tea.

"Verlaine. Who's Verlaine?" You ask momentarily, causing the redhead to part his lips to answer, but you quickly halt as the detective swallows another piece of gum down his throat. "And why is he chewing gum like that?"

"That's what I'm sayin'!" the teenager half-seriously slams the cup of tea on the table, "He swallows it like a nutjob. You need help, tin man." Chuuya scoffs, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat almost nervously.

"You need help. You spent 6 hours and 47 minutes looking for h-" the brunette explains with a hint of sass in his voice, the redhead's eyes widening in shock, "I said shut up!"

You shuffle in your seat awkwardly as the two men argue. Scratching the back of your neck before Chuuya finally settles down, patting down the cashmere of his suit.

"So here's the thing about Verlaine.. he's this batshit crazy assassin, and uh.. here's the real kicker.." the mafioso mutters, fiddling with his gloved fingers uneasily. "You're gonna be the bait."

Your jaw immediately drops, a hand clasping over your chest in the offence. "Excuse me?! For what?.. to get killed?!" Chuuya looks distressed at your response, seeking Adam's gaze for at least a little help in his later response.

"Your safety is ensured. We just need to lure Verlaine out, so Master Chuuya can eliminate him." the detective explains rather calmly, fishing for something in the pocket of his suit before handing a chocolate bar to you. "Here, sugar helps with stress." the redhead smiles awkwardly at Adam's response, giving a nervous thumbs up.

You snatch the chocolate bar with a bit of attitude, eyes narrowing to Chuuya as the boy inhales sharply, "I thought I wouldn't get involved in your mafia affairs, now I have to die?" you ask with furrowed brows, anger cracking in your voice. Causing the teenager to gulp in slight fear, a rare sight to Adam, as he's never sensed fear from Master Chuuya. Especially to a young girl like you.

"Well, you won't die... More like, almost die." The detective explains, hoping he'd ease your nerves at least a bit. "Doesn't matter! M'not doing it!" You shout in vexation, hopping up from your seat as you pick up your school bag. "Plus, I couldn't if I wanted to, anyway," you murmur,

"Wait.. why?" Chuuya asks with conviction.

your gaze adverts to the different sights in the area: the park bench, passersby, and the cafe's menu. Anything but Chuuya's confused face.

"Uhm.. I have a project that's due tomorrow, and I didn't start yet."

"You can't be serious!"

The teenager runs up to you in frustration, you clutch your bag as you turn to him. "Oh, but I am!" you remark, walking faster as the brunette detective catches up. "I'm very serious! After all, this is a serious project!"

The redhead pants and wipes a bead of sweat off his forehead, "You're really gonna prioritise a school project over your own life?!" he cries out, still trying to catch up to you.

"Anything is better than being bait for the Port Mafia!" You yell out, settling your argument atop a bridge, ignoring how the sun was starting to set in an arrangement of oranges and pinks. "Shit- Don't say that so loud!"

"I'd rather finish a school project than become bait for the Port Mafia!!"

You repeat again, louder this time. Chuuya pinches his nose bridge in frustration, tilting his head up towards the setting sun. And upon you halting your swift steps, the redhead finally catches up to you, and to your surprise, he grabs your hand to spin you around.

"Look, I had a shitty week too!" the boy lets go of your hand, making you huff a little bit. But instead of letting you go, he cups both of your cheeks and pulls you close, his gaze never averting from yours. "People that mattered to me died, so many of them," the teenager explains, a melancholic glint lingering in his pretty eyes, you could see it all from the close proximity of his face. "and I'd do anything for you to not be one of those people."

You gulp hard as your eyes scan over the glass of his eyes, the once stormy grey now welling holding back tears.

Silence.

Adam clears his throat, standing beside you and the mafioso awkwardly, "Apologies for interrupting. But this whole exchange is very childish. Master Chuuya, don't you think there are better words to articulate your romantic feelings towards [Y/N]?.. Perhaps after this all over, you can solve this by getting into a relationship-" you and the boy both retort at the detective in unison:

"Shut up, Adam!"

...

"Okay, I'll help you." you frown with conviction, "You owe me a school project, though."

The redhead presses two fingers to his glabella, "I'll send someone to complete it for you."

✧ chocsra™

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flattocatto · 15 days ago

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Gym glow

a fanfic based off the art by the TALENTED @thatbunnibaby on X. i drool at their art at least 5 times a day. idk if i should make a part two heheheh

synopsis: Sevika had the gall to invite you to the gym with her. She wanted to spot you, help you build muscle. All the meanwhile, she’s a terrible distraction… a terribly sexy one.

sevika x f!reader (lets be real shes for the girlies), gawking, reader has like never been to the gym (sorry gym girlies), writer hasnt been to the gym jn four years…, i dont know the currency but google told me, probably incorrect use of gym equipment, reader has 0 muscle built (that is the only body description)

nicknames she used on you: doll, princess, munchkin

WORD COUNT: 3,590

The fact that Zaun had a gym was news to you. Last time you checked, all Zaun truly advertised was bars, gangs and Shimmer. The address that was given to you on a napkin was messy, some back alley off of the Lanes. Under it read, ‘5:30 am. 5 silver cogs per admission. Don’t be late. - S’. The ‘don’t’ had been underlined four times.

It boggled your mind that you had gotten into talking to Sevika last night. You barely remembered it. Probably because of the several rounds you recall her ordering for the two of you. All you remember about being invited to the gym in the first place is you got caught staring.

“Is there something on my abs or something?” The woman had teased you.

You had said something along the lines of, “No! I like your muscles,” or some other. It was so much easier to remember Sevika’s voice. It almost demanded authority… and well, it was hot. What could you say?

And the next thing you know, you were roped into not only waking at the crack of fucking dawn, but waking up still hungover. You had only gone to bed at 1 in the morning too. Your brain was not agreeing with you at all, stumbling to get something to wear. You changed into some suitable clothes to leave, and packed a bag with some gym clothes. Also known as that one pair of sports shorts you splurged on for a New Year’s resolution years ago, and an old tank top.

You began the walk down to the general location of the gym. At 5 am, The Lanes were quieter, minus a few people sleeping or passed out drunk. The directions on the napkin were odd. ‘Pass the pawn shop, turn into the alley on the east. Walk past the food stall — first door on the left.’ You had to check the napkin at least 10 times before you stood in front of the door. A sign on the door said in big, bold letters, ‘gym entrance.’

Pushing open the door, you were met by a woman at the front counter. She was messing around with the chipping wood of the desk before she looked up at you. The door to the gym (you assumed) was blocked off by a gate — that the woman at the counter could probably open.

You approached the counter and placed the 5 silver cogs down. The woman took them with a grin, making sure they were real. She analyzed each coin, before she nodded. “One hour. Be out by 6:30.” She moved over the desk to open the gate for you. “Change rooms are to the left.”

With an exchange of thanks you headed past the little gate and into the gym. To your right was indeed the change rooms as the lady said, but then in front of you was the gym. You looked around, to not see Sevika at all. Only some other stronger women were working out. A frown fell on your lips, but you quickly allowed your face to relax. Maybe she was changing. Going up to the change room, you see there is no sign to separate genders. Odd… every gym you had seen in magazines and heard of in books normally separated men, women and others.

The door squeaked as you pushed it. The hinges definitely needed some sort of TLC, grease or whatever. You headed to a nearby bench and began to change into the clothes you had brought. Face to the wall of the bench. Not wanting to stare at anyone else potentially changing.

Just as you were taking off your shirt, the light you had around you was cut off by a dark, larger shadow. You almost felt frozen. Well, you were. You didn’t move past your arm half stuck in your sleeve. A chuckle came from the figure at that. “Don’t be so scared now. Surprised you even remembered to show up.”

You let out a sigh of relief, knowing that voice. You look up and back to confirm your suspicion, meeting your eyes with Sevika’s. The older woman stepped back some, arms crossing over her chest. “Well? Don’t let me stop you from changing,” Sevika spoke firmly.

It was obvious she wasn’t leaving until you were finished. You nodded, a little too fast, continuing to get undressed. It didn’t take too long, all you knew is she was watching you. Which, of course, made you go quicker. Not like she needed to see all that. Even if you wanted her to…

You turned around to face her and — for the love of all that was holy, whatever she had on? Was not making you feel holy. Whatever it was, it was tight. A sports bra that hugged every aspect of her chest… though terribly. It rather exposed it, as well as her abs. They were toned and defined from her efforts, and down… a lovely happy trail. You couldn’t help but ogle at it, a little too long.

“My eyes are up here,” Sevika said lowly, a smile to her face. It caused you to look up again, meeting her eyes.

“Sorry,” you apologised, then looked away. A flush rose on your cheeks quicker than you’d like to admit, the embarrassment hitting you as quick as a chilly wind.

The two of you headed out to the gym part, it only being you two this early. The place had seemingly just opened. Sevika didn’t even mind the solitude, she just walked to the rack of dumbbells. They were worn down. To you, it was obvious the equipment wouldn’t be top class. This was Zaun, after all. Sevika grabbed one, for her one organic arm. A 40 pound one, then motioned toward the rack for you.

“Grab some. We’re gonna warm up.”

“With these?” You grabbed a set of 5 pound ones. Too light… you went up to 10, which was comfortable enough. But you set them back, grabbing the 15 pound ones. These were better — if you went up any more in weight, it’d be a jump to 25. A gap in the pattern.

Sevika just nodded, looking at you. Blank faced. “You’ve never worked out like this before, huh?”

Embarrassment quelled within you again. Like a gnawing anxiety. You felt scrutinized, even though Sevika didn’t look like she was scrutinizing you. You shook your head left and right in response, earning a chuckle from the other woman.

“It’s a new place, I wouldn't expect as much from a girl like you… no offence. It’s pretty easy once you get the hang of it. You gotta warm up so you don’t break your muscles.”

You just nodded as she explained. The dumbbells in your hands had gone down with your arms to your sides in her explanation. She then moved one leg in front of the other, bending it forward. The one behind her was slightly bent too, yet not on the floor. Like she was getting down on one knee, except wider in the length of the stature.

She looked over at you, “Copy me. Come on now, don’t just stand there like a deer in headlights, doll.”

Quickly you copied her movements, lunging down as she did. You were a tad wobbly with the dumbbells on your side, but eventually you found balance with your hips.

“Good.” Sevika nodded, “Now curl the dumbbells up like this,” she demonstrated, moving the one in her hands up to her shoulder. “All the way up, just above your collarbone. 10 reps — that’s 10 times.”

You did it 10 times, as she had said. It started off quite easy, but the strain in your legs began to develop. You made a little face, one of which Sevika noticed, but made zero comment. She had already done her 10 reps. After you finished, you let out a sigh.

“Okay. Switch legs now. Do it all over again, the 10 reps.”

There was more?! You did as she said, though. You didn’t want to look weak or anything in front of her. This was essentially like a first meeting. The first one you were sober, that is. She was already in her position, and once again you were still finding damn balance.

You curled the dumbbells up, then back down, then up again. She was doing some extra reps, before she stood. You finished your last rep, standing up as well. She went to set her dumbbell back, and you did too.

“We’ll do more with those some other time,” Sevika said, before moving over to a mat again. She pat the spot next to her with her mechanical arm, to which you immediately sat next to her. “We should stretch those hamstrings of yours. Also good for the hips.”

She put her legs out in front of her. You copied. She reached out, grabbing her foot with her hand. You copied again. “You feel a pull?” She asked you.

“Yeah, kinda hurts…” you mumbled, but kept there.

She looked over at your form and tutted, “Full hand. Not just those fingers on those toes. Put your palm over your toes.”

You tried, but you could feel your knee bending a tad. With a frown, you looked over at her. “I don’t think my arms are long enough.”

“Then with your fingers, bend your foot back some. It’s gotta pull to stretch ‘em out.” She sounded much more relaxed like this. Not as gruff as she did at bars.

You did as she said and took a deep breath. It burned, it hurt. But not too bad. Nothing unbearable.

“Next leg,” she said after a few moments. You both switched legs at the same time, and repeated the motion. She was mouthing something. Numbers, counting the seconds per each ‘rep,’ it seemed.

After that, she moved her legs to sit crisscross. Almost. Except her feet were together, hands holding them that way. You mimicked her, as usual, silently. She moved her legs up a little then down, almost pressed to the floor. Then she leaned forward as her legs were down. It was a pretty sight, you had to pick your damn jaw up to copy the movement.

While you could only get your head slightly close to the floor, her forehead was much closer to the mat. She was focused, face tense with it. You kept staring, even as you copied her movements.

When she leaned up again, she looked over to you. Catching you staring. Caught, again, staring at her. Again. She did tell you to copy her, though, so she couldn’t blame you too much. “You enjoying the show, princess?”

You looked away, sitting up again like she did. Swallowing, you avoided the question. “You’re a good teacher.”

Sevika let out a breath of a laugh at that, standing up again. “Sure thing. You ever deadlifted?”

You shook your head, and she went over to grab a barbell. She set it on the ground, motioning for you to go by it. As you did, she grabbed another, a larger one. Yours was thinner, a little bit shorter too. She didn’t grab any of those little worn out plates, though. She set her bar next to yours.

“Put your feet apart like this, not too much, like shoulder width.” She moved her feet, about a foot and a half apart. You copy that, again. It felt like you were a toddler being taught to walk at this rate with how much you mimicked her. She nodded at your form then continued. “Make sure the bar is at the midpoint of your foot here. Like over the middle. Then bend over, like there’s some stool or whatever behind you. Kinda like a squat…”

You do as she said, but you leaned a little too forward. She noticed, and shook her head. “No, that’s how you’ll hurt yourself and fall on your ass. Y’gotta make it so your shins are parallel with the bar if you were gonna lift it up. Now grab it, get a good grip there. Not directly shoulder width this time.” She demonstrated, and you nodded, doing as she said. “Good, yeah. Now, pull up, but don’t be all limp. Keep those muscles tense. Again, so you don’t fall on your ass.”

You did as she said, lifting the bar up. It was quite light. Sevika nodded at your movements, heading over to you. She placed her flesh hand on your back, the mechanical one just under your boobs. She straightened your back out. “Keep your back straight. Won’t strain as much. Always keep your gaze forward, to prevent neck strain. Put it down.” She moved her hands away, resting them on her hips as she stepped back.

With a nervous swallow, you set the bar down. Reversing the motion from before. “Lift it back up,” Sevika commanded, to which you complied, heeding her earlier advice. Back straight. Gaze forward. It felt more natural. Less… well, less tense, despite being tense to lift it.

Sevika nodded and smiled a little. Just a quirk of her lips upright. “Now y’won’t throw your damn back out lifting, huh?”

“Thanks,” you said in response.

“No issue. Can’t have a pretty thing like you gettin’ hurt.” There that smile was. Slyer, gap toothed and… well, attractive. She went over to the rack of worn weight plates, grabbing two 25’s. “Here, put these on your bar.” She handed you one.

You both began putting the plates on your barbell, then clamping them on so they didn’t slip off. She grabbed two 50’s for her bar, as if it was nothing. With her prosthetic arm, of course, it would be nothing. After she made sure her bar was all set, she got in formation as she had taught you. “Let’s do 10 reps again, mm?” She already started before you could argue.

You stood there and just stared at her a little bit. Ogling, sure, but damn was she something. That focus back on her face, lips slightly pursed, muscles bulging… it was doing something to you. The way her thighs swelled with each up and down, it was mesmerizing. You snapped yourself out of it and began to do your own reps, as she instructed.

It was easy to start, as usual. Then once your muscles tired it grew more difficult. Still, you pressed on, once again wanting to impress her. When you finished, you set it down almost shakily. Your arms were sore, they felt like noodles. You looked over at her, catching her being the one looking.

“Not too bad for your first time, munchkin.”

“Munchkin?” You looked at her, brow slightly furrowed.

“Yeah. You ain’t got any muscle on ya. Essentially a munchkin.” She smirked, and began to take the plates off her barbell. A few more people were coming in now, seeing as it was a little past 6 in the morning. You took the plates off yours as well, tossing the clamps in the little bucket with the rest. You put your barbell back in the stand, and Sevika didn’t. You looked over at her, hand going to grab your barbell again. “Nah,” she shook her head, picking hers up easily with her mechanical arm. “I’m gonna teach you how to bench press right. Keep that bar there, c’mon.”

She led you two over to a bench, setting the barbell down on the bar catch. She motioned to the bench. “Lay back on it. Legs on either side, head at the little separator part up top. You want your shoulders at about where the bar is so you can put your arms up comfortably at a 90 degree angle there.”

You did as instructed, once again. To test, you lifted your arms to grab the bar. It was a tad too high, and you were a bit too forward, so you shifted down. Sevika, on the other hand, took the bar off and moved the bar catches down one slot.

“Try that. Is it low enough that you can bend your arms slightly to put it in the catch?” Sevika asked, and you reached again. It was much more comfortable, you tested by lifting the bar a bit. You could lift and put it back.

You nodded, affirming more with a soft, “Yep. Seems alright.”

“Good. Take it off the rack. Arch your back slightly, then bring the bar down comfortably…” you did as directed again, as she spoke. “Yeah, like that. Then push it back up.”

It felt a lot easier than the deadlift so far. Yet you were scared you’d drop it and snap your damn neck. But it wasn’t too heavy, not with any weights. Still heavier than your deadlift bar, but not overwhelmingly so. You did a few reps like that before she could even tell you, before you put it back on the bar catch.

The stronger woman had her arms crossed over her chest, nodding a bit. “Keep that form. I’m gonna go get some plates for you.”

She left you. Lying there, staring at the ceiling. You didn’t bother to move an inch, not wanting to defy her. She was back in a few moments, applying two 10 pound weights to each side of the bar. Then she grabbed some clamps to stick them on.

“I’ll be spotting you,” she said, and moved back toward your head. “Do a couple reps. As much as you feel you can.”

She rested her hands on her waist as she watched. You grabbed the bar and when you set your head back against the bench again… you got a face full of boobs. Well, not literally. They were like the only part of Sevika you could see. You swallowed your saliva, your throat suddenly dry. Like you ate a cup of sand. Drank? Ate…? Whatever. You did your reps as she said.

You kept pushing on. You could do a few more, you said in your head. Trying to look cool for her. Knowing Sevika, she was probably counting. Your arms shook slightly, each time getting more shaky. You went to put it back on the catch but slipped. This was it, you were about to be choked out by a damn barbell on your first time. All because you tried to impress the woman whose boobs were the only thing you saw going out. An honourable way to die. Eyes full of a pretty lady’s breasts.

Except it never fell. And you were breathing, alive, startled. You had shut your eyes at some point, and opened them to find Sevika setting the bar in the catch herself. She looked down at you, and you could actually see her face now. “You can’t let yourself be distracted,” she said lowly, “and you shouldn’t push yourself past your limits. If I weren’t here, you’d give the front desk lady a messy clean up job.”

Before you could say anything, she scooted the bench forward. “C’mon. Our time is about up anyway.” She took the weight plates and clamps again, beginning to put them away.

You grabbed the bar, heading generally to the same location she was. You put it back with the rest before you followed Sevika to the change room, flush in the face. She saved you… and you embarrassed yourself. Not too badly, but still! You would think about that too much later. When you were in bed, alone… stuck on the thought of her over you like that. Then of course your brain would remind you of your mistake.

Sevika began to change — next to your spot. Of course. Why wouldn’t she have put her stuff there. You pursed your lips and kept your eyes to yourself, changing into the extra clothes you brought. You wanted to look over so badly, but you told yourself you were one, not a pervert, and two, not looking for any trouble from the lady with a mechanical arm.

After you packed up, you looked over to Sevika who had begun to head out as well. You both left the gym, almost immediately after one another. Sevika nodded at the front desk lady, and you mumbled a quick thanks. Before Sevika could turn to leave, you couldn’t help but shoot your shot. After all, you live once, right? Well, obviously, you almost lost that ‘once’ today.

“Hey, um, Sevika,” you called out, causing her to stall. Her head turned to look at you, the look in her eyes prompting one thing — to get out with it. “Thank you for teaching me all that today. If there’s any way to repay you… let me know.”

Sevika’s lips upturned at that, and she let out a huffed laugh. “I’ll let you know for sure, doll. You’ll know.”

And with that, she turned her way. After staring, letting her words sit in your head, you turned your own way and headed back towards your place. You’d lay in bed tonight, thinking about everything. Her last words rang in your head. What did she mean by that? How would you ‘know’?!

Maybe you’d catch her at The Last Drop tonight. Maybe, just maybe you’d get drunk enough to ask what she meant. Or there’s a chance you run into her after today. At the gym again… you should really start working out more. Then you definitely would know, and it would come from those slightly asymmetrical lips of hers. And you could watch it spill past them.

| ©️ copyright flattocatto, 2025

#sevika x you #sevika x reader #arcane sevika #sevika #sevika x y/n #sevika arcane x reader #sevika x oc #sevika fanfic #arcane x reader #fanfic #flattocatto writes

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runninriot · 1 month ago

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You're So New (never had this taste in my mouth)

written for @steddiesongfics

inspiration: 'New' by NoDoubt | rated: E | wc: 4.982 | tags: sexual content, pre steddie, love confessions, friends to lovers | read on ao3

Eddie is caught in a free fall. That, at least, is what it feels like.

Down it goes, fast but somehow too slow at the same time. Down, down, no end in sight. Feels like he should’ve crashed minutes ago, but still, he keeps drifting, floating, falling. Swiftly swaying like a feather in the wind, violently twirling like he’s caught in a hurricane.

Lost in contrasts – no sense for where is up and where is down, caught somewhere in the middle of a blissful nightmare. His insides churning, heartbeat out of rhythm – he feels cold and hot and it’s all too much.

But then why can he hear himself begging for more?

There’s a gentle beast eating away at his insides while angels sing a song of damnation, underlining this heavenly torture that makes him giddy; giggles and cries fighting for freedom in his throat.

This is fucking crazy, Eddie is going fucking crazy.

It shouldn’t mess him up the way it does; he’s had sex before, this isn’t new. He knows the way deft fingers map out his skin, searching for the spots that make him wince and whine and wiggle. He knows the feeling of cool air and hot breath mingling on his spit covered nipples, sending sparks of pleasure into his nerve endings. He knows what it’s like to have need coiling in his gut, desire expanding into desperation that makes his body feel too small for all the sensations it houses.

And yet, everything about this is new. New and different and so much better than anything he’s ever felt before because it is their first time together like this. The first time he has Steve’s fingers digging into his sides so deep, his nails might break skin if he keeps going. Might leave bruises if Eddie wishes for it hard enough.

It’s not the first time they’re both shirtless but it’s the first time they’re shirtless on Steve’s bed. And while they’ve been kissing for some time now, it still feels new to open his mouth to let Steve’s tongue inside, summoning Eddie’s inner demons who oh-so-willingly accept this dirty dance request, blindly following his moves.

Maybe it’s the fact that, after all this time starving, Eddie’s suddenly served up the perfect dish to satiate his hunger, despite him being the one presented on the silver platter, waiting to be devoured.

Undecided if he’s hunter or prey, Eddie is helplessly chasing himself, trying to catch a breath while he’s grasping for hold, fumbling, flailing. Tumbling down a rabbit hole, where it’s warm and bright and the world is alight with invisible sunbeams setting him ablaze from the inside out.

Maybe he’s dying. Maybe this is what being reborn feels like.

And maybe he’s said that out loud because Steve chuckles, the smile on his lips leaving a ghostly imprint on the side of Eddie’s neck where they linger, placing barely-there-kisses on this soft shell of his body that does fuck all to keep his soul from oozing through the cracks he didn’t even know were there.

“Steve, I-“

There are words trapped somewhere in the back of his mind but they’re written in a foreign language Eddie doesn’t know how to read, let alone speak, so he breathes instead, lets out this pitiful noise, this fragile little half-whimper, half-moan that doesn’t sound like him at all. Or maybe it does now because-

Because the old Eddie Munson is dead. Long live Eddie Munson – the new one, the reborn one, the one who gets to touch Steve in ways he never thought possible.

The one whose hands don’t burn in shame but rather tingle in excitement when they trace the curve of Steve’s perfect ass. Whose fingers don’t need to ask for permission to grab and play.

The Eddie, who is allowed to let himself go, to shut off his mind and let his body develop one of its own under Steve's guidance. Losing himself in the lovely, teasing way Steve moves on top of him – feline and snakelike, somehow both at the same time – curling around him, face buried deep in the crook of his neck, nosing at his skin, licking his way down the long line of it just to make Eddie squirm. Leaving dampness behind that causes him to break out in goosebumps with each exhale that tickles his skin.

“Steve, baby-”

Baby.

How easy they’ve been sharing this name. As if they had never called each other anything else.

“Can you-“

Breathless, he waits for the other man's eyes to find his, hands coming up to cup Steve’s face on either side. He isn't sure what he wants to say, not sure what he's about to do, only that he needed a break, needed Steve to stop the trail of his mouth for just a moment, or else he was going to break, combust, fly too far away to find his way back down.

“Everything okay?” Steve asks, voice ridden with concern that reflects in his eyes, too. Suddenly looking so soft despite how hard he still is where their bodies absently grind and move, seemingly unwilling to stop what they've started.

“Y-yeah, sorry just-“

Head empty, brain malfunctioning, heart racing so fast it must be unhealthy, Eddie struggles to find the right words to say – what is he even sorry for?

It's not his fault that he’s so fucking high on adrenaline right now, that the can barely keep himself from vibrating out of his skin. He feels itchy, wants to shed all of these outworn layers that cover his flesh and bones, wants Steve to slice him open and rearrange his insides to make space for all the new, divine things he makes him feel.

Throw out all the old and banish the dark, paint him with light and decorate him with roses – bright-pink and with heart shaped petals. Something soft to contradict the surge raging where he feels too much at once, for too little room.

“I just... needed a moment,” he offers, smiling shyly at the beautiful man in his lap.

His beating muscle can't keep up pumping blood through his veins, down to where it’s demanded. Where Steve’s straining against him. Where they are mirror versions of each other, unable to hide what their bodies are longing for. Heat and arousal pooling in his lower half when he welcomes Steve's downward grind as he leans in for another kiss, a slower one, almost chaste compared to the ones before.

The taste of shared cigarettes and soda is still clinging to both of their tongues, and Eddie wonders if he'll ever be able to smoke or have a coke again without getting a hard-on, because that flavour will forever remind him of Steve now.

“Sorry, am I going too fast?” Steve asks and before he even finishes the question, Eddie’s already vehemently shaking his head.

“Want you,” -so much it scares me.

Eddie keeps the second half to himself, would rather choke on the words than say them out loud because he doesn’t know if this is too much to admit. If they’re at the point yet, where they can just drop truths of the heart so easily. They’ve barley even-

No. They haven’t made any real confessions at all. Not the wordy kinds, at least. Didn’t have time for that kind of conversation because it all happened so unexpected and fast. Words haven’t really been much of an option since then so they let their bodies do all the talking.

“Want you too, Eddie. God, I want you.”

With his lips back on Eddie’s, Steve doesn’t give him the chance to say more, and maybe that’s good. Maybe they don’t need to speak right now.

If Eddie is really lucky, and this is not just a glitch in the matrix, they’ll have time to talk later. After. When Eddie’s brain is back online and his thoughts stop revolving solely around the pulse in his cock, still trapped inside his boxers and jeans, yearning to break free.

-----

continue reading here

#eddie munson #steve harrington #steddie #steddie fic #steddie smut #steddiesongfics

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hopefulceladon · 5 months ago

Text

a battered light (can only burn so bright) | sunday x reader

summary: it truly was only a matter of time before he burnt himself out, wasn't it? pairing: sunday x reader word count: 4.5k (help me) notes: the self-indulgent brain worms influenced me i am so sorry. you give sunday a wing massage and he clearly has Mixed Feelings about it all. is he yearning? is he just stubborn? the world may never know.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

A blanket of starlight had wrapped itself around the Dewlight Pavilion, the ethereal glow illuminated ever brighter by the governing moon.

On such peaceful nights like this, solace for the fatigued was all too simple to acquire for those who sought it, yet even still, there remained those who did not yet allow themselves the luxury of rest whenever daylight grew dim.

It was just such a terrible pity that the Head of the Oak Family was one of them—a conclusion strengthened by the restless, focused, and very much still awake Halovian displayed before you.

“Mr. Sunday,” you called for him as you balanced a silver tray in your arms, hoping to garner his attention.

Your hopes were soon drowned out by the clatter of footsteps as they treaded to-and-fro against wooden floorboards, a pace that hardly ever changed in stride and never once dared to cease.

The sight laid before your eyes was a troubling one; Sunday was in the midst of sizing up his miniscule-scale model of the Golden Hour, his weary eyes roaming over the elaborate diorama as he muttered words that fell upon your ears like muddled verses of a foreign poem.

It was also a sight that you, unfortunately, were growing all too familiar with.

When the two birds of a feather had been reunited by the scarred hands of dormancy days prior, you quite naturally—and quite foolishly—had believed they had snatched away the tension that rested upon Sunday's shoulders in exchange.

It hadn't.

The scattered plumes of both deep purple and white, the likes of which were now haphazardly skirting themselves beneath the premises of the table Sunday paced around, had already given that away, after all.

Wordlessly, you avoided trampling any of the fallen feathers by the grace of your careful footing, and you settled the tray that carried both a cup of tea and a small plate of freshly cut strawberries—Robin had let it slip that he was fond of them once before—upon his desk in the room above, before descending the stairs and continuing to observe the madness before you.

Once you decided you could no longer bear the burden of playing a helpless bystander for much longer, you took a step forward and gently tapped Sunday upon his shoulder.

Sunday's feathers bristled in reaction to the abrupt touch, but his gaze softened once he turned around to face the source.

“Ah, do forgive me, please,” he began with a cordial, apologetic smile, his eyes tearing away from the model to glance at the tray. “I must've forgotten about this evening's tea.”

“If it clears your conscience any, I nearly forgot to start brewing it.” you admitted.

“Is that so?” Sunday hummed in response, nearly bewildered by your confession. “Hm, perhaps I should allow for a bit more leniency in the schedule...”

You frowned at the self-deprecating chuckle that left his lips, but you resisted making a remark. Without a further word spoken, you sat down in the chair that he had graciously pulled out for you, planted right next to his desk.

Peeking over at the files he was so adamantly focused upon, a small smile graced your lips at the underlined and emboldened heading, proudly declaring the parchment's title of ’Charmony Festival Preparations’.

“I can see why your memory slipped,” you mused, hoping to stave off any suffocating silence. “It’s an exciting thing to be in charge of something so memorable, isn’t it?”

Sunday tensed, a flicker of something unreadable dimming the usual poised gleam of his golden eyes.

“It... most certainly will be a festival one shall never forget.” Sunday finally replied.

You decided against inquiring as to why his wings had betrayed him, a subtle twitch disrupting their perfectly mundane flutter.

You also decided against dwelling upon the pitiful sight of gaps between his feathers.

As Sunday picked up his pen to scribble something upon the documents, a frown crossed your lips as you noted the way his eyes, with their appearance already marred by the evidence of lack of proper rest, had their corners crinkled from overexertion.

The remnants of a dying flame lingered upon the nearby candelabra’s wick, before extinguishing itself with a forlorn puff of smoke. As the light diminished further within the room, Sunday’s eyes squinted.

With a frown creasing your lips, you finally decided to speak up.

“Sir, if you’d like, I could relight the candle?”

Sunday paused to look up at you, shaking his head in light of your concern. “You really needn’t go through the trouble.” As your unwavering gaze met his, the visible extent of your worry piercing through his obstinate resolve, Sunday promptly faltered. “...but, of course, if you’re so insistent, I won't stop you.”

You nodded before getting up to scour his office for a matchstick, acquiring one with relative ease. As you struck the match against the igniter, you waited for the head to mingle with the worn-down wick with a steady hand.

Your focus soon fell upon Sunday’s weary countenance.

He was much akin to his candle, you reckoned—meant to burn bright for all to see, yet the burdens of his extensive obligations had weighed his benevolent, ever-giving wick down to a charred stub; whenever he had wavered, so, too, did his light.

And, much like a moth enraptured by a kindled flame, you, like most any other Dreamscape denizen, had clung to the luster he meticulously weaved from the luminance of his candle. Nonetheless, his elevated status hadn’t hidden that he was as helplessly human as those he served, and that even he, too, needed a lamppost to sturdy himself upon.

You wondered if he ever allowed himself to acknowledge such logic.

Once the match finally ignited the wick, you silenced your internal musing with a sigh, snuffing the lingering embers upon the wooden stick with a flick of your wrist.

As you set the candelabra back down onto his desk, it was then that you noted the still untouched cup of tea.

“Your tea must be getting cold by now...”

Sunday’s attention drifted away from his paperwork, and he glanced over at the cup. “Ah, right...” he hummed in acknowledgment, studying it carefully. “It’s chamomile, I presume?”

“As evident by the pigment, yes.”

“And the bitter leaves have been amplified by a squeezed lemon, correct?”

“Of course.”

“Thoroughly stirred, though not too harshly?”

“Only the gentlest of stirrings for you, sir.”

“That’s my wonderful assistant,” Sunday mused with a tired smile, lifting the drink up to his lips and taking a small sip from it, before setting it back down. “Life is quite more convenient when everything is coordinated as it should be, isn’t it?”

You nodded at his observation, all too familiar with the principles he's uttered before in the past. “It does have its perks.”

Sunday stirred the spoon in his cup around in slow circles, his expression growing unreadable.

“So, it truly is a shame whenever something disrupts how things ought to be...”

“You’ve... mentioned that before, yes.” you replied, hesitantly clinging onto his every word.

Sunday hummed as he took another sip. As he refreshed the tea against his palate, his eyebrows narrowed in concentration, prompting his lips to form a frown.

“I’ve noticed the sugar you've been sprinkling in.”

“And I’ve noticed that you've begun to molt.” you quickly retorted without much thought. It was childish, yes, you knew, but perhaps your hasty tongue had a point.

The Halovian stiffened at your remark.

“I beg your pardon?”

Your confidence wavered as Sunday’s eyebrows furrowed, yet your shame was outweighed by your concern.

“The floor is littered with proof, and as pristine as you keep your appearance, it’s hard to cover up unevenness caused by fallen feathers," you paused, your focus drifting from the wings near his temples to fall upon his paperwork. “And, given the stress that normally accompanies festival preparations...”

Sunday’s tongue clicked in frustration at the implication.

“Whether or not I was stressed—or even molting, for that matter—my feathers should hardly be any of your concern,” he replied, his voice trailing off as he eyed your approaching hands.

In a swift motion, he pinned your wrists down against the desk, a counteraction made in desperation to prevent them from reaching their destination.

“...and I would appreciate it if you kindly refrained from touching them.”

You tried your best to recoil one of your hands away, but they wouldn't move—how could they, when they now sought the mercy of his restrictive grasp?

Even as Sunday’s palms cordially arranged for your wrists to be wed to the wooden surface, however, you didn't budge. “Were this over anything else, I would gladly listen, but given the fact that you’ll need someone to help you safely-”

Sunday’s eyes squeezed themselves shut in frustration.

“Beloved assistant of mine, please do not be so obstinate.”

As the Halovian's hold upon your wrists gradually softened, you snatched them back to your sides.

“I learn from the worst.” you murmured.

Sunday let out a soft sigh in response before returning to his paperwork. A part of you wondered why you even dared to bother vocalizing your concern.

Nonetheless, in the ever-growing silence, it was only then that you realized how truly worn out the Halovian had appeared. The dark circles underneath his eyes and the missing feathers had been telltale signs, but even his countenance had changed; beneath his layers of practiced, superficial perfection, you could sense that he was exhausted beyond both your unwavering understanding and his intentional ignorance.

Your heart sunk to the pit of your stomach as your eyes caught themselves on the sight of dried blood in the center of one of the gaps in his feathers, before they reluctantly tore themselves away. It was hardly like him to ignore his appearance to such an extent.

A sigh crossed your lips as you focused upon a droplet of heated wax, witnessing it roll off the surface of the pitiful candle and onto the table.

You couldn’t hold your tongue for much longer.

“Sir, you really should examine your wings.”

“I hardly have the luxury of time on my side,” Sunday countered swiftly. “Were it not for the preparations, I would've already-”

“Then, please, at least let me try?” you interjected without second thought.

Sunday’s gaze tore away from his desk to stare at you, unblinking, as if you had just uttered the most irrational thing possible, and perhaps you indeed had—an offer made in haste could surely be considered as such, couldn't it?

“Did I not already beg you not to do so?”

“You did, but as your assistant, I’ve known you long enough to be certain you’ll just prioritize perfecting the festival over your own well-being, so...” you stared at the spot once more before glancing back at him. “Please.”

Sunday shifted uncomfortably in his seat as he pondered your offer, his wings twitching from what you assumed was contemplation. He parted his lips to speak, only to draw out a mere reluctant sigh.

Slowly, Sunday opened one of the drawers to his desk, pulling out a cloth and a spray bottle, before holding out his hand with the two items bundled together within his grasp. As he motioned for you to take the items with a nudge of his hand, you noted that his eyes never once met yours.

“Thank you.” you said with a soft smile.

Recalling the multiple occasions you had witnessed him clean his wings, as well as the knowledge you secretly procured from handbooks on Halovian biology, you spritzed the water upon the cloth and held it a few inches away from Sunday’s wing, all memories of the least intrusive methods coming to mind.

As you pressed the cloth against the surface, a sharp breath had made you halt.

“Forgive me.” Sunday muttered. “As you can tell, it’s... been a while.”

You nodded, all questions dying upon your tongue for the sake of his comfort, before gently dabbing the cloth against the spot, wiping away the bloody inequity and restoring his pristine visage.

Setting the cloth down on the desk, you smiled. “And... done.”

“Ah, thank you kindly.”

A small portion of your worry had ebbed away at in light of the relief in his voice, but returned with a vengeance once you remembered the sight of the disastrous floor from moments prior. As your gaze trailed away from him and towards the dark purple feathers that dotted the floor right next to those of cloudy white, Sunday’s gaze had soon followed.

Inquiries regarding their condition formulated themselves without much prompting within your mind, but you couldn’t dare speak them out loud.

Not when he had already been so stubborn over his first set of wings.

Not when he had already faltered so strongly in his breathing, a pattern you associated with immense discomfort.

In the absence of all conversation, you both tirelessly danced around the inevitable before something finally had to give.

“The festival has been, admittedly, more of a... project than I could’ve ever expected,” Sunday began, droning off with an awkward, tensed chuckle. “...and I suppose that, perhaps, amidst the madness of it all, the matter of my wings’ upkeep must’ve slipped my mind...”

“I... I see.” you acknowledged his words with a soft hum, accepting his unlikely-to-be-true excuse without further prompting.

Sunday sighed as his hands absentmindedly fidgeted with his gloves to smooth out an invisible crease, before he finally continued.

“The upkeep of a Halovian’s wings just hardly isn’t a thing to entrust so lightly to another being, you see, and I just, I...” his voice trailed off.

The eyes that were once so keenly intent on scrutinizing the floor beneath his feet soon met yours.

Had you of been anyone else, you would've surely melted under his weary gaze, but no, quite frankly you couldn't and most definitely shouldn't, for you were merely his assistant, and such feelings must not be stoked by any such foolish thing-

“If I absolutely must trust another soul with such a hefty responsibility, I suppose it would indeed be you.” Sunday finally murmured.

You were startled, to say the least. Hurriedly, you gleaned for any signs of hesitance upon his features, finding nothing except a softness in his eyes that you prayed was not drawn from reverence.

“And you're sure of this, sir?”

Sunday hesitated, his expression unreadable before finally, he nodded.

As Sunday arose from his chair to stretch his stagnant muscles, intent on ridding himself of his white coat, he had reached for his shoulder with a barely-suppressed wince. Without thinking, you rushed over to his side, cupping the top of his shoulder with your palm, attempting to gently work off the sleeveless coat for him.

Seemingly frightened by the abrupt touch, Sunday breathed in sharply, hastily brushing your hand off of his shoulder before his picture-perfect poise could shatter.

“Please,” he murmured tersely, his hand still protectively grasping his clothing. “I believe I can handle doing this part myself.”

You nodded as you slowly stepped back, resting your treacherous hands at your sides.

As Sunday worked the snow-colored coat off of his shoulders, he grabbed the discarded garment and folded it into a neat square before putting it up on his desk, then focused on the silvery blazer that had laid beneath.

After a few moments spent fumbling with his multiple layers, Sunday was now stripped down to his dark turtleneck.

Your eyes fell upon the sight of the dark blue, wing-like vest that wrapped itself around his waist, and just as you were about to ask if they were yet another layer he had to remove, you froze once the ‘vest’ had shifted and twitched.

“Are those...?”

Sunday noted your confusion and shook his head, his fingers working diligently to unwrap the clinging, restrictive article of clothing.

What had twitched underneath the vest was a pair of deep purple wings, their plumes matching the pigments of what was strewn beneath you. As beautiful as the appendages were, the difference between their standard of upkeep compared the likes of which rested above his temples were like night and day.

A part of you wondered if, for whatever unspoken reason, he was ashamed of them.

The Halovian tensed under the weight of your prying gaze, trying to relax to force the dormant plumage awake as he averted his sight. “I know what you must be thinking,” he whispered, his voice taut from the effort. “...but I beg of you, please do not pry.”

Your heart ached at the way he struggled with the furled appendages.

“Do you... require assistance?”

“I...” Sunday fussed with the tight wrap once more, before reluctantly nodding. “I suppose.”

Your hands were quick to approach the wings, intent on massaging the tension out of their pinions so that they'd might unfurl.

The very moment a disgruntled, screechy craw from a raven rung from above, however, Sunday had faltered and hastily smoothened his garments back down, urging your hands to shy away.

You turned to face the direction of the sudden disruption, before tilting your head at Sunday, wondering why he seemed so distraught by the avian's call.

“Is there something wrong?”

“Yes, there is something wrong!” Sunday snapped, before his tone softened. “This... this is improper ! To have convinced myself to allow you to touch my primary wings was one thing, but this...” his voice broke off as he glanced down at his unsightly feathers. “...this... I truly never should've...”

A frown etched itself upon your lips at his sudden change of heart.

“I’m sorry, sir. I know a Halovian's wings are...” you hesitated, vividly recalling the multiple times he had recoiled at your touch. “...sensitive. I’ve studied handbooks once before, and-”

Surprise briefly flashed in his eyes at your admission, before his face hardened into a disapproving scowl the moment he interrupted you.

“You mean to tell me that you’ve studied handbooks upon such a topic, and yet still, you allow yourself to willingly fall victim to the whims of compliance over my foolish fallacies?” he sputtered, his tone abrasive. “You should've stopped me, for heaven’s sake!”

Irked by the criticism, you, too, began to bristle.

“If this truly is so wrong in your eyes, then did you really ever wish for my assistance?”

Startled by the bite in your words, Sunday bit back any further protests, swallowing down his anxious ire. Loneliness had been his home for so long, and your touch was nearly a dangerous siren's call—he couldn't truly bear the thought of losing such a privilege.

The puffed up, bristling feathers of Sunday’s higher wings smoothened themselves back down as he steadied himself, flexing his fingers against his palms.

“Please, just get on with it.”

“Thank you.” you whispered before leaning forward, your hands delicately palming the fragile cartilage of his wings as you tried to help them unbind themselves. Reluctantly, Sunday flexed them against your touch, trying to encourage them to spread.

“Still, this is all so... terribly insolent,” Sunday muttered through gritted teeth.

You stilled your efforts, desperately wishing you knew why he was so resistant to your assistance.

“Are you absolutely certain you want me to do this?”

Sunday winced from the loss of motion, the loss of blissful touch against the very surface that yearned for it, no less, and he was far too quick to nod his head.

“Yes, of course. Loathe as I am to confess such a thing, this... truly is a process that must be done,” he replied, his breath wavering. “It’s hardly your fault that I’ve been so... neglectful.”

As your hands tenderly helped work the cartilage to awaken, massaging the spots you figured must’ve been sore, it only took moments later for them to finally loosen from their protective stance.

Dark, raven-like wings, pigmented like the glimmering skies of midnight, had blossomed forth from Sunday’s sides and splayed themselves before you. Battered and bristled as they were, they were nonetheless a breathtaking view.

As the deep purple plumages fanned themselves out like curtains, you gaped with pity at the sight of the clipped plumes, the multiple defects marring an otherwise symmetrical pair of wings. A remark formulated itself upon your tongue, but died upon your lips once Sunday acknowledged your staring with a slight grimace, as if he could guess what you were nearly about to say.

You continued to stare at his fragile feathers with unwavering wonder.

“Your wings are truly beautiful, sir.” you whispered adoringly.

Sunday turned around to bare his back before you instead, swift enough to conceal the rush of both shame and bashfulness that had abruptly invaded his features.

Gently, you reached your hand forth and tentatively brushed against his plumage.

“Careful.” Sunday reminded you with a slight wince.

You nodded at his warning and reached for the cloth with your other hand, dabbing the damp material against any dried spots of blood where his plumes had fallen out, before placing it back down after you finished tending to them.

Your touch was light, delicate, as your fingertips mapped a path forged by concern against the surface of his wings, seeking out any broken feathers as you sought to soothe as many of his aches as you could.

Unbeknownst to you, your very touch was both a soothing balm for Sunday’s miseries and a temptatious instigator for a stirring within his very core.

Brushing past a sore spot located at the starting muscles of his wings had ripped a soft gasp from Sunday’s throat, and quickly, you stopped.

“Does it hurt?” you asked quietly.

“No, no, just...” he breathed out, distracting himself by how heavenly your hands had felt. “If you would just kindly massage them, that'd be-”

Before he could finish his sentence, you worked your thumbs carefully against the cartilage's base, inadvertently rendering him silent, save for a few tender, wavering breaths.

Your hands worked practical miracles against the bothersome likes of his tension, snuffing them out by the source as they brushed up and down the entirety of his wingspan, your body pressed close to his for better grounds.

As your breath cascaded upon the back of his neck, your fingers delved deeper against his muscles. “I hope this is enough...”

Sunday swallowed thickly at your closeness. “Oh, dearest assistant, you...” he paused, clearing his throat. “You haven’t the faintest idea how much of a blessing this is to me.”

Slowly but surely, Sunday’s ever faithful front of ‘perfection’ had bared its frayed threads before you and unraveled itself by its fragile seams, leaving the fate of his precious, oft-concealed vulnerability within your tender hands.

Every trembling breath at each pass of your hands, along with every visible tremor of his bones in wake of your care, had clawed further at your heart, constricting its cage with concern.

Weathered down by his responsibilities and blemished by the expectations placed upon his shoulders as he was, it was clear that he was blind to how thin he had worn down the wick of his perseverance—the very structure of his charitable soul.

Finally satisfied with the sight of relaxed feathers displayed before your very eyes, your hands had retreated back to your sides, and as sudden awareness of your close proximity washed over you like a rebuking flood, you hastily moved yourself away.

Sunday had turned around to face you, his pale skin flushed as he shifted his weight from side to side. The moonlight that filtered through the Pavilion's windows seemed to enhance his ethereal beauty, the glow of the evening catching upon his halo and permitting it to shimmer like an ever-glittering star.

“I must ask,” Sunday began quietly, his gaze fleeting about the room, from the candle, to the barely-sipped cup of tea, even to the untouched plate of strawberries. “Why did you do this all for me? Surely, there must be something you need in exchange...”

You shook your head and frowned at his words. Why did he believe an act of goodwill had such a price to pay?

With so many words you wanted to say and a plethora of woes over his wellbeing you wanted to profess, you held your tongue and swallowed down the bitter medley of trepidation, fearful of shattering the tenderness that graced this rare moment of solitude.

Surely, one day, there would come an opportunity where you could properly formulate all of your thoughts, but this night was far from being that night.

“It’s just that you’ve been working tirelessly these past few days in preparation for the Charmony Festival,” you began, eying the stack of paperwork that laid in a neat pile upon his desk, before turning back to him. “...and it seems to be my obligation to at least try to remind you to take a break.”

“I’m sure I would’ve remembered to take one eventually...” Sunday protested weakly, as if he himself hadn't believed his words.

You chuckled, shaking your head. “Perhaps, once you’ve finally burnt yourself out.”

Sunday’s head wings lowered themselves with a meek display of shame upon being put under such conviction.

As his eyes flitted away from yours, far too sheepish to meet your perceptive gaze, you took a step forward and, without much thought behind your all too forward actions, you wrapped your arms delicately around his waist.

Feeling your familiar touch snake around his sides as it enveloped him into a warm, blissful embrace, Sunday stiffened.

You gulped as he tensed against your grasp.

“Forgive me,” you whispered an apology against his chest, careful to not overwhelm him with any further skin contact. “...you just looked as if you needed one.”

Sunday took a few moments to steady his breathing before responding. “I... suppose I did.”

You watched as, with trembling footsteps, Sunday dragged you both backwards, before stopping to allow himself to sit back down in his chair.

His gloved hands clenched at his sides before finding purchase on the tops of your shoulders, pushing you down so that you'd settle against his lap—adjusting you accordingly so it wouldn't look conspicuous—before finally reciprocating the hug.

Completely unsure of what to do with his hands, Sunday had freed one of them to lift your head up with a shaky palm, his cold glove a soothing touch against your chin.

With ever-softening glances being exchanged, the weight of so many unspoken confessions had hung in the balance of the room's silence, but to your surprise, you hardly minded at all. Sunday’s eyes were briefly drawn to your lips before he forced himself out of his stupor, resisting the deafening call of the tender temptation with a soft clearance of his throat.

It was for the best, however—you really weren't sure if you could've resisted the notion of leaning forward yourself.

You were startled as the top of Sunday's head brushed against the underside of your chin, leaning his face down so he could rest the side of his cheek against your chest, breathing softly as he melded himself close to you, cocooning you both together within the vast expanse of his wings.

“I... I truly thank the heavens upon every moment I remember that you're in my life,” Sunday murmured fondly.

Ignoring the abrupt, intrusive flutter in your chest, your arms strengthened the secure hold they possessed against his form.

“I feel much the same, Sunday.”

In the silence of the night, you held each other close, the beat of your own synchronized hearts as you clung to one another the only melody worth dwelling upon.

Even if you couldn't outright plead for him to be more mindful of his limits and capabilities—that his singular light was not enough to shoulder the burdens he subjected himself to, let alone be strong enough illuminate the entire sky—you were grateful that in your arms, he could find his ever-fleeting, redeeming solace.

In that moment, it was enough.

It had to be enough.

#imagines #honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail imagines #hsr sunday #sunday #hsr sunday x reader #sunday x reader #sunday hsr

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hanafubukki · 4 months ago

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“I’ll remember you though. I remember everyone that leaves”

Not only does Malleus have similarities with Stitch but also Lilo.

With Stitch, as Lilia pointed out, Stitch is cute and strong and people misunderstands him. They see Stitch and judge him right away for an abomination. They don’t want to get to know him. He’s reminded of Malleus and thinks they’ll get along.

Not only that, Lilia’s beach ssr is the card we learn why Lilia loves cooking. Why he learns to cook. How he learns to slow down and enjoy food with others because of Malleus. His family.

Then you get Lilo. She lost both her parents and was raised by her sister. People misunderstood her. She thought she was the cause of her parents death/played a role.

The parallels with Malleus are there. Malleus lost both his parents. He’s raised by Lilia, who was limited in what he could do just like Lilo’s sister, Nani, because she had to juggle work and Lilo. (Lilia has to sneak in/summoned, helps forge the treaty, helps Malleus get dressed, sing him to sleep, taught him, etc).

But now? There’s also the guilt.

Lilo believes it’s her fault that her parents died because she didn’t feed Pudge that day. She appeases Pudge by feeding him so it won’t happen again. So there won’t be anymore accidents.

And you know who else has this guilt! Who hasn’t accepted what his hatching means to Lilia? Malleus Draconia.

He sees how his birth brings happiness to Lilia and he rejects it. He instead offers Lilia a happy dream. With his parents alive. With Silver. Anyone but him.

He has this guilt. He knows the truth. He believe he’s the reason for it just like Lilo believes. He doesn’t want Lilia to die especially now that he knows that he’s the reason why. He doubles down on trying to give him a happy dream without suffering.

Because Lilia is part of his family and, “You don’t let family die. You don’t ever.”

That is exactly what Malleus is doing right now. He’s not going let him or anyone he loves die. He, like Lilo with Pudge, doesn’t want anyone to go through that loss.

As Malleus said, “all I ever do is lose one thing after another. Everyone eventually gets up from the table and leaves me behind in the end.” And just like Lilo, he’ll remember them. He remembers each one that leaves.

Ohana means family, family means no one gets left behind or forgotten, but in Malleus’s case how much of that is true?

He’ll never forget his family. He’ll always love them even after they are long gone. They are always in his thoughts. But he, for all his powers and status, he’s always the one left behind and forgotten, isn’t he?

All he’s trying to do right now though, is make sure no one feels the same pain he does. Like Lilo with Pudge.

***in case it’s not known, the “underlined” sections are hyperlinks. Please click on them for more painful context😘 🫶***

#That Lost in the Book with Stitch event haunts me even now.#malleus draconia #twst malleus draconia #lilia vanrouge #twisted wonderland #diasomnia #twst book 7 #twst lilia vanrouge #twst analysis #twst character analysis #lost in the book with stitch #disney twisted wonderland #twst lilia #twst malleus

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literary-illuminati · 1 year ago

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Book Review 68 - Babel by R. F. Kuang

Overview

I came to Babel with extremely little knowledge about the actual contents of the book but a deep sense of all the vibes swirling around its reception – that it was robbed of a Hugo nomination (if the author didn’t outright refuse it), that it’s probably the single buzziest and most Important sf/f release of 2022, that it was stridently political, and plenty more besides. I also went in having mostly enjoyed The Poppy War series and being absolutely enamoured by the elevator pitch of an alternate history Industrial Revolution where translation is literally magic. And, well-

It is wrong to say I hated this book, but only because keeping track of my complaints and starting organize this review in my head was entertaining enough to keep me invested in the reading experience.

The story is set in an alternate 1830s, where the rise of the British Empire relies upon the dominance of its translators, as it is the mixture of translation and silverworking, the inscription of match-pairs in different languages on bars of worked silver and the leveraging of the ambiguity and loss of meaning between them that fuels the world’s magic. The protagonist is pluckted from his childhood home in Canton after his family dies in a cholera outbreak and whisked away to the estate of Professor Lowell, an Oxford translator he quickly realized is his unacknowledged father. He’s made to choose an English name (Robin Swift) and raised and tutored as a future translator in service to the Empire.

The meat of the story is focused on Robin’s education in Oxford, his relationship with the rest of his cohort, and his growing radicalization and entanglement with the revolutionary Hermes Society. Things come to a head when in his fourth year the cohort is sent back to Canton to, well, help provoke the first Opium War, though none of them aware of that. The final act follows the fallout of that, by which I mean it lives up to the full title of “Or the Necessity of Violence: An Arcane History of the Oxford Translators' Revolution”.

To be clear, this was technically a very accomplished book. The writing never dragged and the prose was, if not exactly lyrical, always clear and often evocative. Despite the breadth of space and time the story covers, I never had any complaints about the pacing – and honestly, the ending was, dramatically speaking, one of the more natural and well-executed ones I’ve read recently. It’s very well-constructed.

All that being said – allow me to apologize for how the rest of this is mostly just going to be a litany of complaints. But the book clearly believes itself to be an important and meaningful work of political art, which means I don’t feel particularly bad about holding it to high standards.

Narrative Voice

To start with, just, dear god the tone. This is a book with absolutely zero faith in its audience’s ability to reach their own conclusions, or even follow the symbolism and implication it lays down. Every important point is stated outright, repeated, and all but bolded and underlined. In this book set in 1830s England there are footnotes fact-checking the imperialists talking heads to, I guess, make sure we don’t accidentally become convinced by their apologia for the slave trade? Everything is just relentlessly didactic, in a way that ended up feeling rather insulting even when I agreed with the points Kuang was making.

More than that, and this is perhaps a more subjective complaint but – for an ostensible period piece, the narrative voice and perspective just felt intensely modern? This was theoretically an omniscient third person book, with the narrative voice being pretty distinct from any of the actual characters – with the result that the implicit narrator was instead the sort of person of spends six hours a day getting into arguments on twitter and for this effort calls themselves a progressive activist. The identities of all the characters – as delivered by the objective narration – were all very neat and legible from the perspective of someone at a 2022 HR department listing how diverse their team was, which was somewhere between a tragic lost opportunity to show how messy and historical racial/ethnic/national identities are and outright anachronistic, depending. (This was honestly one of the bigger disappointments, coming from Kuang’s earlier work. Say what you will of The Poppy War series, the narration is with Rin all the way down, and it trusts the reader enough not to blink.) More than that it was just distracting – the narration ended up feeling like an annoying obstacle between me and the story, and not in any fun postmodern way either.

Characters

Speaking of the cast – they simply do not sound or feel like they actually grew up in the 19th century. Now, some modernization of speech patterns and vocabulary and moral commensense is just the price of doing business with mass market period pieces, granted, but still – no 19th century Anglo-Indian revolutionary is going use the phrase ‘Narco-military state’ (if for no other reason than we’re something like a century early for ‘narco-state’ to be coined as a term at all). An even beyond feeling out of time most of the characters feel kind of thinly sketched?

Or no, it’s not that the characters are thinly sketched so much as their relationships are. We’re repeatedly, insistently told that these four students are fast friends and closer than family and would happily die for each other, but we’re very rarely actually shown it. This is partly just a causality of trying to skim over a four-year university education in the middle third of one book, I think, but still – the good times and happy moments are almost always sort of skimmed over, summarized in the course of a paragraph or two that usually talk in terms of memories and consequences more than the relationships themselves. The points of friction and the arguments, meanwhile, are usually played out entirely on the page, or at least described in much more detail. In the end you kind of have to just take it as read that any of these people actually love each other, given that at least two of them seem to be feuding at any given point for the entire time they know each other.

Letty deserves some special attention. She’s the only white member of Robin’s cohort at Babel and she honestly feels like less of acharacter and more a collection of tropes about white women in progressive spaces? Even more than the rest, it’s hard to believe the rest of the class views her as beloved ride-or-die found family when essentially every time she’s on screen it’s so she can do a microagression or a white fragility or something. Also, just – you know how relatively common it is to see just, blatantly misogynistic memes repackaged as anti-racist because it specifies ‘white women’? There’s a line in this that almost literally says ‘Letty wasn’t doing anything to disprove the stereotype of woman as uselessly emotional and hysteric’.

Also, she’s the one who ends up betraying the other three and trying to turn them in when they turn revolutionary. Which is probably inevitable given the book’s politics, but as it happened felt like less of the shocking betrayal that it was supposed to be and more just, checking off a box for a dramatic reverse. Of course she turned on them, none of them ever really seemed to even like each other.

As a Period Piece

So, the book is set in the 1830s, in the midst of the industrial revolution and its social fallout, and the leadup to the First Opium War (which is, through the magic of, well, magic ,but also mercantilist economics, make into a synecdoche for British global dominion more broadly). On the one hand, the setting is impeccably researched, recent and relevant historical events are referenced whenever they would come up, and the footnotes are full to bursting with quotes and explanations of texts or cultural ephemera that’s brought up in the narration.

On the other, the setting doesn’t feel authentic in the slightest, the portrayal of the British Empire is bizarrely inconsistent, and all that richly researched historical grounding ends up feeling less like a living world and more like a particularly well-down set for a Doctor Who episode.

The story is incredibly focused around Oxford as a city and a university. There’s a whole author’s note about the research and slight changes made into its geography and I absolutely believe its portrayal as a physical location and the laws about how women were treated and how the different colleges were organized and all that is exactly as accurate as Kuang wanted them to be. The issue is really the people. With the exception of a few cartoonish villains who barely get more than a couple pages apiece, no one feels, sounds like, or acts like they actually belong in the 19th century. The racism the protagonists struggle with all feels much more 21st century than Victorian, and the frame of mind everyone inhabits still comes across more as ‘unusually blatantly racist Englishman’ than 19th century scholars and polymaths.

This is especially blatant as far as religion goes. It’s occasionally mentioned, sure enough, but to the extent anyone actually believes in Christianity it’s of a very modern and disenchanted sort – this is a society that sends out missionaries as a conscious tool of colonial expansion, not because of anything as silly or absurd as actually wanting to spread their gospel. Also like, it’s Oxford, in the nineteenth century. For all the racism the protagonists have to deal with, they should be getting so much more shit from ‘well-meaning’ locals and students trying to save their (one Muslim, one atheist, one probably Christian but black and protective of Haitian Vodou on a cultural level which would be more than enough) souls.

Or, and this is more minor, it is a central conceit of the whole finale that if a few (like, two) determined revolutionaries can infiltrate Babel they’ll be able to take the entire place hostage with barely any trouble. This is because the students and professors there are, basically, whimpy bookworms who’ll faint at the sight of blood and have no stomach for the sort of violence their work actually supports and drives. Which – look, I really don’t want to defend the ruling class of Victorian Britain here, but I’m not sure physical cowardice is really one of their failings, as a group? I mean, there’s an entire system of institutionalized child abuse in the boarding schools they went to to get them used to taking and dealing out violence and abuse. Basically every upper-class sport is thinly disguised military drill or ritual combat (okay, or rowing). Half of them would graduate to immediately running off and invading places for the glory of the queen. I’m not sure two sleep-deprived nerds with knives would actually have been able to cow the crowd here, is what I’m saying. (This would stick out less if the text wasn’t so dripping with contempt for them on precisely these grounds.)

Much less minor are our heroic revolutionaries themselves. And okay, this is more a matter of taste than anything but like – the Hermes Society is an illegal conspiracy of renegade current and former Babel scholars dedicated to using their knowledge of magic and access to university resources to oppose and undermine the British Empire in general and the work of the school in particular. Think Metternich’s worse nightmare, but in Oxford instead of Paris and focused on colonial liberation (continental Europe barely exists for the purposes of the book, Britain is Empire.) So! A secret society of professional revolutionaries in the heydey of just that, with a name that just has to be Hermetic symbolism, who concern themselves with both high politics and metaphysics.

They are just so very, very boring. This is the age of the Conspiracy of the Equals, the Carbonari, the Seasons! The literal Illumanti are still within living memory! Where’s the pageantry, the ritual, the grandiosity? The elaborate initiation rituals and oaths of undying loyalty? They’re so pragmatic, so humble, so (and I know I keep coming back to this) modern. It’s just such an utter wasted opportunity. Even beyond the level of aesthetics, these are revolutionaries with remarkably little positive ideology – the oppose colonialism and racism for reasons they take as self-evident and so don’t feel the need to theorize about it (and talk about them with the vocabulary of a modern activist, because of course they do), but they’re pretty much consciously agnostic as to what world should look like instead. They vaguely end up supporting a sort of petty-bourgeois socialism (in the Marxist sense), but the alliance with Luddites is essentially political convenience – they really don’t seem to have any vision of the future at all, either in England or the various places they claim as homelands.

On Empire and Industrialization

The story is set during the early nineteenth century, so of course the Industrial Revolution is a pretty core part of the background. The Silver Industrial Revolution, technically, since the Babellers translation magic is in this world a key and load-bearing part of it. Despite the addition of miracle-working enhancers and supports to its fundamental technology, the industrial revolution plays out pretty identically to history – right down to the same cities becoming hubs of industry, despite steam engines using enchanted silver instead of coal and thus, presumably, the entire economic and logistical system that brought this particular cities to prominence being totally unrecognizable. This is not a book that’s in any way actually about tracing how something would change history – which isn’t a complaint, to be clear, that’s a perfectly valid creative choice.

It does, however, make it rather galling that the single actually significant difference to history is that the introduction of magic turns the industrial revolution into a Legend of Zelda boss with a giant glowing weak point you can hit to destroy the whole enterprise.

On a narrative level, I get it – it simplifies things and allows for a far happier and more dramatic ending if destroying Babel is not just a symbolic act but also literally sends London Bridge falling down and scuttles the entire royal navy and every mill and factory in Britain. It’s just that I think that by doing so it trades away any chance for actually making interesting commentary on anti-colonial and -capitalist resistance. A world where a single act of spectacular terrorism really can destroy a modern empire is frankly so detached from our world that it ceases to be able to really materially comment upon it.

Like, the principle reason to not take the Luddites as your role models is not that they were morally vicious but that they were doomed – capitalism’s ability to repair damage to infrastructure and fixed goods is legitimately very impressive! Trying to force an entire ruling class not to adopt a technology that makes whoever commits to it tremendous amounts of money (thus, power) is a herculean task even when you have a state apparatus and standing army – adding an ‘off’ button to the lot of it just trades all sense of relevance for a satisfyingly cathartic ending.

(This is leaving untouched how the book just takes it as a given that the industrial revolution was a strictly immiserating force that did nothing but redistribute money from artisans to capitalists. Which certainly tracks as something people at the time would have thought but given how resolutely modern all the other politics in the work are rings really weirdly.)

All of which is only my second biggest issue with how the book presents its successful resistance movement. It all pales in comparison to making the Empire a squeamish paper tiger.

Like, the book hates colonialism in general and the British Empire in particular, the narrative and footnotes are filled with little asides about various atrocities and injustices and just ways it was racist or complicit in some particular atrocity. But more than that it is contemptuous of it, it views the empire as (as the cliche goes) a perpetually rotting edifice that just needs one good kick; that it persists only through the myth of its own invincibility, and has no stomach for violent resistance from within. Which is absolutely absurd, and the book does seem to know it on occasion when it off-handedly mentions e.g. the Peterloo Massacre – but a character whose supposed to be the grizzled cynical pragmatic revolutionary still spouts off about how slave rebellions succeed because their masters aren’t willing to massacre their own property. Which is just so spectacularly wrong on every axis its actually almost offensive.

More importantly, the entire final act of the story relies upon the fact that the British Empire would allow a handful of foreign students seize control of a vital piece of infrastructure for weeks on end and do nothing but try to wait them out as the national physically falls apart around them. Like, c’mon, there would be siege artillery set up and taking shots by the end of week two. As with the Oxford students, the Victorian elite had all manner of flaws – take your pick, really – but squeamishness wasn’t really one of them.

On Magic

So the magical system underlying the whole story is – you know how Machinaries of Empire makes imperial ideology and metaphysics literally magical, giving expert technicians the ability to create superweapons and destroy worlds provided that the Hexarchate’s subjects observe the imperial calendar of rites and celebrate its triumphs/participate in rituals glorying in the torture of its ‘heretics’? It’s not exactly a subtle metaphor, but it works.

Babel does something similar, except the foundational atrocity fueling the engine of empire on a metaphysical level is, like, cultural appropriation. As an organizing metaphor, I find this less compelling.

Leaving that aside, the story makes translation literally capable of miracle-working – which of necessity requires making ‘languages’ distinct natural categories with observable metaphysical boundaries. It then sets the story in the 19th century – the era of newborn nation states and education systems and national literatures, where the concept of the national-linguistic community was the obsession of the entire European intelligentsia. Now this is not a book concerned with how the presence of magic would actually have changed history, in the slightest, but like – given how fascinated it is by translation and linguistics you’d think the whole ‘a language is a dialect with a navy’ cliché would at least get a light mention (but then the book doesn’t really treat language as any more inherent or natural than it does any other modern identity category, I suppose.)

As an Allegory

Okay, so having now spent an embarrassing number of words establishing to my own satisfaction that the book really doesn’t work at all as a period piece, let us consider; what if it wasn’t trying to be?

A great many things about the book just fit much better if you take it as a commentary on the modern university with Victorian window-dressing. Certainly the driving resentment of Oxford as an institution that sustains itself and grows rich off the exploitation of international students it considers second-class seems far more apt applied to contemporary elite western schools than 19th century ones. Likewise the racism the heroes face all seems like the kind you’d expect in a modern English town rather than a Victorian one. I’m not well-versed enough on the economics of the city to know for sure, but I would wager that the gleeful characterization of Oxford as a city that literally starts falling to ruin without the university to support it was also less accurate in the 1830s than it is today.

Read like this, everything coheres much better – but the most striking thing becomes the incredible vanity of the book. This is a morality tale where the natural revolutionary vanguard with the power to bring global hegemony to its knees through nothing but witholding their labour are..students at elite western universities (not, I must say, a class I’d consider in dire need of having their egos boosted). The emotions underlying everything make much more sense, but the plot itself becomes positively myopic.

Beyond that – if this is a story about international students at elite universities, it does a terrible job of actually portraying them. Or, properly, it only shows a certain type; just about every foreign-born student or professor we meet is some level of revolutionary, deeply opposed in principle to the empire they work within. No one is actually convinced by the carrot of a life as an exploited but exceedingly comfortable and well-compensated technician in the imperial core, and there’s not really acknowledgement at all of just how much of the apparatus of international institutions and governments in the global south – including positions with quite a bit of real power – end up being staffed by exactly that demographic who just sincerely agree with the various ideological projects employing them. Kuang makes it far too easy on herself by making just about every person of colour in the books one of the good guys, and totally undersells how convincing hegemonic ideology can be, basically.

The Necessity of Violence

This is a pet peeve and it’s a very minor thing that I really wouldn’t bring it up if that wasn’t literally part of the title. But it is, so – it’s a plot point that’s given a decent amount of attention that Griffin (Robin’s secret older brother, grizzled professional revolutionary, his introduction to anti-colonialism) is blamed for murdering one of his classmates who had the bad luck to be studying while he was sneaking in to steal some silver – a student that was quite well-loved by the faculty and her very successful classmates, who have never forgiven him. Later on, it’s revealed that this is an utter rewriting of history, and she’d been a double agent pretending to let herself be recruited into the Hermes Society who’d been luring Griffin into an ambush when he killed her and escaped.

This is – well, the most predictable not-even-a-twist imaginable, for one, but also – just rank cowardice. You titled the book ‘the necessity of violence’, the least you can do is actually own it and show that violent resistance means people (with faces, and names, not just abstractions only ever talked about in general terms) who are essentially personally innocent are going to end up collateral damage, and people are going to hold grudges about it. Have some courage in your convictions!

Translation

Okay, all of that said, this isn’t a book that’s wholly bad, or anything. In particular, you can really tell how much of a passion Kuang has for the art and science of translation. The depth of knowledge and eagerness to share just about overflows from the page whenever the book finds an excuse to talk about it at length, and it’s really very endearing. The philosophizing about translation was also as a rule much more interesting and nuanced then whenever the book tried to opine about high politics or revolutionary tactics.

Anyways, I really can’t recommend the book in any real way, but it did stick in my head for long enough that I’ve now written 4,000 words about it. So at the very least it’s the interesting sort of bad book, y’know?

#book review #babel #r. f. kuang #sff #lesbian space atrocities #-ish #hatermode

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 1 year ago

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The Farmer's Daughter 2

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Walter Marshall

Summary: You notice a peculiar change in a family friend. (short!reader, sorry size kink is out)

Part of the Backwoods AU

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

Your dad sits in the worn-out recliner, silent as the radio buzzes on an AM station. Your mother places a glass of water next to him but he doesn't acknowledge her. You've never seen him like this. Your dad's always been lively, often talking back to the radio. But now, he's like a shell, just staring.

"The rehab nurse will come tomorrow," your mom nears, "he just needs some rest for now."

You nod and back out of the room, a grim coldness in the air despite the warmth of spring flowing in from open windows. You enter the kitchen as your mother trails after you. Without a word, she flips on the burner beneath the blackened silver kettle. You lean on the square island and trace a finger around a ring in the wood.

"Do they know how it happened?" You ask.

"A clot. They say... things like that are hard to catch," she sniffs, "but it doesn't matter now. All that matters is he's home and alive and... he's going to get better."

"I'm sorry, ma," you frown.

You cup your chin and glance over at the door. When you looked in your father's eyes, it was as if he didn't know you. He just smiled weakly then went back to staring. What happened to man who used to jump down from his tractor to the dismay of his wife?

"We'll have to figure out what to do about the planting," your mother hums and chews her thumb. She pulls her hand away and stretches out her fingers, "Timothy's done a lot but... we'll never catch up at this pace."

"I can help," you offer, "ma, we'll make it work."

"No, I need you in here," she counters, "I'll be taking care of your dad. The hospital gave me all these pamphlets; exercises and all that..." she blows out a heavy breath and flattens her palm to her forehead, "how am I going to do all this?"

"Ma, we'll all help," you offer, "it's okay. We'll be okay. Dad will be okay."

You come around the counter and offer a hug. She latches onto you and rocks you in place. As she holds you, a rumble underlines the chatter on the radio humming from the front room.

You part and look over at the open archway to the hallway. You glance at your mother and give a nod. Visitors already.

You go down to the entry way, wondering where Timothy went. He was just out on the porch fiddling with some car part or another. You open the door and lean back on a heel as Walter greets you with a nod.

"Hey, hope I'm not... imposing."

"Um, dad just got home. He's..." you peek over at the front room, "resting."

"Of course, I figured, I just wanted to drop this off," he holds up the basket in his right hand, "had some extra stuff in my pantry."

"Oh, Mr. Marshall," you accept the basket, "thank you. You didn't have to--"

"Walt," he corrects.

"Walter," your mother's voice carries through the hall as she pads up softly, "oh, Walter, how kind."

She looks at the basket as you grasp the handle and Walter lets it go, the weight nearly bowling you over. You do your best to keep it above ground level.

"Heavy," he warns too late.

"Please, come in," your mother beckons.

"I wouldn't want to disturb him," Walter puts his head down, almost meekly. "Just wanted to bring some stuff."

"No, no, please, I just put the kettle on."

"Uh, alright," he accepts reticently. "Thanks, Maddie."

"Not at all," she assures and turns to sweep back down the hall.

He steps in and bends to untie his stained tan boots. He leaves them on the mat and faces you. You give an awkward smile and take stunted steps with the weighty basket.

"Here," he swipes it back as he catches up to you, "don't hurt yourself."

You let him have it. Your arm hurts. He follows you into the kitchen and places the basket on the island as you round to the other side.

"Black tea?" Your mother offers.

"Sure," he stands sternly, arms straight, stance wide.

She takes down three cups as you languish in radio's buzz. You never said much more than a few words to Walter. Walt. He never says too much either, he was always just a sounding board for your father's yammering.

"God!" The back door swings open and hits the wall, causing you and your mother to yelp as Walter merely looks over dully. Your brother clamours in and skids to a halt.

"Timmy, the floor," your mother reproaches.

"Dang it, sorry ma," he huffs, "I just... the tractor's smoking."

"What?" You and your mother stammer in unison.

"Yeah, black shit all out the exhaust."

"I'll have a look," Walter offers.

"Oh, hey, Walter," Timothy grins dumbly.

"You're so kind, Walter, but we can get Vol down here--"Don't bother with the bill," Walter shrugs off, "I'll get my boots."

Your mother sighs and you shake your head at Timothy. She might just be right. There's no way the three of you can get the spring planting done, especially if he's going to treat the tractor like one of his dinky cars he played with as a kid.

#series #au #backwoods au #walter marshall #dark walter marshall #dark!walter marshall #walter marshall x reader #the farmer's daughter #night hunter #drabble

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true-blue-sonic · 2 months ago

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Wavelength

Summary: Sonic just wants to go on a date. Too bad Silver isn't so adept at picking up on hints and flirting.

Words: ~1500

(Thanks to @siggiedraws for the idea! ^-^)

☆☆☆☆☆

“I was just wondering: what’s your opinion on tomatoes?”

Calmly Sonic pads over twisting roads and past lush greenery, on the outskirts of some city he’d happened to crash into a good friend in. A hectic morning of adventuring had given way to a lazier afternoon of cuddling Chao in hidden gardens and holding fruit-eating competitions while exploring with no care in the world, but that latter half of the day had given Sonic ample time to think about how to spend the evening. A sudden desire had given way to more extensive plotting, beginning with this question: an innocent question in itself, but beyond it the Blue Blur’s got plans. Big plans, fun plans, exciting plans; plans that Sonic aims will give rise to a fun hanging-out with something more.

Specifically, a fun hanging-out with something more with Silver, who’s finally in this era again after weeks of Sonic not seeing him and who rubs his chin most pensively at the question.

“Tomatoes,” the psychic muses, beholding the sky with a deep frown underlining his pondering. Funny how for some things Silver has his opinion ready before he even knows what’s being asked, while for others, for smaller things like his opinion on tomatoes, his thoughts take far longer to form. It’s mesmerising to look at, Sonic smiles to himself as golden eyes flick over to him again. “They’re nice, and apparently they’re very healthy to eat. I like the sweet ones.”

Bingo, Sonic grins. Hook, line, and sinker; his plans for a hanging-out, or rather a date, are setting themselves up masterfully. And thus the speedster leans in most suavely, one arm wrapping around Silver’s shoulders with a casual looseness as if it’s found itself there by sheer accident. “That’s great to hear. You got any plans for the evening?”

“No, nothing. You?”

“Well, I’m getting hungry,” the speedster presents as if it still was that mere sudden desire and not the extensive plotting he’s been busying himself with for the better part of an hour or so. “So I was thinking… You, me, Spagonia, and the finest cuisine it has to offer. Sounds like fun?”

Silver’s ears twitch curiously. “It’s been a while since I’ve been to Spagonia.”

“Indeed, and that was for the Grand Prix. We didn’t go out for dinner,” Sonic continues with the casual-but-suave-and-flirty development of his ploy… before blinking at a little laugh.

“Dinner?” Silver repeats, lips tugging up. “Yeah, of course not! We were busy with racing.”

Stifling a snort in turn Sonic nods. “But we’re not anymore. And it’s not as if Dodon Pa fed us any of the tasty things you can get in the art capital of the world. Food is also an art, after all. And art exists to be shared, don’t you think?”

“You know that better than I do,” the more callous response comes. “I wouldn’t know where to go get food that’s art at the same time. Or that that is a thing, apparently.”

With his grin carefully contained as to not make Silver suspicious the speedster makes a grand gesture with his free hand. “Not to worry! I know the perfect place to get a full meal, plus dessert on top. And with sweet tomatoes: lots of them, if you like them so much.”

“Oh,” Silver hums.

And promptly teasing sparks of cyan make the speedster’s nose flick.

“Hey!” Sonic protests, hand shooting up to grab his poor abused schnoz as he stares at Silver. “What’s that for?”

Silver grins back at him, a glowing finger prodding at Sonic’s nose anew. “Sonic, listen,” the psychic chuckles… and, where Sonic had been elaborately leaning to the side to escape the sneeze-inducing sensation, Silver’s next words make him crash into a full halt immediately. “I appreciate that you’re worried about what I’m eating, but I’m fine. I’m eating lots of healthy stuff these days,” his friend smiles, warmly and with zero hints he understands just why Sonic’s asking things in the way he is.

Sonic can’t help but blink owlishly in turn.

“Er,” he hums back. The suave grin has long faltered; instead he just stares while scrambling to find something, anything to say. That becomes a: “Uh, yes. That’s good to hear! That you’re eating more healthy. Eating healthy is very important,” and a clearing of his throat to prepare for a new attempt, as his hand laying on Silver's shoulder gives it a gentle squeeze to grab his attention anew. “But-”

“But that means that you don’t need to fret over me,” Silver didactically interrupts. “I don’t want that.”

“I’m not fretting,” Sonic protests, instinctively rubbing his nose at the gentle cool nuzzling him more affectionately now. This is not what he was planning; this has nothing to do anymore with setting up a date! “I’d just, you know… want to go eat together, because that’s always a good time,” he adds, course-correcting as best he can-

Except his hand gets grabbed ever so gently with those psychic sparks, and tugged over to splay against a soft-furred grey stomach.

“That’s true. I like hanging out with you as well.” Carefully Silver lays his own hand over Sonic’s pressing against him, the touch light yet burning through Sonic’s glove with its warmth still. “But you don’t need to be worried about how I’m doing, because I’m okay. Everyone is, because you’re always taking good care of us all, and that includes me. You know that, right?”

“Well… Well, yes, of course! You deserve it, Silver,” Sonic manages to bring out far more awkwardly. Any hint of suaveness has long left him… and he can’t even tell if Silver can tell just what he’s doing to the speedster, grabbing him like that and daring to snort in amusement on top.

“And you also always know where the nice spots to eat are, so I’m happy to come along.”

Standing frozen is so not the right move here; Sonic knows it, the realisation only intensifying at expectant golden eyes looking into his own, and yet it takes multiple seconds more for the gears in his mind to have ground up a decent response this time. “Ah! Then we can go right now, if you want. It’s still a ways to Spagonia, so we gotta hurry if we want to make it in time,” the speedster offers, clearing his throat before pushing his grin back onto his face and pressing his fingers deep into that downy fur. Things already took a nose-dive away from the smoothness he'd been aiming for, so he might as well make Silver laugh. “I can feel just how hungry you are. So empty in here.”

“We had a whole competition to eat Chao fruits,” the dry response of a hedgehog whose sense of humour is far less easily activated than Sonic's gets deadpanned back at him. But that softness that makes Silver’s eyes glow like liquid sunshine shimmers in them still, fingers trailing over Sonic’s before clasping them ever so gently. “But I’d love to,” the hedgehog adds in a murmur; and Sonic’s hand lays in his for just a few seconds more, that go by far too quickly before it’s let go and Sonic’s other hand falls from Silver’s shoulder as he takes to the skies. “Lead the way,” the psychic concludes, laughing at Sonic’s prompt salute before the speedster blasts off.

Amidst blasting off Sonic has to grimace and chuckle alike at the clear heat on his cheeks, his nose getting a final rub to make the tingles on it dissipate. So he needs to rework his hints and clues a lot, the speedster muses in the supersonic silence between them. Or drop them outright and be more up-front with Silver, and just grab him by the shoulders and tell him he wants to go get dinner together for a date. That might be more successful than asking Silver’s stance on tomatoes, and however that made everything spun out of control there.

“Wait. Are we on a date?” Silver asks hours later, when Sonic’s trying his hardest to come up with reasons why Silver should just take the bite of strawberry cake off the speedster’s fork without outright calling it that, and the psychic is very offended when Sonic just breaks out into cackles that he takes whole minutes to recover from. Something about how asking one’s opinions on tomatoes could not possibly be interpreted as a halfway-decent pick-up line, and neither can describing food as art. But the next time if he says either Silver will totally know what he means, Sonic brings up in his defense, and his victory has been claimed when the psychic can’t really argue his way out of that.

“This was a nice date,” Silver murmurs at its end, Sonic chuckling as his tomato-gorged friend flops against him with a huge yawn, and the speedster contently settles in for the night as well with the knowledge that, sudden detours and unexpected revelations aside, his big, fun, exciting plans have been a huge success.

#silver the hedgehog #sonic the hedgehog #sonilver #blue's writing

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not-poignant · 2 months ago

Note

ohhhh omg 5 and 21 for corbyn in uts

5. How far is your OC willing to go to get what they want?

Extremely far.

Like, 'puts self in life-threatening situations to their own detriment' far.

Like, 'might experience lifelong consequences for how far they went to get what they wanted' far.

Like... 'might be a significant part of Underline the Silver actually' far!

21. Does your OC have any illnesses or disorders? How do they handle it?

This is spoilery if I go into detail so all I'm going to say is: Yes to the first question, and we'll have to wait to find out the rest.

But the answer to this question is connected to the answer for the previous question.

From the edgy OCs meme!

#asks and answers #memey goodness #corbyn prince #the raven prince #underline the silver #underline the rainbow #it's definitely a story that's going to have too #chronically ill characters sdaflkjasfdsa #administrator gwyn wants this in the queue

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angellayercake · 9 months ago

Text

Banchetto: Insalata

Papa Emeritus III x Reader

AO3 | Contorno | Masterpost

A caprese salad consists of so few ingredients but as long as they are fresh and ripe they bring the perfect balance. For variety you pick an assortment of tomatoes, blood red heirlooms, green beefsteak and orange roma. The visual appeal of the assorted colours, shapes and texture more than make up for the non traditional choices. Freshly made mozzarella as well, all evenly sliced and then already the preparation is almost complete.

• • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • •

You are reading. Well, you are trying to read but unfortunately the man sitting across from you is proving far too much of a distraction. It was mid morning, breakfast long since eaten and cleared away. You had joined him as you did so often now and it was barely creeping towards time to begin thinking about lunch. Copia had returned your notes and you were still in the process of working through them, adding sticky notes with your amendments into the recipes to help you when time came to make them. That’s what you should be doing at least.

Instead every few seconds you find your gaze pulled back to him. He is also reading, the glasses he only just admitted to needing perched on the end of his nose. They slip further down every time he scrunches his face at whatever it is he is reading and you have lost count of how many times he has paused to push them up carelessly. Every now and then he notices the smudges left by his fingers and removes them completely to wipe them on his handkerchief as he shoots you a smile. He had let his hair air dry this morning so it falls in soft waves over his forehead. The muted sunlight catches in his silver roots every time he pushes his hair out of his eyes. You think to tell him how good he looks at this moment but you don’t want to break the comfortable silence.

It’s sickeningly domestic but you can honestly say you have never been happier. The shift was subtle at first as you had spent a great deal of time in his rooms anyway but in a matter of days that time grew longer and longer until you rarely left on more than an errand from morning to evening. He would ask you to sit with him as he worked, join him for meals, linger in the kitchen as you prepared and even once attempting to help you clean the dishes. That is until he ended up dropping a plate in his inattention, the resounding crash making your heart skip a beat in a much less pleasant way then it usually did around him. You couldn’t even begin to be annoyed with him though, his apologetic puppy eyes forcing you to let him off with only a banishment to the kitchen table and a kiss to the tip of his nose.

Affection was easier now, not always so underlined with that awkward tension you had almost become used to. He liked to touch you. To lace your fingers together across the table when you ate, rest his hand on your waist when you stood together, play with a lock of your hair as you spoke, press a chaste kiss to hand or your cheek in passing. You had been hesitant at first to return his affection so boldly but the way he would glow when you reached for him first, his wide smile emphasising your favourite creases at the corners of his eyes, was enough to override your self consciousness.

There was still tension there, hot little frissons if you look into his eyes a bit too long or his body rests a little too close. Part of you wants to chase it but you no longer felt the need to rush. Although unspoken it seems you both chose to relish in this period of getting to know each other better, talking about your likes, dislikes, views and opinions or just existing in each other's company. It is comfortable in a way you never imagined you could be with him but you are more sure now than ever that ‘Papa Emeritus III’ who had led the Ghost project and the church was only a very superficial part of who he was.

There’s a childlike glee in him every time he tells you stories of his life peppered with ridiculous puns and dorky jokes that feels so far removed from the persona you had thought you had known previously. And yet you can see how he thrived as a performer and took to that role so naturally. He puts his whole self into recreating the tale he is telling with animated hands, exaggerated expressions and often silly voices whether he is talking about his misspent youth, rising through the clergy ranks or his touring adventures. You would start to feel very uninteresting in comparison until he would start to tease stories from you. Your worst cooking disasters that have him crying with laughter and disbelief that you could ever make a potato explode. But when he asks you of your family and your childhood you see a sad wistfulness in his expression that makes your heart hurt and you hope that one day he might open up about some of the harder parts of his life as well.

The tolling of the 11 o’clock bell brings an end to your romantic reverie. It is time to return to reality and begin thinking about lunch. You uncurl yourself from the armchair, your movements capturing his attention. He beckons you towards him with a curled finger as he places his book down on the settee beside him. You should go straight to the kitchen but as he has distracted you all morning anyway what is the harm in a few more minutes. You are sure your eagerness is obvious as before you know it you are sitting in his lap with his arms around you.

‘Where are you off to cara mia,’ he says once you are settled. You slide his glasses up and into his hair, pulling the long fringe out of his face and you can’t resist letting your fingers run through the length until you can play with the strands at the nape of his neck. ‘I have been enjoying you watching me so attentively.’

‘And I was enjoying the view,’ you tease. His deep chuckle rumbles through his chest pleasantly where you are pressed against him. He leans up for a kiss, unable to keep the pleased smile from his face. Your lips ghost over his, barely indulging him but leaning down to continue talking in his ear. ‘I am about to start working on your lunch.’

‘How about an amuse bouche first mia cuocoina?’ He is irresistible when he is like this so you indulge him. You press kisses along a teasing path, his temple, his sharp cheekbone and the tip of his nose before finally reaching his lips. He closes the remaining distance between you impatiently and just as you are about to deepen the kiss a loud knocking rings out through the room. He drops his head against the back of the settee with a huff of annoyance and you have to forcibly remove his hands from your hips for you to be able to get up. You open the door to find a ghoul waiting for you on the other side holding a basket and a note.

‘From Papa Primo, for you Sister.’ They hand it to you before abruptly turning to leave and you see Terzo’s head shoot up in interest as you close the door and turn around.

‘What is he writing to you about?’ He glares over the back of the chair, watching you put the basket down on his desk.

‘Let me open it and I will tell you,’ you retorted. The basket is heavy and you have no doubt that this is yet another offering from Primo’s greenhouses. He hauls himself up from the settee with an exaggerated groan as you unfold the thick paper and read.

Sorella it is about time my brother gets out of his rooms and I suspect you will have more success convincing him then I. If I could prevail on you to make us a light lunch and bring it along with him to the rose garden I would be very appreciative. Secondo and Copia will also be joining us as well as yourself if you would do us the honour.

I will expect you both at noon.

Primo

Terzo. It will be good to see you. Please do not give the sorella any trouble and do as you are bid.

Handing the note to him you dig into the basket. Underneath the fragrant bunches of fresh herbs you find it’s filled to the brim with ripe tomatoes in a variety of sizes and colours, probably hand picked from the vine that very morning.

‘Why do you get a longer note than me?’ He grumbles, squinting at his brother's cursive scrawl, clearly forgetting to drop his glasses back down onto his nose. Circling around him you knock them gently out of his hair so he can at least see even if they land a little crookedly.

‘Lunch is going to be alfresco today,’ you call over your shoulder as you head into the kitchen to get started, not giving him any chance to argue. With less than an hour to prepare this is not going to be your most elaborate creation but you have some freshly made mozzarella and along with Primo’s offering you have an idea that should be perfect.

• • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • •

The dressing for this salad could be as simple as a drizzle of balsamic vinegar but you do prefer to add a little more flavour. To an old jam jar you add olive oil, honey, freshly pressed garlic and of course the main ingredient, balsamic vinegar. Why a jam jar you may ask? Well the trick with a vinaigrette is understanding that the separate ingredients don’t really want to mix together. You can stir it, whisk it, even blend it but unless you are serving it straight away the mixture will begin to separate. You prefer to give it a good shake to mix everything and your trusty jam jar allows you to do that right before the dish is served.

• • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • •

Prepping a quick salad with what Primo had sent you takes around half an hour but you are done with time still to spare. Terzo had disappeared to his bedroom after grumbling to himself about his ‘fratello esigente’ and was yet to return so you took the time to grab some leftovers to make this lunch a little more substantial. There was half a loaf of bread that you sliced up, some stuffed peppers and olives, cuts of ham and cheese and even some pepper taralli that had become a constant request since you had first made them all those weeks ago.

With everything that would fit packed away in the little basket you go to find Terzo who had yet to reappear. Even with the amount of time you were in each other's company you still hadn’t spent more than a few minutes in his bedroom. You understood, you supposed. It was his one sanctuary away from everything but you hoped one day soon he might invite you even there. The door is open when you round the corner and you see him standing before his mirror, a pile of shirts sitting on the bed next to him.

‘I’m ready to go Terzo,’ you say after knocking on the door frame. He turns to you with a frown on his face but your attention is drawn to his open shirt. His dark chest hair and olive skin contrast beautifully with the stark white of the shirt he is trying on. He starts to button it from his mid chest leaving an enticing glimpse but you can see his frustration build as he gets further and further down. His once flat stomach now protrudes slightly from his waistband, not enough to have the buttons pull but the shape of his body is visible. He looks incredible.

‘I can not go out like this cara mia,’ he says, turning back to his reflection to scrutinise his outfit.

‘Why not?’ you ask. You cross the room coming to a stop behind him so you are looking at the same thing he is in the mirror.

‘Look at me,’ he gestures up and down the length of his body before settling his hands where he seems to be most self conscious. You can’t have him thinking he looks anything less than irresistible for even a moment.You wrap your hands around his waist sliding them under his own,where he is holding his belly. You caress the soft swell back and forth while you try and catch his gaze in the reflection.

‘I am and I see a happy healthy man who has enjoyed delicious food made for him by someone who lo .. cares about him very much.’ His eyes flash in surprise before he looks over himself again from your perspective, a smug smile growing on his lips. You hope he is just about to accept your compliment and didn’t catch your little slip but you end that train of thought there.

‘Oh is that so?’ His spark has returned, your compliments feeding his usual confidence in his attractiveness. But there is something else in his expression like he has just figured something out. ‘You like me like this, eh?’

‘I like you. Full stop.’ He preens but you sense that he wants to push you further. Hopefully the time limit you are on will stall him for now. You aren’t sure that you are quite ready to admit how much you have enjoyed feeding him up.

‘Mmm ok,’ he responds thoughtfully, turning in your arms and pulling you flush against his soft body. He kisses you soundly, chasing your lips every time you try to pull back. Before long though his playful mood shifts as he steps back. He takes your hands in his but otherwise maintains some space between you. ‘There is something we need to talk about though before we go.’

‘What is it?’ There is a hint of worry in his voice but you try not to let yourself speculate. You needed to just listen to what he had to say.

‘Please don’t misunderstand me when I say this.’ He pauses for but a moment to press a kiss to your knuckles trying to reassure you of his sincerity. ‘Until very recently I have never truly felt my life was my own. I had a set path that I was to walk down and very big shoes to fill as leader and well, you have seen my brothers.’ He is torn between a fondness and frustration that you can understand. ‘No matter what I do I am their fratellino.’ He locks his eyes on yours willing you to understand. ‘This, I mean what we have, I don’t want their input not yet.’

‘I understand Terzo.’ It is a relief to know this was all he was concerned about. You had seen for yourself how they had treated him during the intervention you had been witness to. Even though you wholeheartedly agreed with them at that time. You can understand why he would want to keep what you have private, especially so early in whatever it was that was happening. Not to mention you had your own reasons for not wanting them to know.

‘You do?’ You can’t help but smile at the relief on his face.

‘Of course. I think you are right.’ You had long since stopped worrying about the distinction between your work for him and your relationship but you are well aware of how it might look to others. How unprofessional you were being. ‘Your brothers asked me to do a job and they might not be happy to know that I have taken on additional duties.’ You say with a wink, trying to lighten his mood further. You’re rewarded with his deep rumbling laugh as he pulls you close again.

‘Si, si. We should review these additional duties. I think I have some additions.’ He leers at you and you can feel your cheeks heat up in response.

‘Stop that we will be late.’ You swat at his chest and get to hear him laugh yet again but it really is time to get going. ‘And I am going to need your help carrying all this food.’

• • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • •

Now for your favourite part, making it all look pretty. You lay out your slices of mozzarella first, randomly placing them across the large tray you are using for this dish. The slices of beefsteak and heirloom tomatoes next trying to keep the colours balanced. You use the bright orange roma tomatoes to fill in the remaining gaps and then all that is left is fresh basil leaves tucked between the slices.

• • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • •

‘Sorella you spoil us!’ Primo says helping you unpack the basket onto the table that had been set up. You had never paid much mind to this shady corner of the rose garden but it does seem like the perfect place for an alfresco lunch. The wrought iron dining set is well kept with only specs of rust appearing on some of the joints between the ornate decorations. Five chairs are positioned around half of the oval table giving everyone a view of the garden. The table had already been set with a plain table cloth thrown over, shining silver cutlery, pretty floral plates and a bottle of red wine, already been decanted, a lace cap sitting over the opening to discourage any tempted bugs.

‘Oh it was nothing at all Papa. Most of this I had already prepared and the salad was simple enough.’ He smiles at you warmly, his light paints emphasising the creases of his expression. He had taken the centre seat and he gestures you into the seat to his right, patting your shoulder gently. You aren’t entirely sure why you have been invited to this family gathering but it would be rude to question his invitation.

Secondo is sitting to his left already sipping on a glass of wine but he offers you a smile, a subtle lift of the corner of his mouth before his attention is drawn to Terzo. You glance to your right where he is sitting looking uncomfortable, even hidden behind his dark glasses. He seems to be staring into the nearest bush trying to ignore the presence of his brothers. As you take a seat you try to subtly rest your hand on his knee and give him a gentle squeeze, about the only reassurance you can, given your agreement not to give away the nature of your relationship to his family quite yet. He glances at you offering you a weak smile but he rests his hand over yours before clearing his throat.

‘Is Copia too busy to join us now?’ He asks, sounding oddly formal but finally looking in Primo’s direction.

‘He said he would be here,’ he replies calmly as he pours everyone a glass of wine, topping up Secondo’s last. After accepting his Terzo slumps back into his seat nursing his glass. Primo tuts at him. ‘Vieni adesso, Renzo, non vorrai essere scontroso con il nostro ospite, vero?’ He sits up abruptly lifting his glasses so he can glare at Primo.

‘Quindi è per questo che l'hai invitata? Quindi mi comporterei bene?’ Secondo tries to conceal a laugh at his Italian outburst which only earns him a share of Terzo’s glare.

‘I have my reasons fratelino, but let’s not argue today.’ He looks at him sternly. ‘Por favore.’

‘Nessun tipo di compagnia potrebbe farlo comportare da adulto,’ Secondo mutters but whatever he says seems to upset both Primo and Terzo. ‘Ey!’ He shouts, rubbing the back of his head where Primo had just administered a quick slap.

‘None more of that! From either of you, capisce?’ He points at the two brothers waiting for them both to nod in agreement before sitting back down. The four of you sit in silence just waiting for Copia’s arrival but just when it begins to get unbearable you hear a commotion heading towards you.

‘Sorry I am late,’ Copia calls out breathlessly as he rushes around the corner in a blur of red. ‘Meeting with Sister Imperator ran over,’ he pants collapsing into the chair next to Secondo. He had forgone his cassock today but was still buttoned up in one of his formal suits in spite of the seasonal weather. Clearly one of the perks of being a retired Papa was being able to dress more casually. You are not sure if you had ever seen them dressed this casually during any of their reigns.

‘Everything has gotten so behind with the Ghost project since, well…’ He trails off glancing at Terzo. He clears his throat, deciding not to continue with that line of conversation. ‘Terzo, Papa, you are looking well.’

‘Thank you Cardinal, you look like you could do with a good night's sleep.’ He smiles but it is sharp, Copia’s misstep digging at his still sore pride.

‘Well, shall I tell you all what is on the menu?’ You interrupt not wanting the awkwardness to linger any longer.

‘Yes please do, Sorella,’ Primo says, relieved at your quick thinking.

‘What you sent over was absolutely perfect for a caprese salad because just yesterday I had made some fresh mozzarella so that is the main attraction of today’s lunch but I also brought some leftovers we had to make sure no one left hungry.’ You may be waffling slightly but they all listen politely as you point out all the separate dishes.

‘Yes I see my fratello has not been going hungry of late.’ At least Secondo waited until after you finished but you watch nervously for Terzo’s response but he just relaxes back in his chair smirking at his brother.

‘You are not wrong I have been kept most satisfied by Sorella.’ His double entendre makes you wince slightly but you just hope they mark it down to Terzo being Terzo.

‘No need to tell us that we can see quite well, ' he says, patting his own distinctly flatter stomach. ‘Primo you were right to call us here today. We need to help Terzo by eating all of this food so he doesn’t have to.’

‘Ah ha,’ Terzo laughs. ‘So this is another intervention then no?’ Primo shakes his head but doesn’t intervene this time, deciding that this back and forth was mostly good natured.

‘Si, an intervention for your growing waistline fratello,’ On the surface it is harsh but you can tell this is familiar ground for them, teasing and competing to one up each other. You imagine there were many similar conversations had when Secondo lost his hair.

‘I do not mind so much,’ he shrugs, resting his arm on the back of your chair and letting his fingertips graze your shoulder. ‘I think there are plenty of people who enjoy a well fed man.’ You feel your cheeks heat as he says it remembering back to your conversation and you can feel his gaze burning into the side of your face, gaging your reaction. If you look at him now you are sure your cover will be blown. Instead you hide your embarrassment by serving out salad between your plates but you miss the pointed looks shared between Secondo and Copia.

There is a period of peace across the table as they all enjoy their food, the only conversation a series of compliments as they work their way through everything you brought. You are glad you decided to bring all the leftovers as you watched Primo using the last slices of bread to dip into the dressing, the only remains of the caprese salad and Copia groaning and rubbing at his stomach as he polishes off the last of the stuffed olives.

‘I can see how you got so well fed Papa,’ he smiles in your direction. ‘I feel as if I could burst but I still don’t want to stop eating.’ You smile at his praise but you are pleased to see them all nodding in agreement.

‘Luckily for you Cardinal, all that is left is some taralli.’ You offer them each one, finishing off the last of your supply.

‘You are lucky I didn’t know she had packed up this,’ Terzo grumbles. ‘Giving my favourite to these idioti.’

‘I will make you some more Papa, don’t worry,’ you reassure him. ‘I think I have the recipe down perfectly now if I do say so myself.’

‘Where did you get the recipe, Sorella?’ Secondo asks. He looks down at the taralli in his hand. ‘I can’t say I am an expert like Terzo here, but these taste exactly like the ones I remember. The ones your Madre used to send us, before.’ Before what you wonder? You glance between Terzo and Secondo but this time it seems they are sharing a fond memory instead of making digs at each other.

‘I just found it online after Papa mentioned he would like them.’ You glance at Terzo but he doesn’t try to stop your white lie.

‘It’s a shame you don’t have any of her recipes Terzo,’ He thinks aloud while eating his last bite. ‘I’m sure she had made the best food I had ever eaten.’

‘It is a shame, yes,’ Terzo shifts uncomfortably in his seat. ‘You know we weren’t allowed to keep anything from before.’ You look at Primo but he is staring down at his plate in defeat.

‘For what it is worth I am sorry ragazzi,’ He squeezes Secondos forearm and offers Terzo a sad smile. You feel like an intruder in this moment and as your eyes meet Copia’s you think he might feel the same. That is until you notice him tilting his head and looking at you deep in thought. You suspect piecing together the translations you asked him to look at with the conversation he had just heard. He takes in a breath looking like he is about to speak but you shake your head as subtly as you can until he clicks his mouth closed. That is a conversation for later.

‘Sorella, thank you for allowing us to share in your exquisite food,’ Primo says, drawing a line under the conversation that had just ended.

‘It is no problem at all Papa.’ You start to gather up the dishes, wishing you had brought another tray so you could give Primo back his basket.

‘No no, leave the tidying to us please,’ he fusses, taking the pile of plates from your hands and handing them to a disgruntled Secondo. ‘Seeing how you convinced Terzo to actually come outside, why don’t you two go for a walk.’ There is a twinkle in his eye you are sure you have seen before. If the two of you hadn’t been so careful you might think he knew there was something between you.

‘What do you say Papa?’ You feel like you finally have permission to properly look at him, and he looks breathtakingly handsome in the warm sun. ‘Shall we go for a walk?’

‘If it gets us out of doing dishes then I am in,’ he says, almost jumping up from his chair.

‘It was good to see you Terzo,’ Primo says to him so softly it could have been missed.

‘It was good to see you all too,’ he matches Primo’s tone looking at all three of the men still sitting at the table for a moment more before turning to you with a dazzling smile. ‘Come now Sorella lets escape while we still can.’

• • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • •

The dressing you add last right at the point of serving. The jar has one last good shake before you remove the lid and pour it evenly over the whole salad. For some extra flair you start pouring at the centre and swirl until all the dressing is used.

• • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • •

‘So that went well right?’ You are some way away from the patio so you risk moving closer, brushing your shoulders together but he doesn’t hesitate taking your hand in his.

‘Ah I suppose those nosey stronzos,’ he grumbles but there is no real bite to it, a reluctant smile pulling at the corner of his lips.

‘You know what I think?’ He only hums absentmindedly in reply, eyes following a butterfly as it dances amongst the flowers. ‘I think they missed you.’ He tips his head towards you giving you what you suspect is supposed to be an intimidating side eye but it misses its mark entirely when all you can see is the soft affection in his eyes and the sun shining off the silver grey strands running through his hair. ‘And I think you missed them too.’

‘Bah,’ he gestures with his free hand picking up his pace as if to storm off but keeping his grip firm on you so you are forced to come with him. ‘Think you know me so well eh cara?’ It is a challenge but a playful one. There was a moment that you worried that the teasing and prodding of his brothers might have made him withdraw again but it seems that was not the case. ‘Let us see, where in this garden do you think is my favourite place?’ He stops in the middle of the path reeling you back towards him but he drops your hand to fold his arms over his chest. He thinks he has stumped you, you can tell by the smug look he is failing to conceal but you are certain you know the answer.

‘Do I get any clues?’ You ask. He thinks for a moment, tapping at the dimple of his chin.

‘It is the reason I insisted on the rooms I have.’ Maybe he thinks he is being cryptic but now you know for sure, but you don’t want to let on quite yet.

‘Ok so it is near your quarters.’ You affect a look of exaggerated deep thought and he grins at you, glad that you are playing along. Wandering slightly away from him you look about you as if looking for more clues all the while ignoring his suppressed chuckles. When the two of you spend time in his little kitchen, especially now, you spend most of your time stealing looks at one another. So often he has caught him watching you over the rim of his coffee mug except from when his attention is caught just outside his window. Which not only gave you the chance to admire him as you so enjoy doing, but it also gave you a very good idea about his favourite part of the garden. Just in view of his window was a sculptural fountain depicting the Temptation of Eve.

‘Mmmm you are getting warm,’ he teases as you start to lead him back towards that part of the Abbey.

‘Anything else?’ You are just about to enter the walled garden when he catches up to you. He slides his arm around your waist and pulls you back against him and then lifts your hand to press a kiss to the back.

‘It’s almost as lovely to look at as you,’ he whispers in your ear. You have to try to suppress the shivers that work your way down your spine but he is pressed so close you are sure he can feel it.

‘Charmer,’ you chide, stepping away towards the centre of the square. ‘Stop trying to distract me.’ He reels you back in until he can rest his chin on your shoulder. The fountain dominates the space, the nude figure intertwined with the vicious looking serpent while holding a perfect apple, poised to take a bite.

‘You can see the fountain from the kitchen,’ you state matter of fact. You can see the very window from where you are standing visible amongst the trailing plants that climb the Abbey walls.

‘Si and from my bedroom.’ He points towards the larger window at the end of the building as you try to orient the layout in your mind.

‘Oh it’s like that is it,’ you tease.

‘Hush I am trying to be sincere,’ he chides but there is no bite to it, not when he skims a kiss against your cheek.

‘My apologies Papa.’ He clears his throat, the sound jarring in your otherwise soft conversation. ‘Terzo,’ you correct yourself. Happy now he nudges you forward until you are both standing at the edge of the splash pool and you watch for a moment, the ripples overlapping the reflection of the two of you in the water.

‘Tell me cara mia, what brought you to this life?’ He leads you towards a bench carved into the wall surrounding this part of the garden, helping you to sit comfortably before taking a seat himself.

‘To the Church of Satan you mean?’ It has been a long time since you thought of your life before the Ministry.

‘Mmm,’ he hums, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

‘I was raised in the Christian Church,’ you begin. ‘For the first say fifteen years of my life that is all I knew. As I got older though I found myself questioning. Everything I wanted went against what I was taught and I just couldn’t understand why all these arbitrary rules were put in place to stop people being themselves.’ He nods along giving you his full attention.

‘The arguments I had with my parents when I told them I wanted to go to culinary school, well it’s laughable now but I felt like my life was ending before it had even started. They were talking about me getting married and starting a family when all I wanted to do was learn and travel and live.’ Remembering that time fills you with that same frustration. They never were able to give you an answer other than it was God’s will and that was not enough for your questioning mind.

‘So I left. I did everything I wanted to do and then one day I was working at a festival.’ He snorts, interrupting you for the first time.

‘I can’t imagine you in a burger van,’ he sniggers to himself. You knock his shoulder with yours but that only makes him laugh harder.

‘I was cooking for the VIP guests, thank you very much!’ You reply haughtily. In all honesty there was nothing wrong with working in a burger van, good food is good food, but you dread to think what mental image he has conjured up of you. ‘And that's where I saw Ghost for the first time and spoke to Papa Primo.’

‘Primo recruited you?’ He looks shocked and you are surprised he didn’t already know.

‘Well I think it was more like I volunteered and he accepted,’ you explain. ‘He had requested some wacky off menu dish and I somehow managed to make something passable and he came to thank me. I joked about his costume and how I might consider joining if I ever found a real Church of Satan.’

‘And he told you about this place.’ he says thoughtfully.

‘He did! I didn’t believe him at first but I came to visit first for a week or two, but it was like as soon as I walked in the doors it felt like I had found my place.’ You had felt at home for the first time in a long long time.

‘What about your parents?’ He asks. ‘What do they think about you coming here?’

‘It took them a long long time to accept me straying from the life they wanted for me, even though they still don’t like it.’ They had only really accepted it when you had found success which always seemed ironic to you. ‘My being here? We just don’t speak of it. I’m sure they told all their church friends that I decided to join an obscure convent.’ It was a game you liked to play every now and then, wondering what they said when people at their church asked after you.

‘Ha! But here you are getting seduced by Satanic Popes,’ he lifts his eyebrows, clearly proud of his success in corrupting you from your fictional convent.

‘I wouldn’t have it any other way.’ You roll your eyes at him but you are relieved that he joined you in finding humour in your strained relationship with your family. But it was his turn to share. ‘Now tell me why this is your favourite place.’

‘I used to come here when I felt lost.’ He looks down at his feet kicking at some lose stones. ‘When you have lost your way there is no one better than the Mother of Sin to help you remember what is important.’ It is a lot for him to admit given his leading role in the church. Many wouldn’t ever believe a man in his position could have ever had doubts.

‘The bible says she was tricked into eating the apple, that her weak feminine mind was so easily warped by the serpent. But I think she made a choice. Perhaps she realised that if you are threatened and scared into ignorance you will never be free and that people deserve to choose for themselves what to do and what to believe.’ You sense his beliefs are as personal as they are philosophical. ‘Especially when so many things that bring people joy are supposed sins.’

You are reminded of sitting in the chapel and listening to him preach every word reaffirming your faith. He was an incredible leader and it makes your heart ache for him that he was removed from that position in such a humiliating way. You don’t voice this though. You have no doubt that these very same thoughts plague him but he is doing so much better now then when you had first properly met.

‘Enough preaching for one day though I think,’ he laughs trailing off when he realises how long he has been talking and as much as you would happily listen to him talk for hours you let him leave the topic aside. ‘Where is your favourite place in the garden cara mia?’

‘Well that is easy.’ You don’t need to think for even a moment. ‘It’s the moon garden.’ He tilts his head in surprise. ‘I didn’t appreciate it at first, having all white flowers made no sense to me. One of the most beautiful things about flowers is the vivid rainbow of colours. But then one night I was leaving your quarters and I was on the verge of going to Primo and telling him I couldn’t do it.’ You remember that time well even though so much has changed since. Having to fight the urge to quit every time he rejected another meal. ‘You hadn’t eaten a thing and I was so upset with myself.

‘I owe you an apology, I think for being so difficult.’ He mumbles but the last thing you want to do is make him feel bad.

‘No I mean you had your reasons,’ you say trying to reassure him.

‘Maybe I did, I felt that I had nothing to live for I suppose.’ It hurts to hear but it isn’t a surprise that that is how he had felt. ‘But I could only stomach so much self pity before I got hungry.’ He winks at you and even this serious conversation doesn’t stop your instinctive blush spreading across your cheeks. 'Thank you for being patient with me.’ He follows the bloom of colour across your face with the tip of his fingers, his sincerity only making it worse.

‘It was worth it,’ you admit, lowering your voice to match his soft tone. ‘Something told me I should walk through the gardens that night so I did and then it was like I had walked into another world. Every single white flower was glowing in the moonlight and I had to just sit and eventually I knew that everything was going to be alright.’

‘And was it?’ His hand cups your face and even such an innocent touch has your heart racing as you work up the courage to say what you wish to.

‘The next day was the day you left me the recipe book.’ The moment feels fragile as he looks into your eyes searchingly. It feels good to have cleared the air of so many of your unspoken things. It’s probably inadvisable to allow him this close outside of his quarters but he looks as vulnerable as you feel right now and there is only one thing you can think to do. This kiss reminds you of the first time in the kitchen. The simple action of pressing your lips to his feels so intimate and for you at least, saying things you are far from ready to speak out loud.

• • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • •

Hi hello yes it is me actually updating. Please no one die of shock. I had about 1000 words of this sitting here for the last six months and then suddenly I managed to write it all in the last three days. I want to promise there won't be another six months until the next chapter but who knows what will happen to my brain. Thank you to @ghostchems and @da-rulah for letting me talk about this endlessly and @writingjourney for cheering me on even when I wouldn't tell her any spoilers haha

I hope you all enjoyed and I will be starting a tag list over again because I have no idea who might even want to read this fic anymore so please just let me know if you want to be tagged in the future chapters 💜💜💜

#papa emeritus iii x reader #terzo x reader #the band ghost fic #the band ghost fanfic #terzo #papa emeritus iii #my writing #banchetto

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rnakamura22 · 3 months ago

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22 nights

female prefect appearance written!!

The first thing Yu noticed was her room. She was in her room again. The dressing mirror she always used before she was sent to Twisted Wonderland. The golden locket in the shape of a clock, the surface with 22 numbers instead of 12 along with crystal, it was still there along with the NRC uniform. Yu carried her bags still, the dress mirror glimmering still.

Suddenly, the door opened and Yu saw her mother and father. Both of them looked thinner when she last saw them. They were both in shock and Yu couldn't help but understand. She was gone for a long time.

"Um....Hi, mom, hi dad. " that was all you could say awkwardly.

"YU!!" they both yelled and hugged her with all their might. Yu almost wanted to cry from how frail her parents grips were. Yu never noticed, nor did the three, the locket was glowing in a peculiar way, and on the dress mirror, a black swirl appeared, spinning as it was trying to suck in something, and disappeared a moment after.

From that day, Yu started to get back to her normal days before she was whirled off to twisted wonderland. Her school, her everyday life with her parents, and normal hospital trips to see if she has not gone through any damage.

Strangely, Yu 's locket's crystal had darkened a little.

One night, when Yu drifted off to sleep, she was in a beautiful flowerbed.

The dark sky glowed like velvet, with tiny stars sparkling like tiny diamonds, with a golden moon being the only light source.

Yu looked down at the ground. The ground was filled with purple flowers and the leaves being bright as emeralds, and she was dressed in a shiny black Mary jane shoe, white tights, a sky-blue dress with a white apron, and a cute black silk bow tying the upper part of her golden brown hair.

Suddenly, Yu felt someone tugging her blue dress. She looked and saw a doll. It had bright red hair, grey eyes, and was wearing a white coat dress with yellow buttons, yellow trim, and a red underlining with a card-suit pattern. long, black gloves. Seen under the coat is a white dress shirt with a frilled collar, and a red and black cross bow-tie around the neck. A gold, crown-shaped pin is placed where the bow-tie intersects.

Underneath the lapel of the coat on his left side hangs two gold ornaments, and printed on his coat is the symbol of Heartslabyul. Over the coat and around his waist is a striped, yellow and black sash, tied on his right side under a white pin, with red ruffles and a gold “H” in the center.

His pants are white to match his coat, with a red and yellow stripe on the outer seams. Over the pants are black, over-the-knee boots, with a gold, heart-shaped design on the boot collars, modeled after the Queen of Hearts'[6]. The boots have gold soles with high-heels, and red heart designs over the toe cap and heel.

His signature cape is worn over his left shoulder, and reaches the floor in length. It is black on the outside with red underlining and a large, white collar near the neck. The cape is seemingly connected to a checkerboard-patterned sash with yellow trim that wraps over the lapel of his coat. Placed where the sash and cape connect is a white rose, halfway covered in red paint, with a small golden crown rested on the doll's head.

Yu picked up the doll. It smiled!!!

"You kind of resemble somebody.....who could it be...?" she said. At that moment, the doll bowed!! As Yu was surprised, the doll hopped off of Yu's palms, and grew into a human boy's height, the face still the same.

Without saying anything, the doll took Yu's hand and started to dance into a graceful waltz, the mouth smiling. What surprised Yu even more, was that beautiful silver and gold instruments started to blossom from the flowerbed beneath her, as they played an enchanting melody, one flower being the conductor, one flower playing the flute, the other being a violin, etc. The time was so enchanting, it made Yu forget time and dance into a waltz.

For how long she danced, no one knew. It was when the moon disappeared and the sun began to show its face slowly along the skyline that she finally needed to go home. For some reason, the flowers beneath her looked frighting in difference to being shone with sunlight.

"I have to go home.." said Yu. The doll looked sad , and picked one of the fresh flowers and stuck it in her hair, but his face which looked cute before, now looked somehow lonely and .....angry.

"Why do you have to go.... but that doesn't matter. I will see you soon." As Yu began to lose consciousness, the doll, she couldn't see clearly, looked like grinning in a villainous way.

"Wake up Yu!! Are you OK?" It was the sound of her mother's voice that kept her awake. She was laying in bed, the locket still on her neck, and her skin dripping in cold sweat.

”What's this? You didn’t have this yesterday?"

Yu looked and saw that the purple flower the doll gave to her, had been set in a vase standing on the desk.

“Is that a Lobelia? How beautiful!”

Yu’s mother appreciated the flower. For some reason to Yu, it felt strangely ominous.

The meaning of a lobelia `Always lovely'' ``Attractive'' ``Malevolent'' ``The virtue of humility'' ``Secret demeanor''

Come, come, welcome to paradise. Sing, drink, and let the dance arise. Here’s a thirlling wonderland. The feast won’t end at your command.

Step to the beat of a crooked tune, Dance ‘til you crumble beneath the moon. And when the morning lights the skies, Truth or lies—you won’t realize.

#twisted wonderland x reader #female reader #yandere twisted wonderland #yandere twisted wonderland x reader

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ellamuffin97 · 5 months ago

Text

Feelings cascade .

Pairing : Loki x fem reader

Warnings : smut , oral receive (m) ,sub!loki, dom!loki , restraining, orgasm denial ,

Summary : Loki falls by accident on Sakaar , a planet of lost souls . Reader finds him and decides to keep him for herself .

Word count : 5.8k

He fell from the sky like a raven haired angel, with a dark green cape instead of wings and enchanting, beautiful eyes that seemed to burn every fibre of your skin and look right through you, learning your darkest secrets when he spotted you walking towards him with one of your companions, your face covered by a white cloth to protect you from the sun and dust.

Suspicion and hostility was glistening in the mesmerising blue of them. He pursed his lips, lifted his chin and raised his arms in defeat, promising subtly he meant no harm. Well of course, he didn’t. No one who came here, involuntarily, meant any harm. His fate was in your hands now. He might as well pray you were going to be merciful on him.

Checking him out from head to toe, you took in his muscly, well-defined but still slim and graceful body. He looked mischievous, intelligent and skilled, strong even. Heaven knew where he had come from and how he had ended up here but the amount of money you could already see the Grandmaster waving at you for him would be massive.

Licking your lower lip behind your cloth, you imagined the pile of units all yours for the taking if you handed him in, selling him as a gladiator. Perhaps he would be the one to win against the Hulk. That would bring you twice as much as you would already receive for offering him to the Grandmaster in the first place.

Still, you briefly weighed your options.

“Are you a fighter? Or are you food?” Your companion barked, grinning from behind his cloth and raising his gun to underline his words. There is only one correct answer if you want to live, stranger.

No. There was something about him… something fascinating. Whoever he was, you wanted to know. Every piece of his memories, every word that escaped his lips, every inch of his godly body…

The stranger chuckled darkly, the swift tone of light discomfort swinging in his voice when he spoke.

“I can ensure you, I am not edible. Certainly, I will hardly taste well.” It was smooth. Alluring and almost… seductive. Like he chose each word with utter thought, like his tongue was made of pure silver. You came to a choice quickly.

“I beg to differ.” You shot back, narrowing your eyes at him. Surely, he would taste beyond ravishing once you had him tied to your bed, stroking his stiff cock and licking over the tip to taste his arousal. Oh yes, this one you would keep to yourself. Fuck the units. He was too precious.

“I am King Loki of Asgard. Surely, we can come to an agreement that will work for both of us. What is this place? Where am I?”

Loki. The name suited him. Loki as in the God of Mischief? You had heard of the gods of Asgard. It would explain his handsome looks. Whatever title he claimed to have though, here on Sakaar it was insignificant, meaningless. Here, he would be nothing more than your toy.

Smirking maliciously behind your white cloth, you tilted your head once more. “Oh, I was unaware I was in the presence of royalty. I am terribly sorry, my king. But you see you are on Sakaar. There are no kings here, no queens and princes and princesses.”

“I’ll send in a call, we need an appointment with the Grandmaster, he needs to look at this one himself.” Your companion suggested, turning to head back to his spaceship.

“No. You can have my share of last week’s raid, I’ll keep him.”

Loki narrowed his eyes, his lips slightly parted. Mmmmm… you were already imagining nibbling on those thin lips all the while riding him senseless. You wondered what he would look like when he came undone, moaning breathlessly and helplessly underneath you.

“Are you sure? He looks like a piece of work.”

“I am sure.” You had never done this before. The men you had bedded before had been willing, whores of the Grandmaster he occasionally lent you without charging you for selling him gladiators. But Loki… you wanted him. Utterly. All of him. He was so different… perhaps eventually, you would let him go again if only you could have your fun with him first.

“Alright… guess I leave you two lovebirds alone then.” Grinning evilly, your companion turned around, returning to his spaceship. You remained standing as still as a statue until he flew off, the engine roaring loudly and the air pressure robbing your of your hearing for a moment. Then, you slowly took a few steps forward, eyeing Loki in an intrigued manner.

You didn’t expect him to back away—glued to the dirty ground, he watched your every move like a hawk, his hands—soft and clean hands with long fingers, god damn—still up in the air. It would pass off like it always did. Any moment now, he would attempt to strike, you would overbear him and then drag him onto your spaceship.

And he did. Loki conjured a shiny dagger out of thin air, hauling off both brutally and gracefully. You would have been lying if you had said you were not surprised. It must be true, what they said about him. A master of magic, tricks and illusions. Oh, it had been a very good decision to keep him all to yourself.

Dodging his powerful blow, you flung one of your obedience disks at him. The cool metal instantly latched onto the sensitive skin of his long and flawless neck, digging its hooks deep into him. Loki grunted in pain, more so when you activated the taser and sent him jerking until he fell to his knees, collapsing to the ground, his mischievous weapon of choice falling to the ground like a useless piece of wood.

You would keep it. Proper weapons were a rarity on Sakaar and you possessing an actual dagger from Asgard, one of the nine infamous realms, would gain you respect and polish your reputation. You could barely wipe the anticipating grin from your face when you grabbed his green cape and pulled him towards your spaceship.

For a god, it took him surprisingly long to recover from the electricity shocks you had given him on the way to your apartment. Loki didn’t put up a fight when you fought to toss him onto your bed, using two pairs of strong shackles to restrain him and chain him to your bedposts, which you both linked to a collar you put around his neck.

There was no symbolic reason to it, really. It merely served the purpose to threaten to crush his windpipe if he tried pulling at the cuffs too much so he would only end up hurting himself. He might have been the Trickster but you had a few up your sleeve as well.

God, he looked so beautiful. Especially unconscious, with all of his features relaxed and peaceful, he did in fact look like an angel, too perfect to be true. You would worship his body with your hands and tongue, that you were already sure of.

Your heart jumped in joyful anticipation and excitement when he finally opened his stunning blue eyes, blinking at the sudden brightness in your apartment. He needed a second to realise his surroundings had changed, another one to notice he was chained up.

A smirk crept up on your lips from behind your cloth when you watched him struggle for a while only to give up a few minutes in. He was indeed smart then. It was useless to fight the metal.

Clenching his jaw, his blue eyes darted around the bedroom until he found you. Curiously, he drank in your form. “You will pay for this.” He stated simply, his voice calm and composed. An amused scoff escaped your lips.

“Do you really think it’s a good idea to threaten me… in the position you’re in right now?”

Loki smirked. He… what? Why did he smirk? It hit you straight between your legs, a familiar wetness pooling in your black panties. Pressing them together impatiently, you approached the bed and sat down on the edge just when he spoke up again.

“You are right, I apologise… I gave you my name.” He continued then, nodding courtly. “It is only fair if you give me yours.” Fuck, he was charming too. If he kept acting like this, you would give him everything he asked for.

“Me?” Still surprised, you smiled to yourself, hiding a sudden sadness flaming up deep in your guts. You hadn’t used your real name in years. “Call me Scrapper 101. Or just 101, whatever you prefer to scream.”

The God of Mischief frowned. “Surely you must have a real name?”

“Maybe…” The only other thing on this planet you trusted with your real name was your diary. An old scrapbook you had brought from Earth. It carried years of your deepest thoughts, wishes and desires, memories about your old life and information about your person. It was dangerous to keep it, that you were very well aware of but there had to be at least something you wanted to hold on to if you abandoned Earth for good for the rest of your life. It was quite safe in its hiding place behind your drawer.

“Well then, 101, who is it who is in charge here? You must have some kind of leader on this planet.”

So he wanted to talk? Fine… stalling you wouldn’t change what you were going to do to him. You could barely await ripping those expensive garments off his body, admiring his exposed body and taking in his naked form before tasting him.

“Oh, we do. The Grandmaster. He’s like… millions of years old. He runs and owns the place. I work for him. Whenever lost souls find their way here, I collect them and sell them to him in exchange for some cash. It’s an acceptable life compared to… whatever.” Compared to your previous one.

Loki frowned, noticing how you stopped yourself from telling him too much. He was instantly aware of how you didn’t want him to know anything about you—and there was no need to, really. Whatever you had had on Earth, it was over. You lived here now and you did things that questioned your morals but as long as you could still look in the mirror without being disgusted by yourself, you figured, it was alright.

“You consider me a lost soul? I am a king, little one. I have both purpose and a kingdom to rule. If you just let me talk to the Grandmaster…”

“Look,” you interrupted harshly. “I already told you there are no kings on this planet. You belong to me now, Loki and I’ll do to you whatever I please.”

The God of Mischief opened his mouth to protest, yet not a single sound escaped his thin lips. Fascination radiated off him as he watched you climbing on the mattress to straddle his lap. The leather material of his garments felt cool and comfortable against your skin. You had to suppress a moan when you finally took off the white cloth from your face and tossed it out of bed, revealing your face to him.

For a brief moment, Loki simply stared at you, slightly tilting his head.

“And what is it you are going to me, little one?” His teasing nickname for you sent jolts of electricity straight to your pussy. What was happening to you? No man had ever affected you like this. You blinked in an attempt to keep your hard-earned composure.

“I think you know, Loki…” you murmured absentmindedly, your eyes roaming over his body, taking in every centimetre. Licking your lips, you tore at the soft fabric to reveal his chest. A little pale but well-defined and muscly, flawless in every aspect. He was perfect. You sucked in a sharp breath upon eyeing him, causing him to chuckle darkly.

His reactions should concern you. Did he mean to confuse you? Did he know about the effect he had on your willing body? Impossible. He might be a god but he would not be able to read minds… right?

Shaking off the thought by pushing a few strands of your hair out of your face, you allowed your fingers to touch his skin, setting a hot burning fire to your hands. Trembling, you let them dance over his stomach until you reached the rough seam of his leather pants, ready to tear those off as well.

You were impatient. Aroused. Stupefied by this captivating man. Almost clumsily you undid the buttons, grabbing fistfuls of the fabric to get it out of the way.

“Are you sure about this, little one?” His smooth and now suddenly hoarse voice tore you back into reality. Your eyes shot up to meet his blue ones. It was like he captured you, plodding through your mind like a greedy scavenger.

Nodding mutely, you lowered your gaze again. He was perfect, through and through. Loki’s length was impressive, truly the size of a god and quite frankly, beautiful. Licking your lips once more, you already imagined what he would taste like. He wasn’t hard yet but you would take care of that with pleasure.

It was then he yanked at his shackles for the first time, gritting his teeth and hissing as his whole body jerked, his muscles tensing. He almost threw you off his lap in the process.

“Let. Me. Go…” He choked out angrily, narrowing his blue eyes at you. It was you who chuckled in response this time. There went his patience.

“What part of ‘you are mine now’ don’t you understand, I wonder?” You didn’t leave him any time to answer. Instead, without forewarning, you wrapped your right hand around his manhood, gasping at how nice he felt between your fingers.

He instantly fought a moan when you started stroking him, fascinated by how he started to twitch under your affective touches. You soon brought your left hand up to caress his balls, enjoying how he grew hard. Proudly, his cock, ready with need and lust, rested against his stomach after you released him, shifting backwards a bit to lean down.

You could feel him shiver when you licked over his tip for the first time, your eyes closing with relish upon learning his taste. He was downright delicious, a devilishly good-looking man you would never let leave your bed again.

Loki moaned, the uncontrollable sound echoing through your bedroom like a prayer. Throwing his head back, he bucked his hips to thrust against your tongue, begging for more friction. You smiled satisfactorily, obliging and taking the tip of him into your mouth, sucking him like a piece of candy.

Oh, he was. He was so much sweeter than any kind of treat you had ever tasted. Eagerly, you slid him deeper into your mouth, taking in as much as you could before allowing him to pleasure himself. Your hands resumed caressing his balls and stomach, stroking his thighs now and then as his moans grew louder, pure bliss radiating off him like tropical heat.

You could tell he was struggling with himself. Not wanting to give in to the bliss you gave him, he thrashed around on the bed, fighting his inevitable climax but oh, you were too desperate for his hot semen shooting into your mouth. You would take that orgasm from him, whether he wanted it or not.

Smirking around his thick cock, your movements grew more frantic. Fast and demandingly, your head bopped up and down his length, devouring him as if he was your last meal and then, you felt him twitching under your worshipping touches, pulsating with his release. Loki growled like a caged animal when he came in your mouth, shooting his warm seed deep down your throat.

Hungrily, you swallowed every last drop of him, noticing with delight that he did not turn soften as of yet. With a silent smack of your lips, you released him, his manhood still jerking under your heated gaze, requiring more of your seducing treatment.

“Now don’t tell me you didn’t like that, Loki…” You purred, gently driving your fingernails over his bare chest. Goose bumps erupted from where they left an invisible trail, making him hiss in fake agony once more.

“Untie me and I will show you how much I liked this.” He growled darkly. He was staring daggers at you—hot, glowing and pointy daggers like the one he had attempted to strike you with, yet at the same time you could clearly see the arousal and desire glistening in his blue eyes.

Giggling wickedly, you grabbed the seam of your dark pants. “Already? I have barely started…”

You were too impatient to remove all of your clothes, too proud to do so. This man might be your new-fetched slave but as of yet, there was no need to reveal more of you than you wanted him to see. This was about you and if he behaved, you might let him cum again, this time after having been sheathed deep inside your core.

Shoving your panties aside to expose your swollen pussy lips, dripping with arousal and need, you sucked in a deep breath when the cool air in your apartment hit your wetness, wasting no time in guiding his still erect length to your entrance.

His involuntary moaning urged you on, teasing both him and yourself as you slid his moist tip up and down your slit, grazing your swollen clit before finally pushing him inside you, grunting with pleasure at the feeling of him stretching your walls and filling you so good. You could feel him twitching inside you, begging for friction, begging to thrust but you took your time.

Painfully slow at first, you started riding him, supporting yourself by pressing your palms flat against his chest, feeling it heave under your firm grip. Sighing, you leaned forward to capture his thin lips in a tender kiss before pulling away again, tasting his mouth on yours.

“Loki…” His name left your lips like a prayer as your eyes rolled to the back of your head, your head falling back to expose your neck. “Oh Loki…”

Rocking your hips in frenzy, you moaned with every stroke, allowing him to buck his hips to meet your own. Antagonising waves of pure bliss cursed through your veins when you looked down to where your bodies became one, his cock stretching you so beautifully you almost came from the sheer sight of it.

Perhaps in time, you would trust him enough to leave him untied during sex, letting him worship and praise your body with his soft hands like you had his, permitting him to play with your clit while you pleasured yourself with his impressive cock. For now, however, you would have to take care of the job yourself.

Moaning shamelessly, you arched your back, one of your hands seeking out the most sensitive bundle of nerves to circle it, stroke it, and massage it until you almost lost your mind from all the pleasure building in your body.

A familiar knot tightened deep in your stomach, your walls clenching around Loki’s length as you climbed the ladder to orgasm higher and higher and higher, ready to let go and fall, tossing yourself down an uncompassionate abyss that would consume all of you.

Loki growled when he felt you getting closer, awaiting impatiently how you would milk his cock and drive him to his own blissful high once more. He was barely fighting it now. Instead, he desperately attempted to win the upper hand. It was a battle he would lose.

You screamed, your voice breaking when your orgasm hit you, washing over you and drowning you in endless waves of ruthless pleasure. Contracting around his hard cock again and again, you moved your hips rhythmically to ride it out until you collapsed on top of him, spent and satisfied.

His penis was still sheathed inside you, twitching and aching and begging for a finale… a tortured and disappointed moan escaping his lips when you forced him to slide out of you, rearranging your underwear and pulling up your pants again to get up.

Loki was a handsome man, a man one would want to be the father of their children, however… there was something too intimate about letting him cum inside you and you were not ready to have him do it just yet.

His blue eyes were wide with anticipation and hope, his gorgeous lips parted. Where you done with him? Where you going to finish him off? Biting your lower lip, an idea struck your mind.

“Beg for it.” You suggested casually, tilting your head as you eyed him down to catch every second of his reaction with a mischievous sparkling in them. You could practically feel the wrath and humiliation radiating off him, the war clamouring inside him. “Ask me to make you cum.”

Holding back an evil smirk, you waited for his reply. One second passed, then another one. You feared he would call you names and curse you and perhaps, in his mind he did but Loki knew better than to anger you. You were the one in charge here—you were the one who had chained him up.

“Fine,” He spat. “Do it. Finish what you started.” It was far from polite, submissive or begging of any kind but for now, you let it count. Your companion had warned you he would be a tough one to break but at least, he had asked.

You took your time to climb back on the bed, this time lying down next to him and propping your elbow on the mattress to be able to enjoy the sight of his half naked body. Your smirk grew wider as you grabbed his rock hard length and started jerking him off. The velvety skin against your palm made you gasp, your ears focusing solely on his wanting moans.

It didn’t take him long to lose his mind. Only seconds in, revelling under your tender touches, he began thrusting forward uncontrollably, fucking your hand like nothing else mattered. You gasped once more when he orgasmed, twitching and jerking in your hand, pulsating and staining your fingers with ropes of his warm seed.

Then, he finally softened, panting loudly and closing his mesmerising blue eyes to reclaim at least some of his composure. He was so beautiful when he came undone, even more so when he was relaxed. Smiling to yourself, you wiped your hand on the bed sheets and made a note to change them tomorrow before nuzzling into him and wrapping an arm around his steel chest.

“Sweet dreams, my king.” You murmured before giving in to a peaceful sleep.

Memories of last night haunted you like gentle caresses when your eyes flattered open. You could hardly believe this wonderful man was yours now. Today, your task would it be to get him to talk. Heaven, you wanted to know everything, every little detail. His past, his present, his future, his favourite colour and favourite book… all of it you wanted to belong to you.

A content sigh escaped your lips when you turned around to cuddle up against him—only to be met with an empty bed. Instantly, you shot up, ignoring how your vision went black for a moment. You were wide awake in the twinkling of an eye, looking around your apartment in shock.

He was gone. The shackles were gone. His dagger on top of your drawer was gone. No… this was impossible. Those shackles… ten horses would have been unable to break them. How on Earth had he freed himself?

Breathing heavily, you flinched when you sensed a movement from the corner of your eye. Your head spun around, spotting Loki leaning against the threshold of your bedroom door, his arms crossed and a smug and downright mischievous expression on his face.

“Good morning, little one.”

Panicking, you reached into the pocket of your jacket to pull out the taser. He only smirked, watching you struggle for a moment before conjuring it out of thin air, his long fingers toying with it playfully. Only now did you notice that he had removed the obedience disk from his neck.

“Are you looking for this?” He asked innocently, tilting his head.“I must admit, I was not prepared for this little trick of yours. You are quite the little minx. But I am the God of Mischief. A lot of people have made the mistake to underestimate my abilities. Breaking free from your pitiful restraints was almost too easy once you were sound asleep.” He explained. The eerie calmness in his voice worried you. You were done for. You were completely and utterly done for.

“I also enjoyed this a lot.” Smirking once more, he lifted up a brown scrapbook. Your scrapbook. “A quite entertaining reading, little mortal.”

You were frozen. Paralysed. Incapable of even opening your mouth.

“The Grandmaster was very understanding of my situation. He offered me my own apartment, a new wardrobe and a much desired position at his side. A much more appropriate way of treating a true king, would you not agree with me?”

“W-why have you come back? Are you going to kill me?” You finally chirped.

Loki frowned, acting confused. “Now, now, did we not have too much fun together last night? No. I will not kill you, little one.”

“Then what do you want?” You replied, your voice trembling like leaves in the wind.

“I want revenge. I warned you last night that you would pay for this. Now be a good girl and lay down again so I can tie you up.” He growled commandingly, narrowing his blue eyes at you.

Panting fearfully, you shook your head, moving slowly to get out of bed and fetch your weapon. The irrational part of you hoping that you would reach it in time blinded you too much to expect he would lunge forward and wrap his arm around your waist, possessively pressing you against his body.

Shrieking, you thrashed, attempting to hit him, slap him, bite him, whatever you could think of but it was no use. He was way stronger than you… and he was merciless.

“You robbed me of an orgasm last night, little one. In return I shall rob you of one of yours.” He growled hungrily.

Breathing in frantically, you flinched once more when he ripped your clothes off your body without forewarning, not bothering to leave them intact. Cool air hit your naked skin like a soft breeze when the sound of breaking fabric echoed through your bedroom, hardening your nipples within seconds.

Your resistance was short-lived. Soon, your strength was used up, your body resting defencelessly against his steel chest.

Loki chuckled when he lifted you up effortlessly to carry you over to your bed and threw you on it like a weightless pillow. Only the fraction of a second after, he was hovering above you, trapping you between the mattress and his body.

You glanced up at him mutely, with widened eyes and a fearful but anticipating expression on your face when he reached up to snatch your wrists and tie them to the bedposts. The tide had turned and you… you were at his mercy now. Naked, exposed and helpless, with him in charge… the thought both aroused and scared you.

“To be honest, I quite enjoyed last night. But you see I am not owned, little one.” He purred, his hot breath brushing against your ear. “I own.”

Wetness stained your naked thighs. You were panting heavily when Loki’s soft hands started travelling all over your body, exploring what you had denied him last night. With greedy blue eyes, he cupped your breasts, kneading them all the while licking his lips, playing with the hard nubs and twisting and rolling them between his fingers until you moaned from both pain and pleasure.

“You took pleasure from my body last night. Now Iwill take pleasure from yours.” He went on. The hoarse threat sounded like a dark promise, tingling right between your legs.

“Please…” Please what? Stop? Keep going? Give me more? Confused by your own reactions, you watched him undoing the buttons of his pants to free his pulsating erection. It sprang free in joyful anticipation, making you chew on your lower lip. He had felt so good inside you last night… would he be rough, now that he was in charge?

The cool leather of his armour brushed against your naked skin when he positioned himself between your legs impatiently, pushing your knees apart to grant himself better access. For a brief moment, he simply stared at your swollen sex, your pussy lips glistening with wetness just for him.

You moaned in pure bliss when he filled you to the hilt, not giving you any time to adjust to his size once he plunged into you possessively, taking what he wanted. Your wrists stung from the metal cuffs around them, your arms aching from trying to break free of them to touch him, guide him, anything.

Instead, Loki took control. Grabbing your hips firmly, his fingers digging into your skin, he started rocking into you relentlessly, fucking you good, hard and fast. He hit that sweet spot deep inside you over and over as he changed his angle to thrust even deeper, making sure to bring you right where he wanted you—to the brink of orgasm.

He was quick to succeed. Panting, moaning and screaming, you bucked your hips, arching your back, begging utterly devoted to let you cum. Just a little more friction… just a little more…

“Loki… Loki, oh, don’t stop, don’t stop! Ahhh…”

The God of Mischief smirked upon hearing your breathless pleas.

“Not until I have taken back what was mine to claim. Don’t you dare cum before me.” This time, you actually believed he would punish you cruelly if you ignored his order. Forcing your eyes shut, you clawed at your cuffs, trying hard to obey until he tensed to spill himself deep inside you, spurting ropes of his cum deep into your core. You would have had to lie if you had said it did not feel amazing to have him fill you up and mark you as his so intimately, your whole body shaking from pleasure as he rid out his orgasm and enjoyed the frantic twitching of his member against your tight walls.

His smirk grew devilish when he finally stilled, his cock still hard as it rested inside you, filling you completely.

“Go on.” He said, raising his eyebrows. “Cum. Make yourself cum on my cock like you did last night, you greedy little girl.”

Moaning, this time in annoyance and desperation, you bucked your hips, attempting to fuck yourself, bring yourself back to that wonderful chasm you wanted to send yourself flying down…

“I… can’t… I can’t, not like this…” You whined, sweat pooling underneath your naked body. Your limbs were shaking, your heart beating like a steam hammer. Loki tilted his head, grabbing your waist with so much force you screamed in sudden pain.

“What a shame…” He mocked sarcastically. He knew exactly it was impossible for you to orgasm like that.

Gritting his teeth, he started pounding into you once more, eager to make you cum around his cock this time. One of his soft hands reached down to massage your clit, flicking it relentlessly until you almost passed out from all the pleasure and sensations, the pressure building again faster than the twinkling of an eye.

“Beg me…” Loki growled, smirking again. You only moaned in response, unwilling to grant him that gratification just yet, even if it meant to torment yourself. “Beg me… beg me to let you cum.”

Was this how he had felt yesterday? Desperate, fighting your own body, devastated and so, so aroused it physically hurt?

Fuck it. You were lost. You had been lost to him the moment you had decided to keep him for yourself. He was dangerous and witty, would he not kill you if you disobeyed him?

“Oh God, please. Please, please, please, Loki, let me cum, please! I beg you, I beg you, please! Please…”

Sucking in a deep breath, you prayed it would suffice him. You needed to cum so badly… so badly…

Loki chuckled as he sped up his movements, stroking your clit as fast as he was thrusting into you. He tossed you right over that delicious cliff when he reached his second climax himself, spurting even more of his cum deep inside you.

Thrashing around wildly, you screamed your lungs out as if being tortured, trying hopelessly to ride down the waves of pleasure that threatened to break your body in two, shattering you like glass. Loki pulled out of you with one last groan, collapsing next to your spent form.

His seed kept dribbling out of you, staining the bed sheets and decorating your still lightly contracting pussy, your legs not ceasing to tremble uncontrollably.

“You should be able to see yourself right now, little one. So beautiful… you look ravishing with my seed painting your fragile body, marking you.” He purred, running his fingertips across your chest and creating goose bumps all over your breasts.

“It almost looks like you belong to me now, little one. A mere scrapper is, technically, below me, regarding my relationship to the Grandmaster.”

He was right. If the Grandmaster had in fact welcomed him as a cherished guest, you were nothing more but a mere slave yourself… his. And although you were scared shitless, dreading what else he had in store for you, the warm sensation spreading in your whole body made up for it. He was still the man you had wanted all to yourself. If he kept you… you would still get your way.

“You wanted all of me… now I shall take all of you.” He continued, making you shiver. “You will move in with me. I expect all of your belongings to be stored at my place by the end of the day but for now…” He really did sound like a king. Commanding, stern and intimidating but also charming, intelligent and convincing. “For now, you will answer all of my questions without hesitation and lies, am I understood?”

“Y-yes,” You stuttered.

“Good. What is your real name, little one? I want to hear it from you, not from a few scribbled words in an old scrapbook.”

So this was it. Utter submission. Utter devotion. Utter commitment. It felt strangely arousing, oddly satisfying and soothing.

“(Y/N)… m-my name is (Y/N).”

Loki’s mischievous smirk widened. “Hmm… I promise to treat you well, my little (Y/N). This’ll be such fun.”

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