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azureashes · 2 years ago

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A Goddess for the King of Curses

ISTG MINORS DNI FFS PLS

TW: Noncon, double penetration, size kink, corruption kink, group noncon, gaslighting, mindbreaking, torture, DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT.

And without further ado, enjoy... if you’re the same kind of crazy as me.

Part two: here.

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There are syrupy rose petals spreading their sweetness on your tongue as your feet soak in wild honey. White silk is draped loosely over your frame. Baby’s breath is braided into your hair along with golden threads. Looking out from your raised velvet dais, you see rows and rows of villagers, paying obeisance to you.

One by one, the villagers step forward and dip small pieces of bread into the clay pot of honey at your feet. They believe the honey has gained healing properties and your mouth is too full of syrup and roses to tell them otherwise. And who knows, maybe it did have healing properties. Otherwise, what were they bowing and thanking you for? You watch them scoop up the amber liquid and listen to their supplications as they go.

“Please, my Lady,” a tearful old woman begged, her voice raspy with – what? Age, sickness, thirst? You had read of these terms in books but did not quite know what they meant, what they felt like. “My daughter, please let her be healthy again.”

You nod, because speech is reserved only for the most momentous occasions, and hope it’s enough for her. The monthly assembly was nearing its end and only a few stragglers remained. The day was nearly done with, and you were inclined to return to your chambers as soon as possible.

Your gaze had already slipped towards the next supplicant approaching when it happened. The woman reached out and touched the pale skin of your feet. An entreaty that transgressed sacred bounds. “Please, my lady!” the woman wept.

Before you could so much as respond, guards had already dragged the woman away from you. You didn’t know what she was thinking. She had to know that touching you was strictly forbidden, that it would mar your purity, ultimately affecting your ability to protect all of them with your sanctity as Priestess of the Goddess Terra.

The uniformed men showed no mercy, they raised their weapons and beat down on the old woman mercilessly. Your heart twinged with pain. You could understand their concern that the woman’s actions might have endangered the sacred temple and all who resided in its protection. But what was done was done and you abhorred violence.

“Enough!” the word was out of your mouth before you knew it and you were on your feet. Your fiery gaze narrowed at the men, and they hesitated nervously, realizing they had displeased you. Most of the residents of the temple had never even heard you speak and so, when your clear, commanding voice rang out throughout the temple hall everything ground to a halt. Time seemed to stand still.

“Tut, tut,” a sickly sweet voice rang out from behind you. The thick, velvet curtains parted, and the High Chamberlain stepped into view. He wore a tall, cylindrical hat that was inlaid with diamonds, and fashioned out of rich, mulberry velvet brocade. His spindly fingers were adorned with so many golden rings it was a wonder he could lift them at all. In fact, the platinum-haired man with the aquiline nose was so heavily weighed down by gold from head to toe it was a wonder he didn’t melt into a yellow puddle when passing by the kitchens. Only the ornate medallion on his chest, the mark of one anointed by the temple, was of burnished silver.

“You have displeased the Goddess.” His voice was deceptively soft, as was the usual manner for men who knew that they bore the kind of power that did not require them to raise their voices.

The men stood back at once, abashed. They brought their hands stiffly to their sides and bowed their heads in silent apology. The High Chamberlain stepped down the marble stairs with slow, measured steps. He approached them with disdain and gently helped the old woman to her feet.

“The goddess does not condone violence!” the chamberlain called out to the people at large, before turning to the two soldiers. “Do you intend to disgrace the temple by angering the goddess?” His voice was sharp and weighted with cold fury.

“Go. Take your families and leave this place. You are dismissed from your posts.” He turned away from them with a scowl, “Lest you bring damnation upon us all.”

He turned to the assembly with outstretched hands next. “Worshippers, please leave the temple now! The goddess must take her rest after the trying ordeal she has witnessed.” The men and women shouted praises to the goddess who had chosen to defend the common people over her own temple guards as four handsome young eunuchs approached with a palanquin. You were helped to your feet by your handmaidens, young girls who were sworn into your service from an early age and swore never to marry. As they carried you off, you could not help but glance at the two ashen-faced soldiers who looked like they had been sentenced to death. Your stomach twisted uncomfortably. You weren’t sure whether justice had been served. But the High Chamberlain had spoken, and what did you know about the affairs of the people?

“I’m not a goddess.”

The words were out almost as soon as you had reentered your chambers. You meant to sound indignant, but it came out petulant – childish, almost.

The High Chamberlain turned to you with a gentle smile. “I’m a priestess, Sig,” you insisted, “I worship the Goddess."

“Ah, and so you do.” He folded his hands over his staff, gold rings clinking as he did so. “I chose you myself so many years ago, because I saw the light of the goddess within you and knew you to be the next priestess.”

You frowned. You couldn’t help but feel that he was skirting the topic somehow, but you weren’t sure where he was leading. You settled deeper into your cushions and pulled the many silks around you closer. Your chambers were your favorite place in the temple, here you could be at ease, away from watchful eyes. Golden flowerpots littered the floors and tables, each with all sorts of fresh flowers picked from the gardens this morning. You liked to lie back on your silks, close your eyes, and pretend you were among them, on the grass, in the sunshine. Their bouquet’s sweet fragrance washed over you and you could almost believe it to be true.

“But through your worship, dear one, you have entered unto the goddess,” he smiled softly, and lowered his voice as if they were sharing a secret. “And the goddess has entered unto you.”

You pressed a palm to your chest where your heart thumped against your ribcage. Was it true?

“I strongly believe that you are the Chosen Priestess, who will save us all when the Great Evil arises.”

You frowned, unconvinced, “I’m sure you said that to my predecessor as well. And you’ll say it to my successor, too.”

Siegfried burst into amused laughter that ended in a cough. “You never cease to surprise me,” he shook his head. The two of you fell silent for a moment before he continued, “Do you know that your parents did not want to give you into the service of the temple?”

Wide-eyed, you turned to him now, perplexed, “why?”

The old priest shrugged, “Who knows? In their limited knowledge, they didn’t realize what a great honor the Calling that you had received was.”

He rose to his feet and made to leave, “Sometimes we cannot foresee the great glory that fate has yet to bestow upon us.” He winked at you, as if there was some riddle in his words for you to solve. You mulled over his meaning as he headed towards the door. You bit your lip when something puzzled you.

“Master Sig,” you called after him, causing him to stop in the doorway and turn towards you. “How did you change their minds? My parents, I mean?”

“Come now,” the High Chamberlain dismissed with a smile, “that is quite enough of the past.” He nodded at you and was gone.

The Great Evil was coming.

You knew it. You could feel it in your bones.

You spent day and night at the sacred tree begging the goddess for protection. You supplicated unto the pearled staff that only the priestess of the age was ever allowed access to. You told the chamberlain about your worries whenever you had a chance, but he was far more concerned with running the temple than with taking your premonitions seriously. When nearby cities and kingdoms fell, when the sorcerers who were meant to stop the evil were crushed under its feet, when the monsters were only days away, all hell broke loose.

The temples treasures were packed up, the servants and monks rushed to and fro, the chamberlain himself was seen running from place to place, barking orders, his hat askew. Among all the chaos, you merely stood there, lost and confused.

It was as if they had forgotten all about you.

“Sig!” you called out to the chamberlain’s retreating back. He almost stumbled at the sound of your voice and whirled around with a glare in his eyes. It was almost as if he were angry with you, but that wasn’t possible… was it?

“Wh- what am I to do?” your voice came out smaller than intended. You had been preparing for this moment your whole life – you, and generations of priestesses before you. Now that it had come, were they all going to run away?

Siegfried sighed and the anger evaporated from his face, he cooed your name and walked towards you, righting his hat as he did so. “Listen to me carefully now,” he said sternly, and you could almost hear the old, collected Chamberlain in his voice. “You are the chosen priestess. You will face this evil, and you will defeat it by your virtue. The goddess is within you – no, you ARE the goddess. You must take the Sacred Staff and protect this country.” His gaze bore into you, compelling you to understand. He was the closest thing you had to a parent, he had raised you all your life. He was the only one you were given leave to speak to. And he was entrusting you with all of their fates.

You blinked, your eyes welling up with tears at the enormity of your task, but you nodded solemnly. This was your due. For all the years of worship that the countrymen had paid to you and your ancestors. It was time to fight the evil with the collected power of those prayers.

“I – “ he was already stumbling away again, now that he had placated you, “I will take the people away – somewhere safe!” He opened and closed his mouth a few times as sweat rolled down his temples. “I’d much rather be by your side to see your glorious victory, but - but the people need to be evacuated.” He nodded firmly to himself. “I will bring them back when you have vanquished the Great Evil.”

You watched his retreating back as he turned slowly away from you and then bolted for the temple’s exit. You took a soft, deep breath and looked around.

The temple was abandoned. It seemed all the others had fled while you were talking to Sig.

No matter, you shook your head. It was time.

You dressed in the white silks that had been prepared for the month’s assembly, they were of better use for the upcoming battle. Seven gold belts you clasped around your waist, each with a divine significance. Power, Wisdom, Eloquence, Generosity, Chastity, Divinity, and Judgment.

You knelt at the sacred tree a final time and bade the goddess Terra watch over you, before rising to your feet and turning to a side room. Here, was the Wreath of the Goddess and the Staff of Sanctity. The two tools you would use to vanquish the approaching evil. The Staff was a pearly white, and the Wreath was made of delicate golden flowers and leaves that were as soft to the touch as real flowers. You placed the wreath atop your head and lifted the staff gingerly in your hands.

The uppermost floor of the tower was your destination. Here, you would face the oncoming horde of evil. Here, you would take your stand and protect the people of this land who had worshipped you all your life.

You saw them approaching from afar. A mass of growling, burly demonic incarnations approaching like a thick plague. The very stench of their evil made your skin crawl, but you set your teeth and stood firm. The closer they drew, the weaker you felt, their demonic aura infringing upon your divine power. You closed your eyes and whispered a prayer for strength, replenishing the shield of divinity.

When the horde of demons drew within earshot, you breathed deep and called out, “Halt, accursed spirits! I am the Priestess of the Goddess Terra, and I forbid you entry within our borders! Heed my words, lest I sentence you to your deaths!”

The monsters turned towards one another, muttering to themselves before bursting into raucous laughter. Their jeers made your stomach turn. As if you had not spoken at all, they lurched back into action and continued approaching the temple walls. With a quiet incantation, you lifted the sacred staff and struck the ground with it. Immediately, a luminous, incandescent wall sprung to life between the temple and the evil beasts. They snarled at you and the first of them lifted a mace before bolting towards the barrier – only to disintegrate into nothingness as soon as he touched it.

You smirked to yourself, you were the chosen priestess, and you would protect your countrymen. A furious roar lifted from the monsters as they shuffled back and forth, wondering what to do. You watched them, hoping they would retreat peacefully, putting an end to the chaos when a pair of crimson eyes caught yours. Your breath caught in your throat, because there, among the disgruntled goblins was a man standing well over them, he had black markings on his face and four muscular arms, two of which were folded across his broad chest, but most shocking of all was the fact that he was looking straight at you with a wide, unhinged smirk, fangs gleaming in the sunlight.

Before you could blink, he had launched himself up through the air towards you, and as he approached the divine barrier, the last shield between you and the evil beyond - it shattered into a million pieces like the thinnest of glass. He squatted on the balcony’s railing, his nose millimeters from yours, his scarlet eyes flecked with gold and glowing with bloodlust.

“Boo,” he taunted, his smirk unfaltering. You could hear the cheers of victory behind and far below him as the demons breached the temple walls, but you could not tear your eyes from the murderous smile of the man before you. Instantly, you knew without a shadow of a doubt, that this man was the Great Evil you had been taught about all your life.

“I am the Priestess of Terra,” you murmured quietly, your breath ghosting over his lips. You furrowed your brows, trying your best to look imposing, trying your best to stand your ground, “and I will vanquish you.”

His nose twitched and his eyes gleamed, there was something of genuine delight in his response and you fought the shiver that went down your spine.

“Oh, yeah?” he sneered, stepping forward off the balcony railing. His sheer size forced you to take a step back. “Says who?”

“The goddess Terra has ordained me to –“ you begin, glancing backwards so you don’t fall to the floor.

“Goddess, shmoddess,” Sukuna dismissed with a cruel laugh. Like a strike of lightning his hand shot out, and closed around your face, his fingers reached to the tips of your ears and his palms smelled of blood and sweat.

He was touching you - touching you. And his touch was warm and foreign and – and bruising. Your head spun with fear. When the demon applied pressure, you could hear the bones of your jaw creaking in protest as he lifted you off of the ground. He swung you left and right like a ragdoll, “I’m asking you, who left you here to stand against me on your own?”

“Th- The people of Terrania, I –“ your voice was muffled against his palm and you could scarcely breathe. “I will protect them!” you choked out, before striking out with your staff, hoping the mere touch of such a divine instrument would be enough to take him down.

You held the point of the staff against his chest, and Sukuna glanced down at it, taken aback briefly. He blinked, then broke into a chuckle, as the pearly white spear took on a gray, and then an inky black hue spilling down from the point of contact with Sukuna’s chest towards the handle in your hand. You gasped in horror, watching the ominous display through the gaps in Sukuna’s fingers.

“That’s all well and good, brat…” he chuckled sinisterly, “but who is going to protect you?”

And in that moment, you lost all hope that anyone would.

“Sukuna-sama,” a voice called from beyond your vision. “The place is abandoned, there’s no one else here. The townspeople, too,” the gruff voice continued. “All gone.”

“Well, well, well…” Sukuna sneered. “Looks like it’s just you and me then, priestess.”

He released his hold on you and you crumpled to the ground like a used towel, coughing for breath. You glanced up at the mountain of a man and began to realize, for the very first time, that you were entirely out of your depth. You stumbled to your feet gingerly, unwilling to give up despite the overwhelming odds. “I am the incarnation of the Goddess Terra,” you rasped, “and I will bring you to your knees.”

“Ho?” Sukuna sneered, almost delighted by your stupidity. “My knees, huh?”

He stepped closer and grabbed you by your hair, sending the Wreath of the Goddess tumbling to the ground, you yelped in pain, but squeezed your eyes shut, refusing to let him see your fear.

“Oi,” Sukuna snapped gruffly, “eyes up here.”

You glared at him through the tears in your eyes. He tugged on your hair some more. “Does this hurt?” He grinned in mock-concern, “I’m only getting started. I thought you were gonna bring me down, you’ll have to do better than that.”

Your scalp burned with pain. You thought of roses in syrup, of clay pots of honey, of cool silks and soft velvets. Anything but the present moment.

“Don’t you hate them?” Sukuna jerked you closer towards himself, “The assholes who left a nobody like you alone with me?”

You bit back tears. “I will protect my worshippers,” you whispered thickly, muted by sobs stuck in your throat.

“You think they didn’t know what was going to happen to you?” Sukuna barked a laugh, “You really don’t see what’s happening here?”

With his free hand he grabbed your face again, squeezing your cheeks in until they hurt. “Don’t tell me you actually believe all that crap about being a goddess?!” A disbelieving laugh echoed against the abandoned temple walls.

“I was going to kill you,” Sukuna mused piercing your cheek with a sharp, black fingernail. You whimpered despite yourself as blood trickled towards your chin. “Impale you and use you as a flag, you know?” He snorted in amusement, as if the idea was a clever joke.

“But I think I have a better idea…”

You yelped in alarm as you felt yet another hand at your waist, you tried to jerk away from him, trembling at his touch – as foreign to you as the pain you were feeling for the first time in your life. You tried to swat his hands away, but he was quick to catch your hands in one of his own, and then twisting them until they hurt.

“Now don’t be such a prude,” Sukuna taunted as his other hands sliced through the seven golden belts one at a time. “Let’s see what’s under here, shall we?”

“Stop, please…” you whimpered, eyes brimming with tears.

“You’re not a goddess,” Sukuna tutted, throwing two belts to the ground.

Power. Wisdom.

“Not a priestess,”

Judgment. Eloquence. Generosity.

“Not the savior of these stinking humans,”

Divinity.

The last of the golden belts clattered to the floor and his hands reached between the folds of silk and cupped the mound between your legs. A shuddering sob escaped your throat.

“You’re just a woman.”

Chastity.

He rubbed at your clothed sex, observing the conflicting emotions of horror, pleasure and fear splayed openly across your face. “Looks like the goddess likes it,” Sukuna sneered.

The tears you held at bay came bubbling over. The sounds of the temple - your childhood home, your only home - being ransacked by the many cursed spirits that had stormed in echoed through the halls and instead of protecting your shrine, here you were being touched, touched, by the great evil himself in ways you didn’t understand.

“They steal little girls like you from their parents,” Sukuna continued gruffly, adjusting his grip so that two hands held you up by your thighs, pressing your legs apart and pinning you against a large, marble pillar, while the other two ventured up your abdomen and over your breasts each inch that his hands wandered over you caused cold dread to creep up your spine, when suddenly – without warning – his sharp nails came down, tearing your silk robes to shreds.

You gasped in horror and sheer humiliation. You had never been exposed to anyone, not even your handmaidens, and here you were spread open like a gutted pig. And beyond that, the eyes of the great evil were feasting on you as if you were no more than a morsel for him to devour.

You winced when he reached out towards you. You had spent your life untouched, and when Sukuna’s hands closed in on you, his touch was never less than punishing. He squeezed, he pinched, he scraped your flesh, as if he could only feel you when you were in pain. He grabbed your breasts and squeezed mercilessly, his sharp black nails digging into your skin. For reasons, you could not comprehend, you moaned through your hiccupping sobs.

This couldn’t be happening. This wasn’t happening.

“They look for the most gullible ones, unsuspecting idiots like you,” he twisted your nipple cruelly as he went on. “And use you to fill their own koffers, to bring in the fools who are willing to part with their gold. And you know what the best part is?” He lowered his head towards your ear to reveal it, but broke off laughing. The idea was so ridiculous to him, it didn’t look like he could help but laugh. He leaned against you, crushing you into the pillar as he continued laughing hysterically. You watched him helplessly, suspended against the pillar spread-eagle with your most intimate area pressed up against him, your eyebrows knitted in confusion, your cheeks damp with tears.

When the roar of laughter abated, Sukuna wiped at his eyes and brought his lips to your ears, “When those bastards left you here, do you really think they thought you would fight me?” He waited a beat for you to think it over. You hesitated, hadn’t Sig expected her to fight? “They must have thought you’d have the good sense to run away.” Sukuna burst out laughing again and pressed one hand to his stomach as if it hurt from laughter.

“You see? You see what an absolute fool you are?”

You could not respond and simply stared at him blankly. “Th-that’s not true…”

But you weren’t sure. You thought about how Sig had fled without another glance backwards. How the monks and handmaidens had run from the temple without once asking after you. How they had left you behind as if you were no more human than the temple’s paintings or statues.

“Everyone knew it was a lie,” Sukuna hissed sadistically into your ear, as he tore the simple, remaining scrap of fabric from between your legs.

“Everyone but you.”

And then his fingers were inside of you.

You cried out in shock. “No, no, no…” You fought against him with what little strength you had. You didn’t know what this was, but it was wrong, it was so, so wrong. “Stop!” You pounded against his chest hoping to catch him off guard so he would release you, but those long, thick fingers only kept exploring the hole between your legs.

“Stop it! Please! I’ll do whatever you want!”

“Oh yes, you will,” Sukuna smirked. Catching both of your wrists in one of his hands he pinned them above your head, leaving you utterly defenseless. You looked on in horror as he reached for the sacred staff and held it in his bare hand. The Sacred Staff. The divine gift that no one but the priestesses had touched for over a hundred years. In the hands of the Great Evil. And whose fault was that? No one’s but yours. The onyx marble glistened in the sunlight and a salacious sneer spread across the monster’s lips.

“Be honest with yourself, goddess,” he teased, bringing the staff between your legs. He pressed the cold marble against your womanhood and slid it slowly up and down, enjoying your look of despair at his manhandling your divine weapon. The cool marble slipped between your folds and touched something between your legs that caused you to jerk in response.

“Stop it,” you whimpered, letting your head hang in shame, even as your legs trembled against his hold with the strange, unfamiliar sensation. You could feel something coiling within your stomach, something you had first attributed to fear, but now you weren’t so sure anymore.

“What? You don’t like it?” Sukuna hummed with sadistic pleasure, “Don’t lie, brat.”

“I don’t!” you denied vehemently, even as your cheeks burned. But what could you do? With your legs pressed open and your hands pinned over your head, struggle as you might, there was no overpowering the great demon before you. Your eyes burned with guilt at what you had allowed to become of the sacred staff. If only a more powerful priestess had been in your place.

The thought was cut short by another entirely. Sukuna had said the temple kidnapped young, naïve girls. And what was it that Siegfried had said? That your parents had been unwilling to give you up? Maybe there were no priestesses more powerful. Maybe there was only a string of ignorant young women preyed upon by powerful men who made their fortunes off of them.

No, the idea was blasphemous!

Your thoughts were cut short as something cool and round demanded entrance and you shivered despite yourself. “Wh- what are you doing?”

“Think it’ll fit?” Sukuna mused, pressing the bulbous head of the staff against your opening. He prodded the hole carelessly once, twice, and each time a jolt passed through your body. “Stop!” you demanded, anxious sweat beading on your forehead, you opened your mouth to say more but nothing came out as a searing pain tore through you like fire.

A scream erupted from your throat as your untouched inner walls were forced to give way to the cold stone. Distantly, as if a world away, you could hear Sukuna laughing, enjoying your pain. Before your scream had even abated, he began shoving the staff deeper. Your cries broke off into sobs of pain, but the more you suffered, the more he seemed to be enjoying himself.

He pulled the staff out, only to ram it back into you, and smirked each time you jolted at the intrusion. You sobbed messily, tears and snot streaming down your face. Sukuna showed no signs of stopping, or even slowing, his punishing pace continued mercilessly until blood streamed between your legs.

“Pl- please…” you sniffled.

“Please what?” Sukuna asked, but rammed the ancient relic back into you as you opened your mouth to reply. “Come now, goddess, full sentences, please.”

Something awful was building and you didn’t know what it was - you hoped it was a swift death - but your breath shortened, and your body felt wound like a spring, and just as a dozen cursed spirits streamed into the room to give their report to Sukuna, you cried out in confusion as your body spasmed, your nerve ends tingling like grains of sand.

Sukuna pulled your staff from between your legs, and it hurt as if your insides themselves were clenching onto the stone instrument. You fell forward like a dead weight, hanging limply from where Sukuna held your wrists.

“Step forward men,” Sukuna all but purred, gesturing towards you magnanimously, “meet your goddess.”

Your face burned with shame and tears dripped down from your lashes onto the temple floor where they mingled with your blood. You trembled still with the force of whatever it was that had happened to you and closed your eyes from the humiliating experience.

“Oi,” Sukuna gripped your chin and raised your face towards him. “Don’t be a bore, goddess. Look at them.” He turned your face towards the creatures that had entered. A few bore a resemblance to men, others were half-beast, and others still were what could only be described as monsters with tentacles, fangs, and all manner of bodily deformities.

“See that look in their eyes?” Sukuna murmured into your ear, his fangs brushing your earlobe. “They want a turn, too. What do you say, should I hand you over?”

You turned your head towards him in horror, your eyes imploring him not to, as a cheer broke out among the cursed spirits.

You shook your head desperately as Sukuna finally released you, giving you a shove towards the gathering. They caught hold of you before you had even caught your footing, dragging you into the center of their circle. Their eyes were almost worse than their hands, the hunger with which those fearsome eyes raked over you was nauseating. You cried and screamed and begged them to stop, but your voice was drowned out by theirs. Nothing could stop them fighting over every inch of your flesh. You were groped and prodded at, licked in more places than you could count at once. It was as if you were drowning in hands and tongues.

But as bad as it was when they fought over you, it was worse still when they cooperated with one another. Bruising hands pinned you down while the others explored your body freely, taking turns mouthing your breasts and fondling you. There were so many voices, so much warm breath on your skin, so many faces, you shut your eyes and sobbed miserably.

You prayed that Sig would pull you away. That your guards would beat them down. That the goddess Terra would come to save you, but you knew it was all in vain. Deep down, you were beginning to realize. You were nothing more than a girl who had been stolen from her parents. After all, a true goddess could never find herself in such a situation, could she? Being raped to death in her own temple?

It was when an overeager cursed spirit positioned his member between your legs that you realized with startling clarity, that there was one person who could save you.

“Sukuna-sama!” you screamed, pulling your face away from another spirit seeking entrance at your mouth. They hesitated, confirming your suspicions. There was one person who could call them off, who might call them off still. “Sukuna…” you called again, but your voice was weaker this time. You squeezed your eyes shut and gave yourself up to the only true power you had yet to witness.

“Please, I’ll do anything! Please!”

When you opened your eyes again, Sukuna was standing beside you staring down at where you were held spread-eagle on the floor.

The mirth was gone from his face. He was regarding you seriously. A cocked brow, a challenge. “Anything?”

You nodded, tears still flowing from your eyes. He jerked his chin at the spirits, signaling for them to leave off and they scrambled backwards, not daring to challenge him. You rose to sit before him, your legs tucked beneath you as you used to sit in the temple library. Your shoulders shook still, and you wiped your face with the back of your arm, trying to regain a sense of decorum even as you could not stop yourself from trembling. You glanced down at your blood-stained legs and your tear-streaked arms, waiting for Sukuna’s verdict.

“You could be my mascot, like I said. I could string you up nicely,” Sukuna mused, leaning back against a pillar as he rested one booted foot on your shoulder. “What else could you possibly be good for? Apart from your leather, maybe.”

What were you good for? Nothing, clearly. You didn’t even know a single thing about yourself. But… you knew everything about the goddess.

“Do you want me to die a martyr?” you asked, meeting his eyes clearly, the faintest spark of hope coming to life within you. “Or do you want them to see that I’ve recognized the power of a true god?” It might work, appeal to his ego, he was the type, wasn’t he?

Sukuna’s lips split into a broad smile. “Clever little thing, aren’t you?” He pushed at your shoulder with his booted foot, sending you sprawling onto your back on the tiled floor. He then took hold of your wrist and lifted you up from the floor until you were eye level. You swallowed thickly and did your best to meet his gaze, there was a dangerous spark in those glowing red irises. “But I don’t like the look in your eyes,” he decided. “Should I take them out?”

Your breath caught in your throat. Did he mean that?

“Break in the goddess, huh?” He smirked, “Well, let’s get started, then.” As he pulls you towards the balcony you begin to understand what he has in store for you.

“I’ll be obedient!” You cry, realizing you’re in for more pain as you struggle to keep up with his steps. “I’ll do everything you say! Please, no more!”

“And how on earth are you going to be obedient?” He sneered, “When you’re arguing with me already?”

He throws you towards a wooden table.

The monks used to eat dinner here, you remember. They would thank you for the meal and eat humbly with gentle smiles. Your back slams against the surface of the wooden table and the candlesticks clatter across the temple floor. You scamper backwards, as if seeking to escape over the table, but Sukuna takes hold of your shoulder and flips you onto your chest, the rough wood scraping at your skin. In one fluid movement, Sukuna catches your wrists in his hand and slams your staff against the nearest wall, sending the marble bulb sailing through the air for him to catch in a third hand. He stabs the jagged edge of your now-broken staff through the backs of your hands, held one over the other, and clear through the wooden table.

You don’t even realize you are screaming until the pain in your throat becomes unbearable. You sob against the unfinished wood and Sukuna shakes his head behind you. “Tsk, tsk, tsk… What was that about being obedient?”

“I’ll be good, I promise…” you mutter nonsensically, your words slurred with pain. “You can trust me.”

“I’ll trust you when I break you,” Sukuna answers automatically. His attention caught by the marble, stone ball in his hand, still covered with your blood and your juices.

“Say ahh~” he grins, holding the orb of your broken staff to your lips. You’re about to protest, when your gaze catches on the cursed spirits still watching, waiting only a few feet away for you to screw up and be thrown back into their midst.

If you were going to be violated, wouldn’t it be better for Sukuna to be the one? He was just one demon, he had to wear out eventually, right? You opened your mouth, and Sukuna shoved the ball inside, scraping past your teeth. It was too big. It hurt. You couldn’t swallow. You could already feel saliva pooling in your mouth.

“Good girl,” Sukuna purred, “how’s that?” You couldn’t answer but you tried anyway, hoping the garbled sound would somehow please him. It seemed to do the job, because he asked no further questions as he moved back behind you.

It was awful. Your hands were burning, you almost wished he would have just cut them off instead. Every ever so tiny movement only widened your wounds, worsening your pain. The discomfort of the rough, wooden table almost didn’t register in comparison, but the burning embarrassment of your exposed backside hurt almost more than your hands. You tried to blend it all out, to disappear into some safe space in your mind as Sukuna slowly marched towards the end of the table trailing a sharp, black fingernail along your spine as he did so.

Sukuna didn’t like to give you any sort of pleasure without also giving you pain, you were starting to realize, and you grit your teeth for what you knew would be a humiliating experience, even more so with the other spirits looking on.

What you didn’t expect was for the palm of his hand to strike your backside with such force that the table splintered beneath you. Your hoarse throat cried out in pain. You could feel the bits of wood digging into your thighs, but could do nothing at all as he repeated the motion, again, and again, and again. Each strike seemed to travel up through your whole body, each strike seemed like it would split your skin. It was an endless, raw pain. You had no idea how long it went on for, but it continued until you gave up screaming, and your face lay limp in a puddle of your own drool.

When your body went slack and you were teetering on the edge of consciousness, and he could no longer provoke a reaction out of you, he finally stilled his hand. He pulled your face up by your hair, and your eyes rolled weakly up towards him, a string of spittle stretching from your chin to the table.

“You’re not finished already, are you?” he taunted, bright-eyed and sadistic. He rubbed gently at your backside now, almost as if easing away the pain and you blinked in weak confusion. What… what was he doing?

“That’s just the thing, goddess,” he slipped his hand between your cheeks, sliding up and down, spreading a strange slick liquid between your legs. “Don’t pass out on me now, if I wanted to fuck a corpse, I would have just killed you in the first place.” You moaned weakly. You had no idea what was going on, but it felt good, and you were so desperate to feel good. When his fingers slipped inside of you this time, there was nothing awful about it, you sighed against the table and closed your eyes in relief. Sure, there were still chips of wood in your thighs and the blood on your hands had crusted around your staff, and your jaw ached so terribly you did not believe there was a way to remove the ball of marble from your mouth. You were starting to hate the staff, and the wreath, and the temple, and everything about this place.

You relaxed into his touch, hoping that the more pliant you were, the less inclined he would be to cause you more pain. You felt thick, hard flesh prodding at your entrance, sliding up and down, just as his hand had a minute ago, to part your folds and slip inside. But something was wrong, whatever it was he wanted to violate you with now, it was too big, it would never fit. You glanced over your shoulder, trying to make sense of what was happening to you and your eyes widened in alarm as you saw not one, but two, erect members protruding from between his legs, each of them bigger than a man’s fist. He was going to literally tear you apart. He had no intention of letting you live.

All lethargy forgotten, you whimpered in fear and struggled to pull away from him, but two firm hands gripped your hips firmly, keeping you in place. “Now, now… don’t be that way,” he scolded with a cruel smirk. “Open wide.”

He forced himself inside of you with a thrust that should have split you clean in two. The sound that escaped from your mouth was something between a groan and a scream. You gasped, panting against the obstruction in your mouth as your inner walls burned with pain. You squeezed your eyes shut and whimpered against the table trying to spread your feet further apart, anything to ease the agonizing stretch.

But Sukuna cared little for your comfort. He continued ramming into you, aiming to push deeper and deeper inside of you, not having nearly had his fill. Each thrust makes you dizzy, each time he shoves further inside of you, you’re sure he’ll tear you apart.

It’s all together too much. Another orgasm crashes over you, despite the pain, causing your walls to squeeze down on him. You shiver uncontrollably against the table, wondering – hoping – if you could just black out until he’s done.

You feel the flat of his palm against your bare back and your eyes fall to half-mast as he shoves into you – again – again – again. You loll forward with each thrust, widening the wounds on your hands. When Sukuna finally gives pause with a groan, one hand on each side of you, leaning over you on the table, you turn your head weakly to look up at him.

It’s strange, to meet his eyes this way. It’s almost intimate. Being shadowed by him this way, covered by him. It’s strange how in the course of just a few hours, his touch had gone from horrid and strange to familiar. Strange. Perhaps it was simply her addled, exhausted mind.

You could not look away from him, and he did not seem to be inclined to do so either. He began rocking into you, eating up your expressions, each wince of pain, each moan of pleasure, each jolt of overstimulation. Did it make him feel powerful, you wondered, to be able to give you agony or ecstasy at his leisure, to switch them up at a whim, always leaving you guessing?

Just when you thought you had reached the point of no return, you felt him position his second member behind you. But what did he intend to do? You were stretched to your limit, there was no way he could fit another where he had forced the first – but the question answered itself almost as soon as it crossed your mind.

You turned wide eyes towards Sukuna, who smirked, feasting off your fear. You tried to say something, some protest about how wrong that was, but all that reached his ears around the ball in your mouth was helpless, desperate whines.

“Look at you,” Sukuna chided, lifting your chin from the table where you had made a mess, the wood softening from your pooled saliva. “Disgusting.” Your stomach did some odd flip at the word. It was an insult. So, why did it feel…

All thoughts were banished from your mind as his second member began squeezing into your narrow entrance. It hurt. It hurt so, so, so much. It hurt more than your jaw and more than your hands and more than losing your maidenhood to your own staff had. You sobbed against the table, your tears mixing with your saliva, and still Sukuna pushed on.

You didn’t know when the pain faded. Maybe it hadn’t faded at all, but it was now accompanied by another sensation. Something filthy, something animalistic, something intoxicating.

There was a type of urgency to his movements now, and you could hear the wooden table legs skidding over the stone floor with each thrust quickening in pace. Your breaths were starting to come fast and short again, and to your immense surprise, so did his. There was that coil tightening in your belly again, the tension throughout your body that you realized would be released shortly, and then it hit you – he was feeling the same thing.

The feeling of fullness drove you nearly out of your mind. Each thrust seemed to kill off a little of your sanity. Did it hurt? Was it torture? Or was it divine? Did you wish he would leave you alone or did you wish he would never stop? You didn’t rightly know.

Feeling both members slick in and out of you at the same time, perfectly in sync, filling you so perfectly you thought you could almost feel him in your throat. Your eyes crossed over as you gave yourself up to him. It was okay. It had to be. Everyone was gone. They had left you with him. It had to be okay to let him have you. To let him ravage you however he liked. It had to be okay if it felt this good.

He was also this close to reaching that strange, indescribable height that you knew you ought not to feel, being bared and violated in your own temple like this. But it was all a lie anyway, wasn’t it? And as opposed to always sitting still, and being silent, you felt more alive like this, on the precipice of agony and pleasure at the same time, waiting for someone as awful as Sukuna to push you over.

It tore out of you with a scream of pleasure, you all but convulsed against the table with the sheer impact of the climax that washed over you. Sukuna came shortly after, his pace stuttering, and then you could feel something warm and pleasant gushing into you. What could that be? Copious amounts of it, it felt like, pumping into you and flowing back out, dripping onto the floor between your legs. Sukuna lowered himself for a fraction of a moment, his chest almost grazing your back.

Panting, losing consciousness, your eyes met his. He made a sound that was something between a scoff and a chuckle, “That’s the thing sweetheart, you can’t pretend to be broken.”

“Mmm..” you answered, your eyes fluttering closed. Darkness was closing in. Were you dying? Or falling asleep? You had no idea. Sukuna had spoken so softly his minions couldn’t possibly have heard him. But as you drifted off, you held onto a single word… sweetheart.

Days and nights passed. Some with torture, some with starvation, some with agonizing ecstasy to drive you out of your mind. Some days he left you alone in a dark room until there was no way to know whether or not he had left you to your death. Others he whispered sweet, meaningless nothings into your ear just to see how it made you shiver. Some days he called you disgusting trash not worth his time. Others he called you goddess.

Both were starting to feel the same.

It was exhilarating just to have his attention. Just to have him look at you. Just to not be alone. It felt good to be struck by him. Almost as good as it felt to have him jerk your head back by your hair so he could fuck you harder. And when all was said and done, you were broken in every sense of the word, but that was okay, because you had never felt so whole.

When he marched on your townspeople it was with you on his shoulder, draped in skimpy, barely-there red silks and gold chains. You wore the Wreath of the Goddess around your neck like a collar, and your arms were wrapped around Sukuna’s neck. He didn’t even need to put you down to kill the few rebels that took up arms. And when the rest of them surrendered to his might, you felt giddy watching Sig and the others kneel before Master Sukuna. The burning villages, the ruined fields, didn’t it serve them right?

And just to prove a point, he’d dragged you onto his lap and fucked his goddess in front of the entire assembly. Bouncing you up and down until your eyes crossed in delirious pleasure. With the townspeople looking on in equal measures of shock and concern, with Sukuna’s big, warm hands on your hips, guiding you -

You’d never felt so pure.

#Sukuna #tw noncon #sukuna reader #writing #dark #dead dove do not eat

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earlgreydream · 4 years ago

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villain.

| draco malfoy x reader / theo nott x reader | smut | angst |

anon requested. smutty draco x y/n where they’ve been dating for months or years and draco cheated on her

cw: infidelity, sadism, branding, non-consensual voyeurism (revenge)

a/n: this request was a lot, it was long, and it made me FEEL THINGS

The alcohol burned going down.

The bass echoed in your feet as music blared from speakers, sweaty bodies moving and grinding against one another, just mere feet away. You were disgusted by the scene before you.

Where was your lover?

“Y/N!” A drunk friend called your name.

An empty smile crossed your face. You tipped the glass back, swallowing the rest of its contents. You needed it.

“Have you seen him?” You called over the music, practically shouting in your friend’s ear.

“Seen whooo?” They giggled, fingers clutching the glittering material of your dress. It felt like nothing on your body, you felt naked.

“Draco!” You spat, shoving them off when they shook their head no.

Annoyance was all too familiar, wrapping around you like a well-known friend. Fuck.

You slithered through the party, your eyes darting everywhere, searching for a head of white-blonde hair. Your efforts proved futile.

“Are you looking for Draco?” Blaise’s dark hand caught yours, grabbing your attention.

“Yes!” Finally, some help.

“I saw him go off to his room,” he pointed to the hallway off of the common room.

Blaise’s eyes were full of terrible pity, and you felt your heart sink to the bottom of your stomach.

No.

“Can I get you a drink?” He tried to stop you.

“No, get off of me.”

You pushed your way through dancing bodies and wandering hands of drunk boys. Your heels clicked on the black marble floors of the common room, drowned out by the music.

Your mind was far disconnected from your body, and you felt like something small amongst a crowd that suffocated you. Adrenaline kicked in, and you freed yourself from the teenagers, escaping hungry grasps.

Every step you took filled you with dread. It decayed your insides, poisoning your heart and your mind and weighing your feet down. Your ears were ringing, and you could barely hear the deafening music, or your friends calling for you to rejoin them on a couch nearby. Your lungs couldn’t properly draw in oxygen, and the edges of your mind began to prickle with delirium.

You were running on adrenaline.

You practically tripped over your own feet as you tore down the hall, halting as your fingers came into contact with a wooden door. Your fist closed around an iron handle, but doubt made you hesitate.

You had an instant where you considered turning around, going back to the party and forgetting about all of this. Ignoring the whispers of gossip, and silencing the rumors, pretending like this never happened. You could leave this doorway, leave and stay blissfully unaware before it was too late.

No.

Leaders don’t doubt themselves.

You’d made it this far, there was no sense to let your bravery falter now. You gripped the handle, twisting and throwing the door open. The action happened in an instant, and all at once, you couldn’t take it back.

Reality came crashing down on you.

Every fear you had suddenly became tangible. It was very real, unfolding in front of you, and you were powerless to stop it. Every ounce of doubt vanished from your mind, replaced with horrible certainty.

Your body froze. Ice shot down your spine, and spread through your skin in gripping tendrils. The adrenaline halted suddenly, and your heart stopped racing. Your mind snapped back to consciousness. Sharp, unforgiving sanity burst through you in one horrible, violent instant.

Draco Malfoy, your boyfriend of four years, was buried deep inside the cunt of Pansy Parkinson, your roommate and best friend.

Sick, deranged laughter rose in your throat and escaped from your lips.

The party still echoed under your feet, reminding you there were so many people close by. You wondered if they knew. You decided it didn’t matter, the only people who you would’ve believed it from were in front of you, fornicating in infidelity.

“Y/N!” Your name left Pansy in a scream.

At least she seemed ashamed, hurrying to pull the sheets— your sheets— to cover her breasts. Draco didn’t even have the decency to end his rough thrusts from behind, even as one of her hands went out to swat him away.

Cold, silver eyes glared back at you.

“Are you going to leave, or do you care to stay and watch?” Draco’s tone was impatient, dismissive.

His words tasted metallic, like blood and poison.

“Do you feel guilty?”

Draco mistook your tone for amusement. You didn’t cry, and you didn’t move. You didn’t even breathe. From his point of view, you just watched the situation unfold in eerie calmness.

Most girls would have screamed. Most girls would have sobbed and begged for validation, or run away at the very least.

You were not most girls. Draco knew you were something far worse.

You were dangerous and severe.

Your eyes glittered with something dark and terrible. It sent a shudder through him, and powerful doubt ripped all of the air from his lungs.

Do you feel guilty?

“No. I grew bored with you, I don’t regret this, Pansy’s a good fuck.” Draco’s voice masked his insecurity, but you saw directly through the cracking shell, staring directly at the truth.

Your gaze locked with Pansy’s. Her fear twisted in your own stomach, igniting your nerves like electricity. Draco’s movements faltered.

A terrible stillness settled over the room. For a moment, none of you moved, the ice inside of you spreading over everything.

In slytherin, you do what is necessary.

The voice echoed in the back of your mind, grounding you in your crumbling reality.

Do what is necessary.

A malicious idea crossed your mind with a depraved smile.

“I can be redeemed of boredom,” you said simply.

Your tone unnerved Draco. The stillness and certainty was suffocating. Every lingering doubt was annihilated, along with your trust and love for Draco and Pansy.

You didn’t expect the grief to feel so relieving.

The light caught the sparkles of your dress, glittering as the thin fabric moved on your body as you walked out the door. It slammed shut behind you, sealing the room shut with its sin inside.

“What have we done?” Pansy asked Draco.

Weak girls doubted themselves.

You were many things, but never weak. Your feet carried you back to the party. It was still in full, excited swing, as if horrible sins weren’t being committed, as if trust wasn’t being desecrated.

The depraved smile remained on your face.

You were freed from doubt, they were freed from lies. It was always easier to know who your enemies were, even when they were your lovers and your friends.

The cruelty glittering in your eyes, and the sick smile on your face confirmed to everyone that you knew. Blaise wouldn’t meet your gaze. He knew, and he’d led you to them.

“How long, Zabini?”

“A couple of months.” He shifted uneasily.

Your laughter struck fear in his heart. You were quickly coming to terms with your lover’s infidelity, and it ignited something inside of you.

Wrath tasted sweet on your lips, and you breathed it into your lungs like oxygen.

Blaise expected you to be hysterical, but this was far more calculated, far more dangerous.

There was one person left who was loyal to you, and he was leaning against a marble pillar, a glass of fire whiskey at his lips.

“Theo,” you approached the brunette, greeted with a smile and a sultry gaze.

“I need you.”

“Anything,” he answered with absolute sincerity.

“Draco is unfaithful, and I want to get revenge.”

Theo’s fingers slipped in yours, and he brought your hand to his lips. His dark gaze glittered with deviance, catching you as you tumbled.

“You’ve come to the right person.”

Draco was sickened. You attended classes with him, and took your usual seat beside him to eat in the great hall. As far as he could tell, nothing had changed. Blaise, and the few others who knew about his side habit, were uneasy with your reaction. All except for Theo.

Ever since you’d began dating Draco four years ago, he’d been terribly jealous of Theo. Whenever the brunette was around, Draco was openly affectionate with you, growing possessive and territorial. He didn’t imagine it would ever be used against him, but you could turn anything into a weapon.

You weren’t one to be underestimated.

The boys talked about an upcoming quidditch match, the Slytherin team being led by Malfoy. Theo calmly discussed strategy with him, as if he hadn’t sided with you in the betrayal. Draco was too trusting of the brunette.

Your hand slid up Draco’s back, your fingers threading in the hair at the base of his neck. He forced himself not to flinch, keeping his voice even. A hand dropped to your thigh, and you sipped the drink in front of you. Your nails were sharp on Draco’s neck, a veiled threat that made his skin crawl.

“I want to show you just how interesting I can be,” you whispered in his ear.

His silver gaze moved to you, watching as you stood and swung your legs over the bench. You cradled his hand in your face, giving him a cold smile before pressing a bitter kiss to his mouth.

You left the great hall, descending into Draco’s prefect dorm. Eyes trailed after you as you moved through the common room with grace. Pansy watched you disappear into his bedroom, pain spreading through her chest.

You changed into black lace and silk, leaning on the armoire as he entered. The heavy door shut behind him, and his hands went to his tie, tearing it from his body. His silver gaze admired your body, and he began to wonder why he’d chosen Pansy over you, realizing his mistake.

“What is this?” Draco dared to ask.

“Boredom can be cured, Malfoy. You may be willing to toss me aside, but you know that I’m a better match for you. I’m the pureblood your parents pray ends up in your bed.” You pointed out, and he swallowed, unable to argue.

“Let me seduce you,” your hands smoothed over the clean white shirt that adorned his fair chest.

He watched you touch him, your fingers undoing buttons and pushing the fabric off of his shoulders. He slipped out of the rest of his clothes, pulling on the tie of your robe.

You let him skim his filthy hand down your body, malice simmering inside of you. Your silk joined his clothes on the floor, and you led him to the bed, pushing him down on his back. You straddled his waist, settling down on his lap and lightly running your nails up his chest.

You tasted poison on your tongue, and a vicious heat spread through your limbs.

Your hands slid up his arms, trapping his wrists at the headboard. Draco didn’t struggle as silk ties wrapped around his wrists, and you secured his hands to the wrought iron bars. Your sweet smile turned insidious, and icy fear paralyzed Draco.

“Y/N-”

“Shut your fucking mouth!” You snapped, sliding off of his body like a viper. Your feet were on either side of his hips as you stood over the terrified blonde, and you considered kicking him in the ribs. He opened his mouth, but it fell shut with your dangerous look.

You stepped off of the bed, and Draco thought you were going to leave him naked, tied to the bed. It didn’t matter, Pansy would be around in a few hours to free him.

Draco’s fear heightened when you opened the door without dressing, his stomach dropping when another person entered the dorm.

“Theo?” he croaked.

His body jolted as the door slammed shut, the lock clicking in place and securing your privacy. Your venomous laughter rattled Draco’s spine, and you walked to the edge of the bed, standing before him.

“Y/N, you need to let me go. Theo, untie me!” The panic in his voice fueled the fire of your wrath, and you smirked at how pathetic he looked.

“I don’t need to do anything! I owe you nothing, you weak little bitch. Beg me.”

He stared at you in disbelief, and Theo watched you. The room was buzzing with intense ferocity, your rage pouring off of you in waves and drowning everything in its path.

You were going to get revenge, and it was going to be sweet.

Draco’s will was strong, but it was no match for yours. Theo slid his tie off of his neck, but Draco was too focused on you to notice. You were entirely focused on emasculating Draco, determined to make him feel as pathetic and weak as you saw him.

“Please untie me. I’ll do anything, I’ll break it off with Pansy, I’ll do whatever you want, but just untie me, please.” The desperation was clear in his voice, fear edging in his tone.

“No,” you answered coldly, and he jerked his wrists, the silk digging into his flawless skin. A frightened sigh escaped him, and he turned to Theo desperately. Theo tossed his own clothing aside, and Draco shook his head.

“No, no, Y/N, not with Theo!” Draco protested.

You turned away from the blonde and pulled Theo against you, his tongue invading your mouth in a rough, forceful kiss. Draco yanked on the bonds, jealous fury burning through him as he watched Theo’s hands explore your body, grabbing and touching you in places that only he did.

“You are going to lay there, helpless, weak, and pathetic. You are going to watch your best friend fuck me, and you’re going to stay tied up and powerless.”

A noise rose in Draco’s throat, and your hands gripped the sheets at the end of the mattress, bending over and facing Draco. The remaining lace was ripped from your body, and you shot Draco a sadistic smile.

“You’re going to pay for this.”

“Open your mouth again, and I’ll force it shut.”

You stood up as Theo slammed you from behind, gripping the posts of the bed. Your fingers gripped the etched iron, and memories of having your wrists restrained on experimental nights came flooding back.

Exhilarated screams left your lips, Theo filling in you in perfect ways, in ways Draco never could.

“He’s so much better than you. You’ve been holding me back, Draco!”

Silver eyes were wet, delighting your cruelty. Your sharp laughter burned his ears, and his skin was raw from struggling. He watched the scene in front of him, knowing exactly how you felt, but Draco was weak enough to drown in it.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry-” he choked out as he watched Theo circle your clit in expert, practiced touches. Draco shook his head, watching his best friend, his teammate, and his partner come deep inside of you. He watched it drip down your thighs, your ecstatic, pornographic screams pounding in his head, echoing off of the walls as your own orgasm shattered through you. Theo shared your vengeful pleasure as he watched Draco fall apart.

Your limbs were trembling as you stood up all the way, leaning back into Theo. You stared at Draco, furthering his shame and misery, twisting like a sickness in your chest. The poison of revenge was addicting, pumping through your veins like blood and filling your heart.

“Y/N, I’m sorry, I’m so-”

You lunged at the boy, your fingers closing around his throat, kneeling on top of him like he was your prey.

“Draco, I will never forgive you!” you hissed venomously.

Theo was gone, leaving the two of you alone, leaving no witness to whatever crime of passion you were about to commit. The thirst for blood was thick on your tongue, the hunger for revenge making you violent.

Draco screamed as your wand burned letters into his skin in thick, black ink. You drew back, admiring your initials that were now branded onto the inside of his hip, left by your hatred. His chest heaved as he watched you in horror, making your lips curve into a sadistic smile.

“I own you.”

You left him restrained, knowing someone would find him eventually as the door closed behind you. Your heart was racing, all of your nerves buzzing from the adrenaline.

Leaders don’t doubt themselves. Do what is necessary.

Pansy walked past, and you grabbed her black hair, yanking her back against the wall, pinning her to the cold stone with your own body.

“If you ever touch what is mine again, I’ll rip every pretty hair from your head, and I will have you begging for death!” You seethed, yanking hard on her locks, tearing a terrorized whimper from her.

“Got it?”

“Yes!”

You threw her down and spun on your heel, leaving her shaking. Her scream echoed through the common room when she found Draco, and a sinful smirk adorned your face.

You found you had a taste for wrath, and a talent for violence.

#earl grey draco #draco #draco malfoy #draco angst #draco smut #draco x reader #draco x reader smut #draco x reader angst #draco malfoy smut #draco malfoy angst #draco malfoy x reader smut #draco malfoy x reader angst #draco malfoy x reader #theo nott x reader #theo nott x reader smut #theo nott x reader angst #golden era #hogwarts #female reader

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plasma-studios · 6 months ago

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Chapter 9: sometimes pretense is sweeter - than honey

The risk of allowing Cross out wasn’t small. He hadn’t tried to attack Dream yet, but that could just be common sense on his part. Cross could not even touch Dream; but he very much could hurt the townsfolk. Dream kept the thread of Empathy linked to Cross like his life depended on it.

Besides, Dream was certain that Cross would not act so impulsively. He was a spy, not a warrior: what value would he find in taking the lives of the townsfolk, anyway? It was more likely that he’d had orders to attack Dream, and he had not done so. That meant Cross was more than some weapon sent to take his head: that made him even more dangerous to contend with, but it also meant that his threat went beyond just violence.

So, the possible threat of violence wasn’t one he had to contend with for now. The real danger of allowing Cross out was allowing him to gather more information to pass to Nightmare.

But, allowing him access to more information wasn’t all-together bad. As things stood, it would be a long time before Dream gave him back to Nightmare, if at all. If all it took was harmless tidbits to get Cross to open up, why not?

But a small threat was still a threat, so he kept his Empathy locked on Cross. If he felt even the slightest inkling of malicious intent from him, it would take only a moment to bring him back. After all, the carriage was just for appearance’s sake: the carriage was just for appearance, though he wouldn’t deny the glamour had its own purpose.

Though the gold silks were too much. They accentuated his divinity too much. He was to be some wealthy nobleman, not Dream, not the Lustre God or the Light God or whatever they called him nowadays.

By now, he was familiar enough with the charade that it went on seamlessly.

He wasn’t fond of the gold mask, or regal carriage. Stepping in felt like a dream in a dream, blotted over, like a wrong skin. Too familiar, perhaps: he was not a Prince anymore, and yet, there was little difference.

This time, however, the muted numbness was slightly lifted by the soft confusion from Cross. Always an observant one. Of course, he said nothing else, and silently watched him with hidden confusion in his eyes. To Cross, it would look contradictory. Dream mused to himself: Would he figure it out before the day ended?

Dream was definitely attracting attention. There were eyes on him from the moment he stepped down from the carriage, with Cross behind him and soon his hand in his. The chatter in the air was superficial noise, thin enough to leave a quiet for eavesdropping, but thick enough that it wasn’t so obvious.

It was only vaguely obvious that the radius of superficial noise followed the pair as they went down the street dotted with street stalls. Curiosity. Intrigue. Of course, desire. Dream felt the gold in his pocket: the first vendor to catch Cross’ eye would be very fortunate indeed.

“Anything that’s caught your fancy?” Dream kept the weight out of his voice, leaving a soft question. Cross’ eyes darted left, then right, then back to Dream.

“Is this our breakfast?” He could see him filing away information from even just the walk in town. A spy first and foremost. Dream suppressed the emotion that had risen in him and nodded.

Cross glanced away, scanning the rows and rows of stalls. His gaze returned and he tentatively nodded to one two stalls down their right. Dream let out a soft laugh. Tarts? It was a rather unorthodox first bite for the morning, but why not?

The street vendor had noticed them approaching long before they neared them. There was a certain light in their eyes, probably the light of realising their next customer had deep pockets.

“Hello,” Cross greeted, somewhat awkwardly. It was a little funny: what happened when you took a man serving evil incarnate out of the battlefield and placed them in normalcy? This, apparently.

“Good day, sirs!” They reciprocated the greeting with a twinkle in their eyes. “What could I interest you in today?”

Dream was curious to see what Cross gravitated towards, so he stayed silent.Cross paused. “Uh, what would you recommend?”

And, of course, the light in their eyes glinted again. “Oh, definitely the chocolate one. It’s very popular!” And, very expensive. But would Cross catch onto that? He glanced Dream’s way, hesitant: oh, he had. It was almost endearing, almost. He was aware that Dream wouldn’t spare much expense for this sort of thing, he knew what Dream wanted from him. Yet he still paused there, waiting for his approval. As if. Dream smiled gently.

“Why not?”

The tart was overpriced, but only slightly. He suspected the street vendor had jacked up the price, but there was little use in calling them out, and his smile was placid even as the gold went from his hand to theirs.

The tart was small enough to fit in Cross’ palm. He hesitated, then took a bite of the tart. There was a lump in his throat for a moment before he finally swallowed.

“Do you like it?” Dream kept the same softness in his voice. Intrigue, vague realisation— ah, the townsfolk were observant. Cross would catch on soon enough. Would he reciprocate, though? Had he accepted Dream’s deal, even if he was just pretending to?

Cross met his eyes: tight, prepared neutrality even before he took the bite; then, the slightest string of amenability. Small, restrained, but it was still some sort of subtle joy. Dream made a mental note of it.

“Do you want a bite?” He murmured at the same volume. Dream considered it, and decided to take him up on it. He took it from his hand; their fingers brushed past each other’s for a brief moment, and he took his bite. It was… definitely overpriced. It was sweet, very sweet, but by no means decadently so. It was fine, just not anything special.

“Here.” Dream lifted the now twice-bitten tart to Cross’ mouth. He was pushing the thin peace that had settled between them, and he watched him intently as Cross glanced to him, then to the tart. He could feel the moment Cross made his choice. He leaned in, swallowed a bite off his hand, then gently took it off Dream with his own hand and finished the tart off.

There, that subdued joy again. Did Cross like sweet things?

“Would you like another?” They eagerly prompted. Dream would not, and he let Cross stay silent for a moment, before looking away, to offer a gentle rejection. They did not stay to see the street vendor’s reaction in full, for another stall had caught Cross’ attention.

Pastries, this time. Dream suppressed a smile.

How curious. - - - - - -

Eventually, the sun in the sky had reached the overhead position where it bore down. Cross felt the heat creeping up on him, beginning to soak his clothes. He doubted Dream was feeling the heat as keenly as he was; there was not even a trace of sweat on his forehead. Still, he must’ve noticed Cross’ growing discomfort. Cross was not so foolish to believe it convenience that Dream happened upon a small, sheltered shop— selling jewellery, of course, so he went in and took Cross into the refuge from the sweltering sun.

Surely it was an act. He wouldn’t be flaunting his favour for jewellery if it wasn’t for some greater purpose. God, why bother changing if he wasn’t going to let go of that wealthy Godly persona? Surely there was something he was missing, Dream wasn’t that foolish.

Normally that would irk him, but maybe it was the fresh air, because as he quietly waited in the corner, arms crossed, while Dream conversed with the shopkeeper over a few jewelled bangles, the thought of not knowing something was no less irritating than the lingering sweat. That was the default: not knowing. He normally dealt with it better, he knew better than letting blind panic lead him astray. He would hope so. Though recent events hadn’t exactly proved that right.

He let out a quiet sigh. Cross kept his gaze on Dream, though the latter seemed to be giving all his attention to the bangle he was holding up to the light.

As if. He did everything with a purpose. Which was why Cross pretended not to notice the vague figure approaching him casually; Dream was doing it again, offering him a chance to garner more information. He understood what Dream was doing now. It was an exchange: I’ll allow you information, but in exchange… of course.

“Sir?” There they were, the stranger. Dressed in a simple linen shirt and trousers. He cast them a sideways glance, careful in keeping up the slight confusion in his face at being addressed so suddenly. The stranger didn’t look particularly wealthy, but what did he know? He suspected they had followed them into the shop, but he might very well be wrong. Dream definitely wasn’t drawing attention with his oh so elaborate mask, after all. “I apologise if I’m being rude, but…”

The overly polite cadences were so very awkward. Cross let out a quiet breath.

“No worries.”

The stranger paused, glanced to Dream (who was doing a very good job of pretending to be overly immersed in the selection of rings, or perhaps it wasn’t a pretense at all and was his own magpie interest without restraint) and looked back as if encouraged by the lack of attention. They clearly thought they were being inconspicuous. “Are you new here?”

Cross carefully looked to Dream, to the stranger who already had the gleam of assumption in their eye, and nodded slightly.

“Ah! No wonder I’ve never seen you around here,” They said as if he was an old friend. As if they were trying to befriend him. “If you need directions, you can count on me!”

Hm. “Well, I’m here with my husband.” The way the gleam in their eyes immediately lit up was almost ironically funny. Was that how he seemed to Dream? Drop a single shred of information and watch the piranhas swarm over the meat.

“Oh?” They breathed. “Who’s your husband?”

Cross let out a soft breath, looked away (maybe he was having a little too much fun) and glanced to Dream for a fraction of a second. They caught it; the small gasp they let out was proof enough.

“Congratu— You’re married to— the Noble? ” Ah, so Dream hadn’t lied about how he'd portrayed himself to the townsfolk thus far.

“You know who he is?” He kept some semblance of surprise in his voice.

They looked at him curiously. Ah, did they think him naive? They cautiously opened their mouth, and leaned in as if they were telling him a great secret. “Everyone does.”

“Oh?” He matched their volume instinctively.

“Yeah.” Their voice was tinged with laughter. “He doesn’t come by often, but when he does— oh, boy, everyone knows.”

He adjusted to the increasingly casual responses, allowing his demeanour to soften just enough to seem approachable. “Maybe his attire is a tad too fancy.” Obviously.

“You think?” They shook their head, amused.

“Even with the mask?” Obviously, that thing was more elaborate than his clothes.

“Oh, especially the mask. Anything as fancy as that definitely belongs to a Noble. Everyone’s abuzz about it. You know he drops gold like nothing when he comes into town?”

“I didn't know that, no. I’m from, uh, another town.”

“Oh?” They didn’t actually care, of course. Cross could tell. “I haven’t seen his carriage leave this town in ages. That, too. Who else would travel around in a carriage? Goodness.” They shook their head.

“I met him outside my town, actually.” And this was a conversation that held no use, so he steered it in the other direction. “Did he grow up here?”

“Probably. His family is so secretive. I mean, we appreciate the funding and all, but sometimes we’re curious, y’know?’

“Funding?” Eh. At least he was doing something useful with his wealth. “ Secretive?”

“Oh, we all have stories here and there. A rich man or woman comes in, purchases broacades or brioches with ten times the gold needed. They try to hide their identity, but, honestly, not many people here can afford solid gold. But otherwise, we almost never get to see them.”

Huh. Was that how the isolated economy here worked, supported solely because of Dream’s overflowing wealth? He was curious to see what would constitute a more ‘womanly’ appearance for Dream. Did Gods even have a preference between the feminine and masculine?

“That’s a shame. He’s a bit of an enigma, huh?”

“Cross?” The stranger quickly slunk away from him as Dream called out to him. “Come here for a moment.”

Cross obliged. On closer inspection, there were two silver rings in his palm. Silver?

“I thought you liked gold better,” He commented offhandedly. “What’s the issue?”

Dream nudged his open palm in his direction. “Help me decide between these two rings, won’t you?”

Well, they were both silver. One was a simple solid band, though, and the other’s metal was woven together in a crisscross pattern as intricate as lattice. The latter seemed more flashy, so perhaps Dream would like it more? That seemed too obvious of an answer. He scanned the first ring again. Ah. There were small flower carvings, barely noticeable, in the silver.

His laugh. “It’s not a test.” But he was still waiting for Cross to choose. Eh, the lattice ring felt more tailored to Dream’s taste.

“That one.”

Dream returned the other ring and paid for the lattice ring. The stranger had slunk away to the farest corner of the shop, Cross made a small note of it.

Dream had slid the ring onto his ring finger, and was observing it in the light. Cross abruptly felt the weight of Dream’s ring on his finger. Had the fresh air really made him forget? The ring was like a cuff.

“We’ll be on our way, then.” Dream turned away from the shopkeeper and offered his hand to Cross. He instinctively took it. Then they were walking hand in hand out the door. Oh, his touch was so very warm.

“Why the silver?” He was curious, and it seemed harmless enough of a question. Dream had not denied him unimportant information thus far.

“Hmm.” He was wearing a soft, amused smile. But it was still a smile. “I’ve so much gold. It wouldn’t hurt to indulge in a different metal.”

“It definitely stands out.” He really had to be more mindful of the dryness in his tone. But it was true. The silver stood out like blood on parchment in the golden ensemble that was his attire. Soft, muted yellow robes; even the gold in his eyes was brought out just a tiny bit more by the aureate mask. This noble attire was undoubtedly tied to this nobleman (or noblewoman) persona. It was clever, the type of thing he would expect from Dream. He’d tied the elaborate mask to this mortal noble identity: just fancy enough to suit a noble, but not too much where it made him look divine.

The identity of an Immortal or even God must’ve brought with it much danger. But his guess ended there. He knew he was missing something. He knew it as keenly as a breath. There was a purpose to everything. There always was.

“See anything you want?” His voice, as always, was a lovely blend of sweetness and danger. They had moved away from the earlier stalls, but this street was almost as busy. Maybe busier. Cross scanned the nearest stalls. Nothing particularly interesting, but might as well—

Something was off. The crowd was abuzz and yet there was something off. A shift in the air, vaguely out of place footsteps growing louder and— he turned to Dream and did not hide the alarm in his eyes. However, Dream’s smile merely twitched, and he broke eye contact.

There was something—

A clash. He stumbled forward at the impact; Cross rushed to him, the magic in him swirled and rushed to the surface—

It was a kid. Cheeks flushed, brown hair done up in a bun that was slowly coming undone. Their freckled face was almost terrified as they withdrew from Dream. Dream. Dream was laughing, and on the floor.

The tension in the air was so high strung it was like a string about to tear.

The tension didn’t touch Dream, though. It seemed to swirl around them, looping around like a bubble that was about to burst.

Cross was also on the floor, he realised. He was on one knee; he had an arm out around Dream, the other outstretched in the direction of the kid. For attack, he realised. He quickly withdrew the latter and supported Dream as he continued laughing.

“Oh, that caught me off guard.” He looked into his eyes and Cross knew it to be a lie. He had seen the child coming. Cross let out a sigh. Dream let him pull him to his feet, and his face was flushed with a soft, delicate amusement.

Cross did not realise something had reared up in him until it backed down.

The kid still looked so terrified. Dream looked at them, and smiled.

“Hey.

They took a step back, breathed, looked from side to side—

“Is he in trouble?” Cross murmured to him. Dream sent him a soft, amused look and shook his head. Well, that should’ve been a given, but who knew? “Hey,” Cross said, echoing Dream. “Hey, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

The kid breathed again, looked back— before they could run away Dream threw something at the back of their head. They froze, looked back: it was a small pouch.

Cross had the feeling he knew what it contained.

He was right. Gold, yet again. The kid looked incredibly dazed as they looked at Dream, back at the gold.

Then they actually ran away, pouch in hand. Cross blinked. Dream let out a soft noise. “The shy type, huh?”

…How much gold do you carry? Scratch that, how many pouches of gold do you carry?

Cross leaned over and whispered into his ear, “You saw the kid coming.”

Dream made a soft hum. “Perhaps. Help me up.”

Cross let out a sigh, but he pulled him to his feet anyway. Dream was still wearing that soft, amused look as he let go of Cross’ hand and continued his stroll. The tension in the air had not entirely dissipated, but most of it had.

He leaned in again. “There were people watching.”

Dream, this time, didn’t acknowledge it with even a hum. Though the soft smile on his face never left.

The moments after were fleeting. The town seemed to hold its breath as they moved through, strangely enough. Sweet pastries, fresh bread; a brooch or two, a small wooden bird. And of course, the curious glances and jacked up prices.

Dream, however, let the gold fall from his pockets and it garnered no reaction more than a knowing, but still soft, gaze.

For a while, Cross was able to forget who Dream was.

On Mercy (ao3: x)

The Council has been at war with the Emperor (more colloquially known as the King of Nightmares) for a long, long time. After defeat after defeat, they find themselves with no option but to request help from his fabled twin.

However, Dream will not help them for free; he locks eyes with Cross, and decides he wants him in exchange for the war victory. It is an easy choice to make.

But Cross is terribly apprehensive, because he his loyalty is not to the Council, but to Nightmare as a spy, and Dream is Nightmare's mortal enemy. Moreover he suspects Dream chose him knowing this, wanting information about his twin; and the issue is, Nightmare is absolutely unforgiving of traitors.

But he cannot offend Dream, for he too is an Immortal and God. He cannot forget that both Dream and Nightmare is dangerous, that any wrong move will end in his demise or worse.

(He forgets, however, that he himself is mortal.)

[OR: A Empire/Kingdoms UTMV AU, where Cross is caught between the crossfire of Immortal/Gods! Dreamtale Twins and some involvement with God!Errorink too.]

Inspired by love, in fire and blood by cicer

Chapter 1: a deal is struck

The tides would shift soon, they told themselves. Each day’s fresh defeats were a necessary evil, soon the tides would shift and they would have their victories. This war would be theirs to win.

That was the belief of the dreamers among them. Those who held onto their hopes even as they buried their comrades day after day.

Then there were the defeated, the broken. Those who had given up their hopes for a better life and fought to survive. Sometimes they just gave up and let the ocean take them, or the earth. It would be a kinder fate than joining his army of the dead.

Even with all the Kingdoms of the World allied together, his Empire overshadowed them all. Even in their Council, even with Kings and Queens and Dukes and Countesses they all seemed to have some grasp on the truth. Some awareness of their position, of defeat after defeat.

Cross watched them debate, then argue, then lament. They were losing, they all knew it. He knew it too. Even as a lowly soldier (it was what he was best at) he knew it, saw it in the numbers they were losing and the grim lines in their faces. He didn’t say anything, however, and lowered his head as they discussed troops and strategy.

As if he’d heard nary a word of the King of Nightmares.

There were rumours about him. He went by other names, too. The Cruel Prince, once. The Boy of the Night. There were rumours that he was a God, some that he was an immortal. (The Moon Immortal, they called him.) Some that he was just a regular mortal drunk on power. But what mortal lived for centuries?

The Council, at least in part, suspected his immortality. Perhaps even Godhood. But they did not want to, because their hopes of success were already dismal.

But there were stories that brought them impossible hopes. Stories about his twin, the Light to his Darkness. Stories, not rumours, for the twin was so little known about him and far less about his twin. At one point the numbers had climbed too high and someone bravely made the suggestion. Could we reach out to his twin for help? First, it had been a casual remark. But slowly it made its way into the official discussion, its feasibility and possibility debated alongside strategy and supply. Not happily debated, of course, for the implication was that they had no other choice. But Cross, again, remained silent as they worked out the finer details. First, they worked out how they’d contact him in the first place; a letter, perhaps, but it would need to be published everywhere to get his attention. That meant that it couldn’t contain anything sensitive, but they could work around that.

A few sessions later (and a couple lost battles) the letter was drafted. Soon after, published world wide. Hours later, they got their response. Though they would not discover it till the morning after. His reply had been burned into the walls of their Council Chambers.

To the Council:I hear you. I agree that my brother has been excessive in his terror; I also agree that you cannot win this war without me. It is not a matter of your weakness, but rather his strength. It’s time my brother is stopped.

However, I will not do it for free. On the Summer Solstice I shall attend your Council to discuss our terms. I sincerely hope we’ll find an agreeable compromise then.- The Sun Immortal.

At this the Council was entirely silent. There was only the sound of breathing, then gasping, and slowly they erupted. Insolence and arrogance bounced across the room: “What hubris!” “Is it hubris if he’s an Immortal?” And, of course, the confirmation of immortality. Though that was somehow the least shocking tidbit.

The writing was oddly neat for having been burned in, Cross noted. Then how long till the Summer Solstice? and what can we offer him?; of course they hadn’t been so optimistic to assume he would help them free of charge, but faced with the confirmation they suddenly found it difficult to discern what an Immortal would want in exchange. Gold and jewellery seemed like rewards for the living, for the mortal; would such material rewards be accepted?

What if he wanted land, instead? A crown, a Kingdom? What, then? They spent more time debating their terms than drafting the letter. But they had to come to a conclusion soon, as Asgore reminded them: the Summer Solstice was a mere three days away.

Finally they voted, and it was decided. They would ask him what he wanted in return first, and work from there. Surely if he was taking the time to discuss with them, he did want the deal to go through, and if he wanted it to succeed, he would not ask for something impossible. Surely?

However, they still prepared for all the options thought up in their hours of discussion. Rubies, sapphires and emeralds polished and stored away in trunks with gold and silver coins beneath them; carefully stored crowns with freshly gilded gold and polished jewels; cloaks and clothing made out of silk or laced with furs, etc.

Even obscure recipes were brought out, like boiled gold soup and silver ingot bites. The food once regarded as the highest cuisine, only for the wealthiest. Not anymore, of course, but nonetheless.

Finally, the preparations made not in official Council discussion but covert exchanges to prepare a variety of beauties. Some fair-skinned, some not. Some freckled, some not. Some muscled, some not. Some more compliant, some more recalcitrant, some more aggressive.

We don’t know his tastes, and there was an undercurrent of humour in it, even. It would not be the first time someone demanded people for their war efforts.

It was a little extreme. Even Nightmare’s tastes were… ah, somewhat sane. But Cross didn’t know the Sun Immortal, so perhaps his tastes were indeed less sane. Nonetheless the day of the Summer Solstice arrived like the sun rising for each day.

Now the Council would be arriving earlier today for fear of missing the Immortal’s visit, but though they’d arrived at their predetermined time (just after dawn) there was already someone there. A stranger in light silks, asleep in one of the chairs. Arms folded, head dipped, sleeping quietly.

His breathing was quiet, but it was still there, and in the silence of their held breaths they heard it clearer than their own. No sooner had the first of them stepped over the threshold, however, did the stranger’s eyes flutter open. “Ah, good morning.” His voice was clear and light; like a drink of water in the desert. “I assume you’re the Council?” There was a silence, before CORE Frisk responded, “Yes. I assume you’re the Sun Immortal?” At that, a sweet chuckle. Still so light, sweeter than honeycomb. “Officially, yes; but just call me Dream.” At that, whispers again: but they were quickly silenced by a look from Undyne. The Council had tentatively started filling in, all the while Dream was looking at them rather curiously, a hint of amusement in his gaze yet any mocking absent from it. Just like how an adult would look at a child. Like an immortal gazing upon mortals?

Cross was familiar with that sort of look.

Dream got to his feet and tilted his head. “I’m assuming I wasn’t so fortunate to choose my seat on a guess?” “Unfortunately not, but we’ll show you to your seat?” CORE Frisk had taken a tentative step forward when he raised his hand abruptly— lazily? “No need.” He reached over and grabbed the shoulder of the nearest Guard. “You.” He smiled. “Show me to my seat.” The poor Monster was so very stiff as he led the Sun Immortal to his seat; a cushioned, grand thing, positioned in the centre of the rows of seats wrapping around it in a circle.

Cross made sure he wasn’t scrunching his eyebrows. Wouldn’t that be obvious that it was his, a seat in the middle? And once again that sweet, clear laughter. “Oh, that’s— aha .” His fist crumpled over his teeth and mouth. “It’s just— ah, it’s almost as if I’m on trial.” He pulled his hand away from his mouth. “So, terms! What will you offer me?” And Cross swore his golden eyes, though still agleam, sharpened.

Dream had not taken his seat.

“What would an esteemed Immortal such as yourself prefer?” Asgore’s tone had found the cadences of officiality, of usual Palace affairs or even mundane Council business. Still, it seemed to interest the Immortal (Dream, was it?) as he looked to him intently. “Such as I?” He laughed again, but this time it wasn’t as sweet. “Unfortunately, I don’t know what I want. It’s up to you to make a good offer, Your Majesty.”

In the Immortal’s mouth, the title was like dust. But to his credit Asgore maintained his composure and answered. “I suppose I should start off with the simplest offer. Coin? Jewels?” And it was evident that he did not think Dream would accept this offer. And he was right, Dream only raised an eyebrow. “I can find jewels anywhere. Coin even more so. What else do you have?” And then the silks, the cloth. He was as unimpressed with the offer as with the first, but strangely, Cross noticed from his place against the wall, not an inkling of disappointment lined his face. Still he let them offer more, and more. Offer after offer was raised with the speed of bullet fire, flying across the space as they desperately tried to appease the Sun Immortal.

Silently, Dream raised his palm. It seemed his patience had reached its limit.

“And what if I said I want people?” Immediately the tension in the room thickened. Looks were exchanged, confused blue on repulsed green, yellow irritation on pink curiosity. CORE Frisk observed Dream quietly, but did not speak up. Dream smiled a tiny small smile.

“Well, Esteemed Immortal,” Duke Isre murmured hesitantly. "If it would please you, you may have your pick of the courtesans of my court.”

“And mine, of course!” Another hurried to protest. “The courtesans of Sere are known for their allure—” “Oh?” Dream’s eyes seemed to sparkle. “Tell me more.” Then there were a dozen, more than a dozen, speaking at once; all so eager to grasp at the Immortal’s interest.

But that wasn’t a sparkle. Cross swallowed the sigh into his throat. It was a gleam: the gleam of amusement, of sardonicism. Dream was not interested in them, not truly.

But their offers of concubines and courtesans only continued, each one more outlandish than the first. Blue eyes like sea sapphires. Gold hair like threaded gold. Skin as smooth as a babe’s. Teeth like mermaid pearls. He had to force his eyes not to roll. Somewhere in him, however, there was the smallest shred of pity. Of irritation. If the Council failed to negotiate terms, they would lose their last hope. They were making too many mistakes; mistakes that were obvious in hindsight, but not so much in the doing; mistakes that were his job to report back to Nightmare to be exploited.

He did pity them, somewhat. He couldn’t just stand around and not see how much the common people were suffering. Starving children and cold corpses. Empty homes and unburied bodies.

But the Council was full of Kings and Queens, Dukes and Duchesses. People who’d never lived a day of hardship in their lives. People who, only a century ago or two, would’ve been delighting in tasteless gold delicacies while the people starved of famine. The generals and soldiers, he was annoyed less by. They were competent, at least. But they still could not fight a God, certainly not Nightmare. It was their deaths he felt more guilt over.

“Dream,” CORE Frisk suddenly cut in. “You haven’t accepted any of our offers. May I ask what they lack?”

Dream locked eyes with CORE Frisk. To their credit. CORE Frisk stayed unflinching. There was a moment of quiet, of tension.

Cross realised Dream was no longer smiling. “Since you’ve asked, CORE, I’m more than willing to oblige. You see,” He gestured vaguely around him. “I believe I never said anything about wanting someone to warm my bed.”

He turned his eye upon the one who had gotten the ball rolling.

“You know, I’m beginning to rethink this,” He said casually. “Maybe we aren’t suited for an alliance after all.” There was a dead silence. And then there was nary a sound, save for CORE Frisk: “I’m sorry for any offence caused, Dream,” They began. “May I ask why?”

There was sharp laughter, in the silence. Not a single eye wasn’t upon the Immortal, and Cross unconsciously noted CORE Frisk too was on their feet. “You want me to answer to you?” Like a violin string drawn taut, like the lightning striking the earth, backs straightened and sharp, fearful gazes were exchanged. “A little pretentious, don’t you think?” His eye was on CORE Frisk. The string, taut and tauter. CORE Frisk opened their mouth, but no words came out.

Too taut and now the ripped alliance between them. Dream still looked unbothered under the fearful and indignant glares of the Council.

“May I ask what it is that you want?” CORE Frisk tried, ever the meditator. “Or even just what you don’t want.” Dream looked into the rows and rows of people. Slowly, he turned his gaze down the row.

“I’m beginning to think,” He said softly. “That you don’t have what I want."

Well, that was it, then. There was relief of having finally bitten the bullet. Dream wasn’t going to help the Council after all. Nightmare would be happy to hear that, right? Momentarily his eyebrows almost scrunched together.

It would be difficult to get news to him, especially news of this nature. He’d have to wait till Dust came by to pass the news: it was always risking making contact on his own.

A pity, though. CORE Frisk’s face was blank, but they must’ve been disappointed. They weren’t as bad as the rest, really. But CORE Frisk was one person and the rest (whom he had little pity for) always outweighed them.

A pity, but a small amount of it only. CORE Frisk was blank, but probably carefully blank.

Dream locked eyes with him.

“You.”

Cross stilled. Those golden eyes, bright and alert, were on him now.

“Come here.” His outreached hand was curved, fingers beckoning. Cross did not move for the first few seconds. His eyes were on Cross’; no mocking, no amusement: there was nothing Cross could recognise.

Then, slowly, he took his first step. Then another. Then another. All the while the quiet had been broken but quiet exhales, gasps, confused rustling and carefully blank faces almost faltering.

Soon he was before Dream. A smile was pulling at his teeth. “Ah, may I ask for your name, sir?” Cross felt the welt of saliva in his throat. “Cross, Esteemed Immortal.” Dream smiled indulgently, and reached for his chin. His breath was in his throat; then, ever Cross’ saviour, CORE Frisk interrupted. “May I ask what the Esteemed Immortal wants of this Guard?” “A Guard, huh?” There was interest in his eyes, but his hand still did not let go. “I see. I don’t suppose he’s a recent one?”

On instinct, most of the Council turned to Undyne, but she was looking to CORE Frisk with a sigh in her throat. “He was recruited by CORE, not me.” “He was not raised to be a Guard,” CORE Frisk said delicately, as it was the custom. “But he was enough strong and clever to be one, and I happened upon him a few years ago. I beg your Esteemed Immortals forgiveness for any caused offence on his behalf.”

A light laugh, through the hall. Suddenly the weighted air lightened and Cross could breathe again when the hand withdrew from his chin. “No no, no offence at all. I’ve merely found my answer to your question, CORE Frisk.” Just slightly, they tilted their head with the air of curiosity. “You have?”

There was ice in Cross’ stomach.

“I shall help you in your war. By next month you will regain your frontlines,” He said casually. “You may reveal my part in it, or you may not. This I have no concern about. But in exchange,” And his eyes turned on Cross.

Fuck.

“Will you come with me?” And his voice was so soft, so sweet. It was so different from Nightmare’s, yet exactly the same air of persuasion.

Cross’s words were in his stomach; weighing heavily.

“May I clarify your intentions, Esteemed Immortal?” CORE Frisk carefully asked.

In turn, Dream sighed. “Why does everyone here insist on calling me that? Have I not said to call me Dream?”

“May we clarify your intentions, Dream?” The voice was just as dry.

“Isn’t it obvious? If he’ll have me,” He turned to him slightly. Cross steeled himself. “I’ll have him.”

Undyne frowned. “He is not a pig for sale. Courtesans, maybe,” And the look she sent the Court was no less disdainful than Dream’s earlier words, “Because it’s their job. But Cross is one of the Guard, not a cow to be bartered away to be a bed-warmer.” At cow, Cross almost flinched. God, that comedic timing was terrible and hilarious at the same time. Dream turned his gaze onto Undyne, who did not flinch, but subtly drew back. “I believe I have made myself clear,” He said quietly. “For him, I shall help you with your war. Without him, you die and your Kingdoms turn to dust. Simple as.”

There was a very clear swear in Cross’ head, confusion tenfold as he looked to CORE Frisk (he could do that, it would be in-character for what they knew him as) but there was conflict and no more in their gaze.

“CORE, perhaps— perhaps it would be best. If the Immortal wants him, in exchange for victory…” The voice trailed over. Dream’s gaze was still on CORE Frisk, waiting.

Abruptly Cross became aware of the eyes on him. The knowing gazes, the knowing eyes. Cross felt his face warm.

“No.” CORE Frisk finally spoke, firm. “No, he is not a pig for sale. Jewels and gold, I can offer you. Land and palaces, yes. Silks and furs, yes. But I will not barter you a person who has yet to say anything on the matter.”

“But I did not ask you.” Once again his words held the air of spelling out something incredibly obvious. “I asked you, Cross.”

And once again Cross found himself at a loss of what to do when his gaze was upon him once more. “Will you come with me? For the war?” Well, I’m actually on the other side of it, Cross thought anxiously. But he kept his voice steady (or as steady as it should be for someone about to be sent away) and spoke to CORE Frisk. “CORE, if I agree, will— will it stop the war?” CORE Frisk held his gaze for a second more. “Yes, but… but it’s still your choice.”

Ha. No it wasn’t. He could feel the weight of a thousand eyes, of expectation, weighing on his very bones. It seemed Dream knew it too.

Dream and CORE Frisk exchanged a strange look.

Cross opened his mouth, little choice left. “Then I accept. I will go with you, and you will help—” He almost said them . “ Us, win the war.” He only hoped Nightmare would not see it as traitorous.

Dream smiled brightly. “That was easy, wasn’t it?” He pulled a ring off his finger (and it was then Cross noticed the rings on his fingers, gold but the gold not of solid ingots but of the gold of sunlight) and gently took hold of Cross’ hand. He stiffened almost immediately, but Dream said nothing of it as he slid the ring on.

Onto his ring finger.

Well, a very public engagement.

“A gift,” Dream explained. “I will pay your family the rest of the dowry the next time I visit.”

The words stuck in Cross’ throat. “I don’t have a family.”

Because family did not seem like the right word for, ah, Nightmare’s right hand men.

Dream blinked slowly. “Oh?” But he did not soften. “Nonetheless, I’ll come by soon.”

Cross, almost imperceptibly, nodded. It was all Dream needed, it seemed. With a rustle of silk, a gleam of light, he was gone.

And Cross was alone in the middle, a thousand eyes upon him.

“Is there anything else?” Undyne said sharply. Angrily, almost. Cross kept his gaze on the floor. He would not know how to act if he locked gazes with anyone else. There was a silence. But Undyne did not speak again. Still there were a thousand gazes on him.

Cross feet turned and he left the Council chambers though it was against protocol. He knew no one would blame him for it; there would be no point, and far too risky to lay a hand on an Immortal’s betrothed.

Just before he passed the doors, however, he had faintly registered that the burned-in words on the walls were gone.

Cross prayed that Dust would come by soon, so they’d hear the news from Cross’ own mouth and not rumours spreading quicker than wildfire. Not Horror, the hole in his skull too recognizable, and certainly not Killer with his messy dripping eyes. Dust was always the one sent by Nightmare. So Cross left the windows unlocked, staying awake for hours at a time. But, it seemed his prayers did not hold that much weight at all. If ever. Dust did not come the next day, nor the one after. He had the feeling something was going on behind the scenes, why else would an Immortal choose a random Guard? But he could not confirm his suspicions, for there was no one to talk to. No one came for him.

#on mercy #on mercy fic #utmv #cross sans #utmv fic #utmv fanfiction #utmv fanfic #cream ship #dream sans #enjoy the fluff for now semi-whump is next #REBLOGGED THE CORRECT POST AAAA

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translations-by-aiimee · 3 years ago

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The Husky and His White Cat Shizun - Chapter 7

Original Title: 二哈和他的白猫师尊

Genres: Drama, Romance, Tragedy, Xianxia, Yaoi

This translation is based on multiple MTLs and my own limited knowledge of Chinese characters. If I have made any egregious mistakes, please let me know.

Chapter Index

Chapter 7 - This Venerable One Likes Wontons

The scorching sun was blazing.

The veranda of Life-Death Peak stretched for mile.

As a rising star among immortal cultivators, it was quite different from the other famous clans of the immortal world.

Take the most prosperous Rufeng Sect of Linyi. The main hall of the sect was called the "Six Virtues Hall", which intended to encourage disciples to be "wise, faithful, holy, righteous, benevolent, and loyal" in accordance with the six virtues. The area where the disciples live was called the "Six Behaviours Gate", which warns the disciples to practice "filial piety, friendship, harmony, marriage, responsibility, and compassion." The place where classes were taught was called "Six Arts Platform", which meant that disciples needed to be proficient in the six skills of "ritual, music, archery, riding, calligraphy, and mathematics".

All in all, its elegance was endless.

On the other hand, Life-Death Peak came from a poor background. Its names were hard to explain. "Danxin Hall" and "Platform of Righteousness and Evil" were alright. Perhaps it was because Mo Ran's father and his uncle weren't scholars and couldn't determine any better names. After a while, the names started to get more nonsensical, naming things "Xue Ya" -sounding names left and right.

Therefore, there are many plagiarised names from the underworld on Life-Death Peak. For example, the room where disciples practiced self-reflection was called Yanluo Hall.

The jade bridge connecting the resting area and the teaching area was called Naihe Bridge. The dining hall was called Mengpo Hall, the martial arts field was called Mountain of Daggers and Sea of Flames. The forbidden area of the back of the mountain is called the Ghost Room, and so on.

These weren't too bad, but there were other places simply called "This is a mountain", "This is water", "This is a pit", as well as the famous "Ahhhhh" and "Wahhhhhh" cliffs.

The elders’ dormitories naturally did not escape, and each has their own nickname.

Chu Wanning was naturally no exception. He liked peace and didn't want to live near others. His residence was built on the South Peak of Life-Death Peak, hidden in a sea of bamboo. There was a pool in front of the main hall, and the pool was red from lotus petals blocking the sunlight from reflecting off it. Because of its abundance of spiritual power, the lotus flowers were in full bloom all year round in the pool, like red clouds.

The disciples secretly called this beautiful place--

Red Lotus Hell.

When Mo Ran thought of this, he couldn't help but laugh.

Chu Wanning wore a terrifying face every single day, and the disciples who saw him thought he was the devil himself. Therefore, shouldn't the place where the devil stays be called hell?

Xue Meng interrupted his daydream: "You laugh even though you were scolded! Hurry up and eat breakfast. After eating, follow me to the Platform of Righteousness and Evil. Shizun will punish you in public today!"

Mo Ran sighed, and touched the whip mark on his face: "Hss. . . ow."

"You deserved it!"

"Hah, I wonder if Tianwen has been repaired. I hope he doesn't try it out on me again before it's fixed. Who knows what nonsense I might say."

In the face of Mo Ran's sincere concerns, Xue Meng's face flushed, and he angrily said: "If you dare to speak out indecently in public against Shizun, I'll rip your tongue out!"

Mo Ran covered his face and waved his hand faintly: "No need, no need, if Shizun ties me with willow vine again, I will end myself on the spot to prove my innocence."

When the hour came, Mo Ran was brought to the Platform of Righteousness and Evil according to customs. He looked around, and there was a deep blue sea of people below. The disciples of Life-Death Peak all wore the sect uniform; blue so dark it was almost black armour, the lion's head belt, wrist guards and the silver threads gleaming on the hems of robes.

The rising sun, below the Platform of Righteousness and Evil, the sea of armour shone.

Mo Ran kneeled on the raised platform, listening to a chief elder list off a long list of the crimes he'd committed.

"Mo Weiyu, disciple of Elder Yuheng, arrogantly disregarded teachings, disobeyed the rules of the sect, and abandoned morality. You have violated the fourth, ninth, and fifteenth mandates of this sect. As punishment, you will receive 80 strikes, copy the sect rules a hundred times and reflect in solitude for a full month. Mo Weiyu, is there anything you have to say in your defense?"

Mo Ran glanced at the white figure in the distance.

That elder was the only member of Life-Death Peak who wasn't required to wear the standard blue and silver rim robe.

Chu Wanning's robe was made of snow-white satin, an outer robe made of cloud-patterned silver silk, like he was dressed in a heavenly frost, but the person wearing it seemed far more frigid than either snow or frost. He sat quietly, far enough away that Mo Ran couldn't see the expression on his face, but he knew that this person was probably completely unphased.

Mo Ran let out a deep sigh: "I have nothing to argue."

According to customary practice, the chief elder asked the disciples below: "If anyone is dissatisfied with the verdict, or has something else to say, this is the time to make such a statement."

All the disciples began to hesitate and averted their gaze.

None of them expected that the Yuheng Elder Chu Wanning would actually send his disciple to be punished publicly on the Platform of Righteousness and Evil.

To put it nicely, this person was impartial, but to word it differently, was also called a cold-blooded demon.

The cold-blooded demon Chu Wanning faintly propped his chin and sat in the position. Suddenly someone shouted with amplifying technique: "Elder Yuheng, this disciple is willing to plead for leniency on behalf of Young Master Mo."

". . . Plead?"

This disciple obviously felt that since Mo Ran was the nephew of Life-Death Peak's lord, even if he had screwed up this time, his future prospects would still be bright, so he decided to take the opportunity to win Mo Ran's favour. He began to talk nonsense: "Although Junior Brother Mo is at fault, he loves his fellow students and helps the weak. Please treat consider being lenient for the sake of his kind nature!"

Obviously, he was not the only one hoping to please Junior Brother Mo.

Gradually, more and more people spoke up for Mo Ran. They threw out all sorts of arguments, it made even Mo Ran embarrassed to hear; when had he ever had "an innocent heart, pure and open-minded"? This was a disciplinary meeting, not a commendation meeting, right?

"Elder Yuheng, Junior Brother Mo once helped me exterminate demons and killed deadly beasts. I would like to beg on Junior Brother Mo's behalf. His merits will offset his demerits, and I hope that Elder will lighten his punishment!"

"Elder Yuheng, Junior Brother Mo once helped me dispel my demons when I experience qi deviation. I believe Junior Brother Mo made a mistake this time and was only momentarily confused. I also ask Elder to please be lenient on Junior Brother!"

"Elder Yuheng, Junior Brother Mo once gave me an elixir to save my mother. He is a benevolent person. Please, Elder, punish him lightly!"

The last person’s remarks were based on the previous disciples', and he was at a loss for words. Seeing Chu Wanning's frozen eyes sweep over, the anxious disciple didn't hesitate to say: “Elder Yuheng, Junior Brother Mo once helped me dual cultivate--”

"Pff." Someone couldn't help laughing.

The disciple immediately blushed and retreated.

"Yuheng, calm your anger, calm your anger..." Seeing that the chief elder was not happy, he went to his side and hurriedly persuaded him.

Chu Wanning said coldly: "I have never seen such a shameless person. What is his name? Whose disciple?"

The chief elder hesitated a little, then bit the bullet and said softly, "My disciple, Yao Lian."

Chu Wanning raised his eyebrows: "Your disciple? Save face*?"

(Pronounced the same as Yao Lian's name)

The chief elder couldn't help but feel embarrassed, and his old face tried to change the subject with a red face: "He's talented at singing, and he can be useful when he receives the offerings."

Chu Wanning scoffed and turned away, not wanting to waste time talking nonsense with this shameless chief elder.

There were thousands of people on Life-Death Peak. A couple flatterers were nothing surprising.

Seeing the conviction in the faces of his sect brothers, Mo Ran himself almost trusted their words. Very impressive indeed. It turns out he wasn't the only person in this sect that knew how to concoct wild stories in broad daylight. There were many talented people here.

Chu Wanning, who had heard "Elder Yuheng, please be merciful" countless times, finally spoke to the disciples.

"Pleading for Mo Weiyu?" He paused and said, "Yes, all of you may come up."

Those people didn't know what would happen and went up tremblingly.

A golden light flashed in Chu Wanning's palm. Tianwen appeared as commanded, and wrapped around the dozens of people together with a whistle, and tied them firmly in place.

Not again!!

Mo Ran was beginning to get desperate. Just the sight of Tianwen made his legs weak. He really didn’t know where Chu Wanning got such a perverted weapon. It was a good thing he had never taken a wife in his previous life. The poor girl who would marry him, if she didn't get whipped to death, she would be questioned to death.

Chu Wanning's eyes were quite mocking. He asked one of them: "Mo Ran helped you ward off evil spirits?"

How could the disciple resist the torture of TIanwen? He immediately howled: "No! No!"

He asked another one: "Mo Ran helped you overcome your qi deviation?"

"Ah! Never! Never!"

"Mo Ran gave you an elixir?"

"Ah—! Help! No, no! I made it up! I made it up!"

Chu Wanning loosened the hold, but then raised his hand and waved the weapon fiercely, it crackling and blazing, Tianwen suddenly lashed out and hit the backs of the lying disciples.

There were screams instantly, blood splashing.

Chu Wanning's eyebrows furrowed, and he scolded: "What are you calling? Kneel down! Disciple attendant!"

"Here."

"Deliver the punishment!"

"Understood!"

As a result, instead of reaping the benefits of defending Mo Ran, each of them was beaten with ten strikes each for violating the mandate of deception, plus a bonus willow vine lash gifted by Elder Yuheng.

After nightfall, Mo Ran lay on his bed. Although he had been given medicine, his back was covered with staggered scars. He couldn't even turn himself over without almost crying from the pain. He sniffled.

He had been born, so whimpering like this made him look like a fluffy, abandoned kitten. But it was a pity that his thoughts didn't match that cute kitten image.

He gripped the bedding and bit into the sheets, imagining that this was that bastard Chu Wanning. He bit! Kicked! Stomped! Tore!

The only comfort is that Shi Mei came to visit him with a bowl of wontons. He stared at him with those gentle and pitiful eyes, and Mo Ran's tears fell even more fiercely.

He didn't care whether men were supposed to hold in their tears or not, he loved to act spoiled in front of the person he liked.

"Does it still hurt a lot? Can you sit up?" Shi Mei sat on the edge of his bed and sighed. "Shizun, he. . . he was too cruel. Look at your back. . . there are several wounds. Some are still bleeding."

Mo Ran's heart softened, a warmth gradually rose in his chest. His teary eyes lifted from the bedding and he blinked.

"Since Shi Mei cares about me so much, I, I'm not in too much pain anymore."

"Oh, how can it not hurt if you look like this? You know what Shizun's temperament is like, will you dare do something like this in the future?"

In the candlelight, Shi Mei looked at him a little helplessly and a little distressedly. The amorous eyes were gleaming, like warm spring water.

Mo Ran's heart moved slightly, and he cleverly said: "Never again. I swear.

"Does anyone believe your promises anymore?" Even though he said that, Shi Mei also smiled, "The wontons are getting cold, can you sit up? If you can't get up, just lie on your stomach and I will feed you."

Mo Ran had already climbed up halfway, but immediately collapsed back down when he heard this.

Shi Mei: ". . ."

Whether it was this life or his previous one, Mo Ran's favourite food was Shi Mei's handmade wontons. The dough was as thin as a cloud of smoke, and the filling was tender and moist, melting in his mouth after every bite.

Especially the soup, the milky consistency, sprinkled with green onions, tender yellow egg wisps, and topped with a spoonful of spicy chilli peppers fried with garlic. It made whoever ate it feel so warm that they would never be cold again.

Shi Mei carefully spoonfed him. While feeding him, he said: "I didn't put any chilli oil today. You're badly hurt. Spice isn't good for recovery. Just drink the broth instead."

Mo Ran stared at him and he couldn't look away. He smiled: "Spicy or not, as long as you made it, it's delicious."

"Smooth talker." Shi Mei also smiled, picking up a poached egg lying in the soup, "Here's your reward, I know you like them."

Mo Ran laughed, a small tuft of hair curling on his forehead, like a flower blooming: "Shi Mei."

"What's happening?"

"Nothing, I just felt like saying your name."

". . ."

The hair tuft swayed back and forth.

"Shi Mei."

Shi Mei held back a smile: "Just felt like it again?"

"Hmm, just saying your name makes me happy."

Shi Mei sat silently for a moment then gently touched his forehead: "Silly boy, do you have a fever?"

Mo Ran let out a laugh. He rolled over, looking at him sideways, his eyes bright, as if full of fine stars.

"It would be a dream if I could eat Shi Mei's wontons every day"

He truly meant it.

After Shi Mei died, Mo Ran had always wanted to try the wontons he made again, but it is what it is, and he wasn't coming back.

At that time, Chu Wanning hadn't completely broken off all relations with him. Whether it was out of guilt or something else, he didn't know, but when he saw Mo Ran knelt in front of Shi Mei's coffin in a daze, Chu Wanning went quietly to the kitchen, kneaded dough and minced the fillings, carefully folded a couple wontons. But Mo Ran saw what he was doing before he had finished. With the loss of the love of his life, Mo Ran just couldn't bear it. He felt like Chu Wanning was doing it to mock him, a botched attempt at imitating them, a deliberate insult to injury.

Shi Mei was dead. Chu Wanning could have saved him, but he refused to help. Afterwards, he wanted to replace Shi Mei and make wontons for Mo Ran instead? Did he think that this would make him happy?

He rushed into the kitchen and knocked over all the utensils. The round wontons fell out of his hands and all over the floor.

He screamed at Chu Wanning: "Who the hell do you think you are? You think you're worthy of replacing him? Of making the food he used to? Shi Mei is dead, are you satisfied? Or do you have to torture your disciples until they go mad or die before you're happy? Chu Wanning! No one in this world can make those wontons anymore. You can try but you'll never be him!"

Now he was eating this bowl with such deep joy. He slowly ate them, savouring them. Although he was still smiling, his eyes were a little moist. Fortunately, the candlelight was dim, and Shi Mei couldn't see his subtle expression clearly.

Mo Ran said: "Shi Mei."

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

Shi Mei froze for a moment, and then smiled gently: "Isn't it just a bowl of wontons? No need to be so formal about it. If you like them, I will always make them for you in the future."

Mo Ran wanted to say, the thanks wasn't just for the wontons.

Thank you also, whether in the last life or in this life, for being the only one to look out for me, not caring about my origins, didn't care about the fourteen years I spent scavenging around.

Thank you, because if it weren't for the sudden thought of you, after being reborn, I'm afraid I would not be able to stop myself from killing Rong Jiu. I would've made a big mistake, and walked the same path I had before.

Fortunately, in this life, I was reborn before you die. I will definitely take good care of you. If you are sick, and that cold-blooded demon Chu Wanning is unwilling to save you, I will.

But how could he have said these words aloud?

In the end, Mo Ran just drank the soup, leaving not even a single green onion behind. He licked his lips unconsciously, his dimples prominent, and he was as cute as a very fluffy little cat.

"Will there be more tomorrow?"

Shi Mei couldn't help but shake his head: "You don't want something else? Won't you get sick of them?"

"I'll never get tired of your wontons, as long as you don't get tired of making them."

Shi Mei shook his head and smiled: "I don't know if there's enough flour left. If there's not enough, I'm afraid I can't make it. If I can't, do you think the eggs in sweet soup are alright instead? They are also one of your favourites."

"Okay, okay. As long as you make it, anything is okay."

Mo Ran's heart surged. He was so happy he could roll around in the blankets.

Look at caring Shi Mei is, Chu Wanning, you go screw yourself! I get to lie in bed with a beauty taking care of me, hehe!

Thinking of Shizun, a rush of anger mixed with the tenderness he had been feeling.

Mo Ran started to dig the bottom of the headboard with resentment again. He cursed, what Yuheng of the Night Sky, what the Beidou Immortal, it's all fucking bullshit!

Chu Wanning, just wait and see!!

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#the husky and his white cat shizun #english translation #chinese novel #chinese bl #yaoi novel #yaoi #danmei #mo ran #chu wanning #2ha #2ha translation #ranwan #hyx

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tabletoptrinketsbyjj · 3 years ago

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Cloaks, 1: The humble cloak has a rich history in tabletop roleplaying games, D&D especially with it having its roots based on Lord of the Rings and medieval fantasy. A heavy dark cloak with a deep hood is perfect for instantly creating a mysterious stranger at the other end of a tavern, their face obscured by the deep cowl. A cloak is often a cornerstone of a PC’s appearance and enchanted ones even more so. The following is a collection of unique descriptions of cloaks for DM’s to give to their players as magical or mundane loot and for players to use during character creation to help flesh out their personal style.

A dark grey, military style shoulder cloak clasped by a silver brooch in the shape of a bridge of stone, lit by ruby flames. The back of the brooch bears an inscription that reads: “First in, last out.”

A tattered red cloak that patches itself up whenever the bearer sleeps in a graveyard.

Cloak of the Aardvark: A nondescript light brown cloak, which causes the bearer to develop a slightly longer tongue and a mild but persistent craving to eat ants.

A beautiful cloak whose tattered silk designs resembles the dusty wings of a moth in flight.

A sturdy leather cloak with a large number of interior pockets. Every day at noon, a random worthless object appears in one of the pockets. The item vanishes back to whence it came if not removed from the pocket within one hour. The items are never worth more than a few coppers, never quite useful and are always small enough to physical fit into the average pocket. After inspecting a few of the objects the cloak produces, the bearer experiences the nagging feeling that the cloak is just stealing junk out of other people’s pockets. ---Note: The items that appear are always at the GM’s discretion. I personally recommend making use of the many Worthless Trinket Tables from this blog to get ideas.

A cloak comprised completely of gleaming iridescent feathers. It is heavier and much more durable than a cloak of feathers has any right to be.

An iridescent blue cloak the color of the sea that appears to ebb and flow of its own accord.

A worn patchwork gleeman’s cloak. Each brightly colored square patch is unique and the cloak sports a dazzling array of combinations of colors, patterns, fabrics and symbols.

A well-made black cloak that is completely waterproof. But looks as if something is occasionally...writhing beneath the cloth. This is disconcerting to observers, but the bearer never sees it.

A Randomly Colored oilskin cloak with the phrase “Random Motto” stitched along the interior of the tip of the hood. With the hood pulled low, the bearer can feel the spirit of the motto press against their consciousness, attempting to guide his decisions. The influence is subtle and never forces the bearer to violate any firmly held beliefs.

—Keep reading for 90 more cloaks.

—Click Here for a complete list of every trinket table

—Note: The previous 10 items are repeated for easier rolling on a d100.

A tattered red cloak that patches itself up whenever the bearer sleeps in a graveyard.

Cloak of the Aardvark: A nondescript light brown cloak, which causes the bearer to develop a slightly longer tongue and a mild but persistent craving to eat ants.

A beautiful cloak whose tattered silk designs resembles the dusty wings of a moth in flight.

A cloak comprised completely of gleaming iridescent feathers. It is heavier and much more durable than a cloak of feathers has any right to be.

An iridescent blue cloak the color of the sea that appears to ebb and flow of its own accord.

A worn patchwork gleeman’s cloak. Each brightly colored square patch is unique and the cloak sports a dazzling array of combinations of colors, patterns, fabrics and symbols.

A well-made black cloak that is completely waterproof. But looks as if something is occasionally...writhing beneath the cloth. This is disconcerting to observers, but the bearer never sees it.

A luscious bison fur cloak with horn buttons. The style seems to be that of a backwoodsman bachelor who had more time and energy than actual skill.

A Randomly Colored cloak that always flaps gently, as if pushed by a slight breeze.

A tan leather cloak that writhes as though alive and screams when damaged.

A thick hide cloak lined with a strange blue fur. The fabric is cut to hang on the bearer in a traditionally Random Humanoid Race style.

A feathered cloak which changes its coloring to match whatever bird is closest.

A double lined cloak. One side it is a dull, dreary brown; the inner lining is black. The cowl is particularly capacious.

A full yellow cloak with large silver clasps and symbols of the divine aspect of Random Neutral Domain boldly presented in dark green.

A once-fine cloak, maroon colored with a gold trim, now somewhat torn and worn from age. Careful examination reveals a hidden pocket containing a signet ring with a gold wyvern crest.

A reversible cloak. The outside is black while the inside is a gaudy gold color. The wearer can flip the cloak from one side to the other in just a few seconds using both hands.

A leathery grey cloak made from stitched ghoul skin. This unholy garment is cold to touch and causes revulsion in living creatures that see it.

A dire bear pelt fashioned into a cloak fit for an ogre, bound by a large, crude pewter clasp.

A cloak of griffon feathers set on black velvet. The material is warm, wind resistant and lightweight, perfect for a griffon knight.

A voluminous cloak with a large hood that comes halfway down the bearer's face. The cloak’s exterior is completely waterproof and the wool inner lining is snug, warm and removable. The exterior of the cloak is covered in a whorled camouflage pattern of green’s, brown and blacks. The interior has several pocket of varying sizes making the cloak perfect for wilderness travelling and adventuring.

A heavy cloak made from the fur of a polar bear. The material is ridiculously warm and will keep its bearer alive and moving despite frigid artic conditions.

A black cloak embroidered with a web-like pattern in white silk

A brown robe covered with an embroidered pattern of dozens of open eyes. Creatures around the bearer always have the disturbing sensation that they’re being watched.

A blonde cloak woven from human hair, that weeps softly for an hour if blood is spilled in its vicinity. The hair is always clean, silky and shiny no matter what happens to it.

A reversible linen cloak that has an outer layer of fabric in a mottled black pattern and an inner layer of a bright Random Bright Color. Reversible cloaks are worn for the sake of fashion, in theatre performances, or to aid a quick appearance change as part of a disguise. This cloak in particular was most definitely used for the latter as knowledgeable PC’s will notice that the cloak’s clasp has the emblem of a notorious thieves’ guild worked into its design. A practiced bearer using both hands, can undo the clasp, flip the cloak and redo the as an action equivalent to drawing a weapon.

An audaciously red cloak that if worn around certain seedier districts in town might attract the attention of lonely individuals looking for a date for the evening. Their treat of course…

A brown and tan cloak that resembles a massive, flat slug with a bronze clasp covered in patina. When worn, slugs, snails and any creatures resembling them are non-hostile toward the wearer of the cloak until provoked.

A loose fitting bright yellow cloak cut in a feminine style. More than a dozen small silver bells are sewn into the fabric and twinkle with every step the bearer takes.

A ghostly, pale white translucent cloak, that billows on its own volition.

A white cloak whose golden accents glisten (even in darkness) whenever it billows. The mere sight of the cloak bring hope.

A black satin cloak decorated with golden stars.

A sky-blue velvet cloak decorated with vines and flowers along the edges in thick silver embroidery.

A perpetually damp, light grey cloak which always leaves a faint trail of mist in the bearer's wake.

A cloak woven from airy linen, with intricate silver patterns stitched along its edges. The cloak's clasp is an ancient medallion, which radiates a faint aura of wisdom.

A snowy white cloak of thick wool whose many folds hold an aura of purity and peace of mind.

A dirt-stained cloak that was woven in shadow from the burial shroud of a condemned murderer.

A dark hooded cloak, decorated with embroidered comets, moons, and stars along its edge.

A large bearskin cloak that is almost too big for a human to wear comfortably. When the bearer becomes angry, the hairs on the cloak bristle menacingly.

A garish, red velvet cloak, embroidered with gold-threaded patterns of masked harlequins engaged in acts of sinister revelry.

A fireproof cloak made of dragon wing skin, trimmed with Randomly Colored scales. It naturally flutters towards gold no matter the wind direction.

A purple cloak that seems sheer at times and opaque at others. It is soft to the touch and light as a feather.

A swirling multi shaded grey, shiny (Nigh-wet looking) leather cloak that looks more like wet granite.

A tattered and faded, black linen cloak. Although it has seen better days it is perfectly serviceable and instills the bearer with a deep sense of grim determination to keep pushing on despite the odds or costs.

A hooded dark blue cloak with silver edges and a line going down the middle in silver with motif of white flowers embroidered into it.

This cloak is fur-lined and clasped by a golden livery collar. The fabric of the cloak and appearance of the livery collar changes to bear the heraldic insignia and personal colors of the creature who wears it.

An ancient silk robe that shimmer with the twinkling light of a thousand stars.

A heavy cloak fashioned from the scales of a mighty sea dragon. The scales are skillfully joined together and the cloak can be drawn tightly around the body, creating a covering that is light, flexible, yet incredibly tough.

A cloak woven from the hair of innocents, dyed with the blood of sorcerers and imbued with the essence of a star stolen from the night’s sky.

A hard, waterproof sea cloak that resembles a large octopus. The baggy hood looks like an octopus mantle while the cloak itself simulates the rubbery webbing between an octopus’s tentacles and the corners have tentacle-like tassels.

A jute cloak that changes its appearance to match the current season. Its color is bright green in spring a darker green in summer, red and orange in fall, and brown and white in winter. If the material is not exposed to sunlight, the cloak gradually turns grey until it is refreshed by natural light. ---Note: In areas with other natural seasons such as flooding, drought of typhoons the cloak may change to new colors as per DM discretion.

A thick leather cloak, charred and blackened around the edges and always smells faintly of the soot of a recent fire.

A mottled green cloak with a pair of colorfully hemmed slits in its hood. Although impractical for most races, it is perfect for the long ears of the elves with fit comfortably into the slits.

A hooded cloak made of various patches of unidentifiable leather, all obviously from different types of creatures. The cloak fastens in the front with a belt like a bathrobe.

A checker patterned cloak of black and white that imparts the bearer with a deep yearning to play skill-based, board games.

A cloak of faded and patchwork design sporting heraldry of a great many nations and cities. It seems to give a comforting warmth to the bearer and the open road feels more like home with it on. After some time with it on, the bearer may notice a new patch on the cloak; A bloodstained piece of heraldry from the bearer's homeland.

A soft, fuzzy cloak with a buckle on each corner. It is pale brown with a green hill in the middle and a row of red stars above the hill.

Cloak of the Endless Sky: A long cloak fashioned of broad overlapping blue and white ribbons attached at the neck, but not affixed elsewhere. This construction allows access for wings or other appendages to operate freely. The cloak is clasped with a silver cloud. Instead of ceilings, roofs, tree cover or other overhead objects, the bearer perceives open, clear, blue skies dotted with clouds on all surfaces above himself. The bearer can suppress this illusionary effect at will if needed but while active the bearer becomes immune to the effects of claustrophobia. This is greatly appreciated by bearers capable of natural flight who are often uncomfortable in the caves, crypts and dungeons that adventures so often find themselves in.

A noble's cloak made of high quality cloth, with gold and silver thread stitched into the hem.

A light, loose fitting burlap cloak, with a generous sized hood that can fit over even the largest of helmets.

A shimmering cloak that seems to be spun from pure quicksilver. Its form constantly ripples and flows around the bearer and light dances across its surface.

A rust-red cloak made of slick satin. Rips, tears and stains done to it are instantly mended when fresh blood is poured or prayed over the damaged area.

A draping black cloak that turns into a sparkling mantle of tiny, cascading stars when worn.

A full-cut black cloak that hangs to mid-boot. Cut to overlap on the chest and cover the bearer's arms, it has a high collar and a separate pullover hood. It is embroidered with a white upraised human palm in a circle on the right collar, a purple dragon on the left collar, and another on the center point of the hood (So that it is displayed to the rear when the hood is pulled back).

A white silk cloak embroidered with a large grey spider on the back and webs radiating across its surface.

A cloak of mysterious emergence, fashioned from multiple layers of fine silk. Along the hem is a row of glittering red scales, molted away by a dragon.

A voluminous, emerald-green cloak trimmed with an intricate design done in gold thread. Each of its two clasps is a golden disk engraved with the crest of a long-extinct noble family and set with a small emerald.

A cloak that resembles a tangle of thick, black cobwebs when not worn, but smooths into woven black cloak of coarse threads the moment it’s donned.

An ugly, poorly cured, leather cloak made of mottled leathers stitched together in scabrous, thick seamed patterns. Made from the skins of wild beasts and humanoids, killed by kobolds, it is sized for a small humanoid.

A heavy cloak of black silk and linen that seems to trap shadows in its interior, even during broad daylight. The bearer seems to be partially submerged in darkness in shadowy light or darker.

A cloak made of navy colored linen, as fine as silk but with a durable quality to it. It flutters in even the lightest wind and always billows when its wearer walks. In darkness, the cloak seems to disappear, though its wearer does not. It is embroidered with no patterns, but those who stare at it for long moments see smoky shapes moving in the weave.

A fine linen cloak in a drab olive grey color, with a creamy lining. A scene of a mockingbird singing in a garden is embroidered in black on the back of the cloak, so that the mocking bird faces it’s bearer's on the right panel. When worn, the wearer’s voice becomes more beautiful and resonant.

An inky black cloak that has no features, but its hue is so deep that it makes people looking at it feel slightly vertiginous, as if looking down a very deep hole.

A blue cloak embroidered in green thread with whorled patterns, not unlike a finger print.

A cloak of blue silks embroidered with stormy cloud shapes in black and white thread.

A small sized cloak of auburn fur is lined with black fey silk. A mithril cloak pin is sewn into the collar.

A cloak, made of silks in multihued primary colors that blend and shift as the light hits them, is so sheer that it is nearly translucent. When worn, it seems to flutter and curl with the direction of prevailing light, though wind doesn’t seem to affect it at all. The bearer is lined in prismatic, flattering colors, making him fascinating to watch.

A cloak made of peacock, crow, and swan feathers woven into which are preserved heads of each type of bird.

A deep pocketed cloak of many faded colors, sized for a halfling.

A beautiful hooded cloak of deep blue. When it moves around silver threads become apparent quickly sparking and then disappearing once more, resembling a clear night’s sky. It is also always cool to the touch, like a cool night’s breeze.

A full-length cloak made of woven hair dyed a vibrant red and has a clasp craved of bone, decorated with archaic runes.

A cloak that seems to change color when looked at from different angles. The leather splits into six strips at the shoulder, each having a different color metallic scale at the top with a corresponding chromatic scale at the bottom of the strip. The strips fan out behind the bearer, almost like tails.

A deep green cloak with a voluminous hood, embroidered with gold trim and symbols of cultural significance to the elves.

A cloak of dark leather and gold trim that occasionally shimmers with small sparks of blue energy across the shadowed lining.

A cloak made of a thick oilskin smock, with a button-on hood and fleece lining. The front of the smock has a covered pocket sewn into it and while it feels normal from the outside, the pocket is always pleasantly warm within

A grey cloak made of a textured fabric that allows the bearer to blend into the shadows with more conviction.

A sturdy black cloak with many pockets in various shapes and sizes on this inside. The elbows have been reinforced with oval cuts of black cloth and hood made of a slightly different material.

A cloak of dark leather and gold trim that seems to occasionally shimmer with small sparks of blue energy across the shadowed lining.

An ugly patchwork cloak that has dozens of little pockets sewn into the inside for carrying spell components or trinkets. When first found the various pockets contain one Worthless Trinket, a Random Sealed Glass Vial and a Random Trinket.

A silk cloak that roils with the colors of storm clouds, constantly shifting in shade and hue.

A long cloak made of rat fur, secured around the neck with a rat skull clasp. It's quite warm but also disgusting. It seems to wriggle and writhe of its own accord, and no matter how often it is washed, it reeks of... well... rat.

Cloak of Skin: A cloak made of made of treated human skin. When worn by a creature the cloak transmutes itself over the course of a few hours into looking as it was made out of the bearer’s skin.

A tattered Randomly Colored cloak that seems to constantly have parts of it blinking in and out of existence.

A long multicolored cloak made of crests and insignia’s cut from the cloaks, tabards and lance standards of dozens of dead knights and men-at-arms all sewn together like a quilt.

A cloak with a linen hood simply decorated with the colors of the forest and designed to cast a dramatic shadow upon the wearer’s face, obscuring identifiable features.

A gaudy short red matador’s cape with gilded edges and intricate stitching.

Whispersilk Cloak, Damaged: A mottled black cloak that constantly whispers incomprehensible gibberish when worn. Normally a cloak of this type muffles it's bearer's movement, however this one does not reduce the sound of the bearer's movement in the slightest, in fact the whispering is noticeably distracting. The cloak could probably be repair by a skilled artificer or mage with a knowledge of magical items.

A black, hooded cloak that looks mundane in every single way when the hood is down. When the hood is up observers can only see the bearer’s eyes which are surrounded by a black, star-filled void.

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calpops · 4 years ago

Text

mercy | a.i.

Ashton’s life hangs precariously under fabricated accusations and a blade. The only one championing for mercy is the daughter of the man about to swing the sword.

1.5k words

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A tense silence cut through the growing crowd. The stone dais beneath Ashton’s knees scorched, the sun was blazing above, merciless as it beat down and washed everything in a menacing glow. It was the first time in weeks that he had seen the sun, felt the breeze on his skin and took in fresh air. It would also be the last.

His time in the dungeons was bleak, the one sliver of light pooling in from the near endless line of cells doing little to warm the damp holding. The thin pants he wore were ragged, worn out in the knees and falling apart at the seams. His wrists were chaffed, the cell they kept him in seemingly not enough, shackles kept him bound for days. An authoritative voice boomed through the quiet crowd, a portrayal of crimes Ashton had not committed falling from the king’s lips. A punishment of death giving gasps to the commoners. A shiver ran up his spine and made him quiver.

He finally looked up from the stones. Pangs of pain shot through his forehead as his eyes found the light, still not used to it after such time in the dark. He squinted past the glare, trying to find one last thing of beauty to fixate on. The castle stood tall against the light, foreboding though it was washed in a golden glow. The tallest tower loomed over the crowd, the window at the very top wide open. A shadow danced past, a lurid figure that kept Ashton’s attention. The king’s speech kept on, lies rolling off his tongue like scripture. The people bought every word. The gasps of horror they once bestowed upon the prisoner and punishment turning to an uproarious cheer.

Ashton tuned it out, kept peering up at the window in the tower. The shadowy figure coming in and out of his hazy vision. With the blade of a sword hanging over his thread of life he decided he’d rather not see the swing coming. The shadow disappeared again, seconds ticked by before the figure broke through the dark, a princess taking its place. Ashton wasn’t sure if he was hallucinating, if the deprivation of food and water ruined his sanity, but he swore she found his gaze. He could almost feel the sadness in her eyes. He was sure she frowned. But she fluttered away before he could take a second glance.

“For high crimes committed against the crown, the punishment shall be given by my hand,” the king announced.

Ashton went slack jawed but quickly recovered. He swallowed down a lump in his throat and looked back down to the stones. The princess was gone, even her shadow had abandoned him. Ashton heard the sword being pulled from its sheath. He could only imagine the priceless steel it was forged from. It was surely more valuable than his life.

“Any last words?” the king asked but the sudden eruption in the crowd would have made them fall on deaf ears.

Ashton had no words. His words would have no one to hear them. He kept quiet. Hung his head down low and took in one last breath. Eyes slipped shut. He heard the arc of the sword but felt softness where the blade should have hit him. The crowd quieted again. Instead of cheers he heard pleas.

“Mercy.”

His eyes sprang open, his senses came back to life. He recognized skin on his, supple and sweet. The arms of a woman thrown around his neck, her body pressing against his protectively. She smelled of honey and lilacs, intoxicatingly sweet after breathing in the mold riddled air of the dungeons. Ashton was still in his shock, on his knees as if a statue. He frantically tried to take in the rest of the world; from the astonished crowd to the woman clinging to him, to the guards swarming the dais with weapons pulled and the king with his blade still in the air.

“Father, please,” the woman begged and Ashton all but collapsed at the sudden realization. The princess held him. “Mercy.”

Mumblings cut through the crowd. Mercy was repeated in hushed whispers and confused utterings. Ashton’s vision was blurry but he blinked back the haze, swallowed down the burn in his throat and found his movement. His hands clenched as they felt silk. While he expected the princess to flinch away from his touch she only came closer, desperately keeping him in her hold, arms secure around his neck.

“Seize him,” the king commanded but the princess was having none of his orders.

She slid beneath his arms, now stuck between him and the shackles binding his hands together. The guards about to storm fell short, suddenly not knowing what to do. To get to him would mean getting to the princess first.

“If you take his head you take mine with it,” she declared.

Ashton shivered, the words were so powerful he felt ready to drop. No one had ever taken such a stance against the king. Let alone a woman who shared his blood.

“Enough of this foolishness. He’s a criminal.”

“He saved my life!” the princess cried, her voice carrying across the crowd and to the castle. He knew her words would reach beyond, from the crowd to the markets to the lowlands, over the sea and to Ashton’s own home kingdoms away. “Do you really mean to execute the hero that saved your only heir?”

Ashton turned and the princess swayed with his motion. Her hold on him only strengthened. Her hair blew in a subtle breeze, the tresses soft against Ashton’s cheek. He found the king, saw the shine of the blade he had yet to drop under the sun.

“What?” the king asked and though he did not fully drop the sword he lowered it, the threat now hanging idly by his side. “Stand down,” he told the guards with swords drawn and archers with bows readied. “Explain yourself, criminal.”

Ashton stayed quiet. He knew his words would fall flat. He knew the king would poke holes in his story. Nothing he said would be enough to get him off his knees.

“During the attempted siege,” the princess spoke up instead. Ashton shuddered at the memory of that night.

He had fallen in line with his army. Followed orders from his own king’s lips and stormed the castle that stood tall in front of him. He didn’t lead the way to the princess’ tower but he wound up in her chambers.

“He stopped them,” she continued and the short explanation was enough to intrigue the king. His eyebrow shot up and the grip on his sword loosened. “The men in my chambers. He stopped them. He saved me.”

As soon as he realized who’s chambers they were in Ashton knew the men’s intentions. As they dragged her from behind the curtains he felt his stomach turn. Without hesitating he drew his sword. It took three motions for him to save her life. One cut. One punch. One shove. And then it was only he that stood in the chambers of the princess with the broken door as the guards finally found their way to her side.

The princess slightly pulled away from him but kept her hold around his neck. Her eyes met his fully, regret and pain flickering across her face. Her voice lowered, her words meant only for Ashton. “Thank you.”

Ashton was flustered and couldn’t find the proper words to respond. He wished he could’ve said something to her that night but the guards pulled him away too soon. He didn’t know what she said to them, how she explained the dying men on the ground. But he ended up in chains rather than his grave that night.

“One good deed does not erase his crimes,” the king announced, the hesitation and intrigue that once captured him suddenly vanishing.

“Does it not deserve a pardon? Spare his life for the life he saved.”

Ashton shut his eyes, the bargaining on his behalf overwhelming. He had not so much as heard the word pardon since his time in the dungeons. Only execution and other choice words from keepers who more so grunted than spoke.

As the crowd absorbed the shocking revelations and waited for a deliberation Ashton tensed. Every muscle in his body tightened. His hands splayed out on the silk of her dress, wanting to feel one last touch of softness before his final blow.

Instead of drawing his last breath it caught in the back of Ashton’s throat as he heard the king’s sword slide back into its sheath. His eyes opened once more and found the king’s pointed stare.

“For the life you saved yours will not be taken today,” he promised amongst the new reactions of the crowd. “But your crimes cannot go unpunished,” he continued and a wicked twist of a smirk claimed his face. “Bring him to the fighting pit holding cells. He’ll spend the rest of his life fighting for the crown he wronged.”

Before either Ashton or the princess could react they were pulled apart. Honey and lilac leaving his senses. Silk and softness drifting farther and farther away from him. She went in the arms of several guards, kicking and thrashing. He went with only one, solemnly following as a blade tipped into his back. A lifetime fighting for the rest of his life against other imprisoned men was not mercy, Ashton realized, rather wishing the blade had done its job. He knew he had no chance of actual mercy in the fighting pits, he would be thrown in with hardened criminals who faced years of training and cut throat killer instincts. Some men fought for glory, some for money, some for freedom. Ashton knew he would not be given a chance at any. He would fight for his life and nothing more.

“I’ll save you,” the princess swore as she was torn away, down the dais and into the crowd. Back to her tower.

Ashton wanted to believe her. He wanted to hold onto hope for her, for his life. He didn’t know if he could. He didn’t know if she could keep her promise. He didn’t know if he would ever even see her again.

Part 2??

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#Ashton Irwin #5sos #5 seconds of summer #Ashton Irwin blurbs #5sos blurbs #Ashton Irwin imagines #5sos imagines #ashton irwin angst #5sos angst #royal!sos #ashton irwin x you #ashton irwin x reader #5sos x you #5sos x reader #Ashton Irwin au #5sos au #fighter!ash

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moonlightflower21 · 4 years ago

Text

patience

a/n: a small chapter with the mafia turtles. blood. knives. stabbing. pain. all that good stuff. yes i'm also aware i am painfully slow and late on the first official mafia turtles chapter. i'm so mf stressed rn, sorry 🥴

"We can go all night, darlin'. When your body gives out from exhaustion and pain. When yer begging us ta kill you. When you're cryin to end yer life, we're gonna be here. And believe me, ya don't want ta get to that stage" Pulling off the bag from her face, the brute examined her features. She had been hunting them down for days, very nearly coming close in succeeding in her given task. To poison him and his brothers. But little did her gang realise that his family knew about it, knew how suspicious her actions had become and like a hawk, watched her every move. It was only a matter of time until they retaliated. Luckily for her however, the turtles was rather tired from dealing with idiots the entire day. So his energy had depleted significantly.

It was a shame really, he didn't want to ruin such a pretty face. Rules were rules though, threatening the Hamato clan was punishable by death

"I thought you don't hit a woman" She laughed weakly and Raphael shrugged, amber eyes glancing at the sharp array of weapons on the table opposite.

"I don't hit innocent women. I do to those that interfere with my business. Which would explain your predicament" His chest vibrates with chuckles but even her heart drops to the floor, knowing it wasn't an amused laugh. No, this had brought on fear and pain and he hadn't even inflicted anything yet. Still her determined attitude hadn't wavered, much to his displeasure.

"If this is foreplay, can't wait till actual sex" She cries out when the whip slap her, undoubtedly leaving a trail of blood in its wake. Her head yanks back as Raphael grabs a fistful of hair, his face in close proximity of hers.

"Get one thing straight, I've fucked desperate bitches in my past but I wouldn't even use ya for a doormat. Yer low and I know low" He replies sharply, the tip of his sharpened sai trailing down her neck circling around her abdomen.

She screams when the knife is twisted into the first layer of skin, gasping down to where the blood was beginning to pool on her lap.

"All ya got ta do is give me a name doll. And this stops right here. But if not..." He pushes the knife a little more deeper and he grins when she whimpers, trying so hard to not scream. To try keep her composture not wanting to bring any satisfaction to her enemies. But hell, it was hanging by a small fucking thread at this point.

"Any progress?" A deeper, gravelly voice cuts in and both heads look towards the door. The woman lets a small gasp as the rest of the brothers pile into the room. She knew they were tall but not this fucking tall. They were muscular but his pinky could kill a human if enough pressure was added

"Nah, she's stubborn" Raph stops, wiping the few drops of blood from his forehead. He hadn't remembered this much trouble with the other members of her clan.

"Bro! That's my favourite knife" Mikey comes forwards and snatches the steel out of his older brothers hand, grabbing his silk orange handkerchief from the breast pocket to clean the dried blood. He shook his head in disdain, eyeing the victim in the chair. It was rather amusing how many people tried to kill them and yet they always seemed to be on the receiving end of the blade.

"My vote is kill her" The youngest shrugs, very carefully wiping the edges of his tanto where her filthy blood no doubt had touched.

"As convenient as that sounds, we'll never end up getting our information if she's dead. No we need something stronger, powerful" Donnie leans back on the table, looking at the purple and blue blotches on her skin. The way her hair was matted down with blood and sweat, how she looked on the verge of passing out at any given moment. They'd bring her back alive though, she shouldn't have such a quick and painless death.

Raphael had a knack for making his prisoners suffer until they physically and mentally couldn't take anymore, testing each and every brutal limit in their weak bodies. It was only a matter of time until she spilled the dark secret.

But time was not on their side.

"Y-you bastards, I'm not saying anything!" Her voice fluctuates as she tries to keep her heartbeat normal, to keep those nerves at bay. Deep sapphire eyes analyses the struggling woman, quickly tiring of her act to remain strong and mute about the information. Placing a hand deep within his pocket, the eldest of the clan steps forwards a pensive look painted upon his features.

"For a human, I'd expect one like yourself to be withering in agony on the chair. Maybe even gone. Your pain tolerance must be exceptionally high, it'll come in great use for later. For now, you'd do well to remember we're the ones who determine whether you walk out of this building alive. I suggest you start by giving us some answers about your little workplace and your boss. You see, myself..." The eldest grabs the knife from Mikey's hand in a quick flash and plunges it straight within her thigh, unfazed at her screams and the splatter of blood.

"Well, I am not a particularly patient man"

#tmnt x reader #tmnt mafia!turtles #tmnt mafia!turtles angst

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softcallofdutyimagines · 3 years ago

Text

How Do I Love Thee? | Knight!Weaver x Princess!Reader | Medieval AU | Chpt. 1

Summary:

The day has finally come. Your bodyguard, the man you've trusted with your life since the day you were born, has reached the age of retirement. Being the only child of your royal parents, the King and Queen are quite keen on keeping you safe, so naturally a new one must be selected. When the dust of the tournament settles, a champion is chosen, one far younger and stronger then the last...

In an age full of tales of handsome men in shining armor and chivalrous heroes of great courage and honor, could you be in for a forbiden love story of your own?

Tags: Slow burn

Warnings: None, except for a small fight scene involving mentions of blood

“Goodnight my Lady”, your lady in waiting bows her head politely as she exits your chambers, closing the heavy wooden doors behind her with a soft thump. Her footsteps recede off into the night down through the thick stone corridors as you lay awake in your downy bed. Two sconces glow faintly in the night, providing just enough light for you to navigate the large, dark room.

Once you’re sure you’re alone, you grab your small candle and pad across the cool stone floor to steal some light. It catches quickly and you’re off once more to your desk. You pull out your poetry books and studies to retrieve a small leather bound notebook. It contains all sorts of things like sketches and sonnets that you've penned, but most of all it’s filled with your musings of the day.

You tap your quill on the edge of the inkwell and set its point to the parchment.

Today has been a rather sad one indeed. Your old guardsman has retired from your father’s service, the very same man who’s protected you and your person since you were but a little girl. He’s much like a grandfather to you in a way, and it pains you very deeply to see him leave you. Your father has tried to comfort you with the promise that a tournament will be held the very next day to get you a new guard as soon as possible, but the absence of a knight isn’t what troubles you.

You sniffle, a tear threatening fall from your eyes as you pause, recalling a lifetime of memories and yet being forced to let them go. Gathering your strength with a deep breath, you write the final words you old guard left you with:

“Be brave, my little Princess. I know you can”

At last you write that you are not looking forward to tomorrow and that you expect to be quite beside yourself. It’s all you can write before the despondency overcomes you again.

Being the Lady that you are, you retrieve one of your ever present nearby handkerchiefs and dry your eyes. You set your journal back into it’s hidden home and restore your books to keep it safe. With the desk returned just as it was, you tiptoe back to bed and blow out your candle. Moving aside the velvet drape, you think one last time on your faithful old guard, remembering all the memories of your childhood you shared as you climb back under the sheets.

Tomorrow is a new chapter for the both of you, you suppose. You hope his story ends sweetly.

---

The tournament begins with much fanfare and ado as the festivities kick things off. You’re sitting pretty in a lovely silk gown between your mother and father, both equally dressed up. There’s games and feasting and music and dancing… All the things something of this magnitude should include.

And, as you predicted, you’re quite bored indeed.

As yet another jaunty reel plays from the minstrels, you can’t help but roll your eyes and look onwards. Past the castle grounds, past the village, past the fields and farm lands… Way, way out in the distance to the forest and mountains.

That’s where your soul lies.

Being the Princess is all well and good, but in truth, your heart yearns for nothing more than to simply be free. Even if all that’s out there is more grass and trees, just as there is all around you, oh what you’d give for the chance to see it. To touch the grass and leaves you’ve never seen before. To feel and smell the wind in it’s wild, untamed stomping grounds. Some days you dream of just running away, but…

Well, your guard would never allow it. And, here you are, getting assigned yet another figure to keep an eye on you in the name of your father.

A blast of trumpets shatters your daydream as your attention is called back to present. The royal scribe stands on a podium, announcing the main attraction at last. He reads off a long, tiresome list of names “Sir this and that”, “Lord ho hum”, ugh… At least the fighting should be entertaining, you suppose.

There are several rounds and three main competitions: Jousting, Dueling, and Archery. Score will be kept and knights slowly eliminated until a final two are left, at which point, the two will engage in a duel and may the best man win.

Admittedly, you tune out for the first several rounds until the riff raff and washed up old timers are sorted out. Not as though you have any say in the matter, but you pick a few favorites and follow their progress through the competition. Although in all honesty, you pick said favorites by their horses and the colors and patterns of their coat of arms.

However… One knight in particular has caught your eye both in skill and trappings.

His coat of arms features a fierce looking tiger and swords, the style of which tells you his family hails from somewhere out east, and his horse is a lovely dusty grey. Even you must admit, his skills so far aren’t bad either. He’s coasting through the competition with little difficulty and, even with the few close calls here and there, by the time he’s made it up to the final rounds you would almost dare to say you have your heart set on him.

Silently you root him on as he tiredly batters through opponent after opponent, somehow maintaining strength and endurance up until the very last man. A few breaks have been called in between rounds up until this point, but now the last two will be taking a long recession before the final fight.

Food and drink and dance is had once more for peasants and nobility alike while each knight gathers their strength, but you can’t keep your mind off the excitement of the final duel...

When at last, the time has come, you’re on the edge of your seat.

Once more the scribe’s voice rings out over the silent crowd as the two men ready themselves in opposing corners of the muddy sparring ring, “Fighting for the honor of being named the new protectorate of the Princess, Sir Weaver and Lord Fletcher will face each other in armed combat! The rules are as follows-”

The scribe's voice fades away, and immediatly your mind begins to wander.

Sir Weaver…

The name rolls off your tongue as you watch him pace and stretch in his corner of the ring. He’s armed with a sword and shield, classic weapons of the heroes of old, just like in your books and sonnets… His shield is tall and rectangular, with that very same tiger proudly emblazoned on its front. He gives his sword a few test swings and even from here you can hear the ringing of razor sharp steel.

His opponent wields a smaller shield and a rather nasty looking mace, a classic for smashing heads and armor alike. Thankfully you won’t have to bear witness to such violence should Sir Weaver lose, but you don’t much fancy the idea of such a savage weapon anyway. It may have its place in battle, but it doesn’t seem very… Heroic.

After far too much more courtly addresses, a trumpet sounds to begin the fight.

The Lord charges the Knight, mace raised to strike, as Sir Weaver stands his ground like a tower of strength. He deflects the blow easily, as well as the few more that come after it. A smart tactic, you observe, letting the opponent come to him and tire himself out. Lord Fletcher seems to believe that he can smash right through the great steel shield as that’s where most of his strikes end up landing. Sir Weaver’s tiger is quite battered, but holds out well.

All the overhead motions of the mace swings prove to be a disservice soon enough though, as the knight stabs his way through chinks in the armor here and there as the Lord slowly grows more and more weary. His movements become sluggish and desperate, a lethal combo, and before long the mud is mixed red with the wounds of the mace wielding Lord.

To his credit, he fights to the bitter end, but the duel is called before too much blood is shed.

A roar of approval goes up from the crowd. Amidst the cheering and the fanfare, Sir Weaver bows politely before the royal family and makes to exit the arena. You cock an eyebrow. Curious, you would’ve expected more of a show given the grand odds he just overcame.

Regardless, you clap politely and watch the two men exit the ring. It’s nearly night by now and there’s still more to do. Tomorrow your new knight will be sworn in and given his orders and hours and so forth… But for now, you have many things to tell your journal tonight.

---

The next day begins as it always does. You wake up at sunrise. Your chamber maid helps you dress, pick out your outfit for the day, and style your hair. Finally, you’re ready to join your family and the court for breakfast. A few questions come your way asking about whether or not you’re excited to meet your new knight and what you thought of the tourney yesterday, but otherwise you’re ignored as usual.

When breakfast passes, the court moves on to the throne room. It’s easily the most illustrious room in the palace, save for perhaps a few that suit your particular tastes. Small windows sit high above near the vaulted ceiling, raining in sunlight and fresh air from far above. Giant chandeliers hang proudly, holding a dizzying host of candles. The walls are blanketed in gorgeous tapestries, some of which you’ve had the honor of assisting in the weaving of. They’re laced with threads of gold and silk, and when they catch the light just right, they give off an ethereal glow, bringing the stagnant scenes to life.

The typical court proceedings will begin shortly, but first the matter of your new bodyguard is to be addressed. Soon enough, Sir Grigori Weaver of, so on and so forth… is announced to the court. Finally, something interesting for the day. You sit up properly in your throne and take in the sight.

He’s dressed in an appropriately fancy set of gambeson and hose, clearly his armor is off to be under repairs. His one arm hangs freely, the other rests on the pommel of his sword, and he takes a brief look at his surroundings. He carries himself with purpose and a serious air which could almost take a turn for intimidating given a closer look. His face is rough with prickly stubble contrasted by a long, smooth mustache and hair combo. Between the two lies no feature of note aside from a grizzly scar running across a cloudy white, useless eye.

Sir Weaver nods towards you and your mother, then offers your father a proper bow, “My liege”

Your father smiles, and you can already tell you’re about to be stuck with this man whether you like it or not. He tells the knight to rise and after a brief exchange of greeting, Sir Weaver is sworn into your service complete with the whole ceremonial nonsense.

You rise and come forward, standing just a few steps above him on the throne platform. He hands you his sword and kneels before you. Without the help of any prompting, you lead him through the oath phrase by phrase and at last you tap either of his shoulders with the flat of the blade. To seal it all, you extend your hand with your signet ring.

“Thank you, my lady”, he takes your hand softly and kisses your knuckle, “I am yours”

He rises and accepts back his blade while you return to your throne. Your father makes arrangements for a whole new suit of armor to be commissioned for your knight, after all, his safety is your safety, and so forth. But for once, you don’t mind the droning on of court business.

It gives you some time to hide your blush.

#call of duty #black ops cold war #grigori weaver x reader

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andypantsx3 · 4 years ago

Text

war paint | 3 | captain

pairing: Bakugou Katsuki / Reader

length: 27,765 words / 10 chapters

summary: Desperate times force you to disguise yourself and join the kingsguard. When a suspicious string of crimes strike the palace, however, Captain Katsuki Bakugou starts paying extra close attention. (spin off of in cinders)

tags: mulan AU, secret identity, romance, reader-insert

warnings: aged up characters, some violence, eventual smut

The first few weeks of your enlistment were inarguably the worst you’d ever lived.

If not on patrol, soldiers were awakened before dawn every morning and marched to the training pitch behind the castle where you drilled in different formations with various weapons. You were run through exercises that seemed designed to drop anyone with less than iron willpower, then set to menial tasks like cleaning the barracks or repairing any damaged weapons or equipment. The midday meal was the first break in your day, followed immediately by training in basic first aid and survival skills, then by more weaponry drills that took you until the dinner bell.

Between your extra training with Nishimura and the time you had to invest in sneaking off to use the lavatory or a spot to bathe in private, you were hardly resting. Even the time you did spend bathing, you spent in a constant state of anxiety, wondering if a random bunk check would reveal you missing. You hadn't chanced more than a wild, lightning fast scrub down in weeks.

At the end of the first week, you’d collected your enlistment fee with hands blistered from sword work, and it took you longer than you’d ever admit to count it out, stopping every few seconds when your eyes drifted involuntarily shut. You’d been happy to send it off to your family, though, with a short note that told them you were doing well.

Which was, of course, a lie.

You weren’t exactly the most popular among the kingsguard thanks to the show you’d put on when you arrived, and you had the misfortune of dorming in the same room as Nishimura. Despite Captain Bakugou’s warnings, he’d gone out of his way to make life uncomfortable for you, slipping bugs into your sheets and loudly discussing you in less than flattering terms well within earshot.

More than that, you were terrible at nearly everything and it was obvious. Kaminari helped you to the best of his ability, and so did Sero, the guard who’d poked fun at your age at the castle gates. Neither of them, however, could make up for the fact that as a woman, you were somewhat smaller and slighter, and hadn’t had the same opportunities building up muscle mass as men your age. Every sword felt like an anvil in your hands; lifting a mace like hauling a boulder.

The only thing you seemed to excel at was the first aid trainings. You found yourself listening with rapt attention as the court physician walked your battalion through wrapping injuries and cleaning wounds, noting which easily obtained herbs and flowers could slow blood loss or ease pain. Kaminari was always eager to pair with you during the practical exercises, as you were among the least likely to accidentally poison him with the wrong herbs. It was gratifying to be good at at least one thing.

Your favorite part of castle service, though, was the patrols.

After your first month of training, you’d been assigned thrice-weekly patrol routes and found that it was like wading into a cool river on a hot day. Patrols got you out of whichever drills were happening at the time and took you out from under Captain Bakugou’s purview and behind the relative safety of the castle walls.

Though monotonous, you only had to walk a specific route throughout the castle with a partner, and you were rarely supervised. On your first patrol with Kaminari, you also found that patrols were - for him - more of an opportunity to make social calls.

“L/N,” he said, nearly the minute you stepped inside the castle walls. “We’ve got an excellent route today.”

You raised an eyebrow in question.

He chuckled, gesturing you along. “Come on, our first stop is right over here.”

“Our first stop?” you echoed.

Kaminari grinned and grabbed your sleeve, pulling you into a side door. On the other side sat a cramped office stuffed with bright fabrics and colorful spools of thread. A woman with shocking pink hair hunched over a spill of pretty silk, working tiny, perfect stitches into the fabric.

“Mina!” Kaminari boomed and the woman sat up with a smile.

“Denki!” she said, reaching over to hug him. “It’s been a while since patrol took you over here! I have so much to tell you!”

Kaminari laughed and pulled you forward. “Me too. Mina, this is L/N! He lied about his age and wormed his way into the kingsguard.”

You whirled on him. “I’m old enough to be in the guard!”

The absolute wrong gender, but definitely the right age.

He gave you an innocent look. “I’m just passing on the popular opinion.”

Mina chuckled. “Oh, ignore him, L/N. We all do. It’s quite nice to meet you.”

Kaminari whined but Mina just laughed again, redirecting his attention to the dress she was making, saying it was for the princess-to-be. Apparently, Prince Shouto’s bride had been a kitchen girl that Mina and Denki had both been acquainted with, and they talked eagerly of the wedding they’d both been invited to and the food that would be there.

“Think old Bakugou will show up?” Kaminari asked at one point, making himself comfortable at Mina’s workstation. Mina met this with a shrug.

You gave them both a questioning look. “Why would the captain be invited?”

Kaminari turned to you conspiratorially. “Captain Bakugou and the prince grew up together - they’re something like old friends. Plus, Bakugou’s a marquis, he’s probably got an invitation just for political reasons.”

“He’s a marquis?” you asked. That explained the Lord appellation on your contract, then. “Why join the palace guard if he’s titled?”

Kaminari shrugged. “Probably not enough opportunity to torture innocent civilians in Musutafu. If he wants to hold the land, he’s got to be nice to them, hasn’t he?”

You grimaced, thinking of all the drills he’d run you through since you’d gotten here. That definitely wouldn’t endear him to anyone.

“Speaking of our favorite captain,” Mina said conversationally, “I heard he’s been meeting with the prince more often than usual.”

“Wedding stuff?” Kaminari asked, but Mina shook her head.

“As if he’d touch that mushy shit with a ten foot pole. He wouldn’t know romance if it pranced in front of him wearing a soldier’s uniform. No, I heard it’s because a bunch of papers and other valuables went missing from the prince’s study last Thursday night.”

Your mind wandered back to last Thursday, wondering if you’d been on patrol when it had happened. You only dredged up a memory of snuggling down into your bunk, relieved that Nishimura and his goon friend Hasumi were out on their own patrol and your bed was thankfully bug free.

Kaminari’s eyebrows went up. “Important papers?”

Mina raised a thin shoulder. “From what I heard, it seemed to be a weird selection. A couple letters, some wedding arrangements. But a land treaty disappeared as well. They think it’s a spy.”

Kaminari whistled. “Bet old Baku is pissed this happened on his watch. No wonder he’s been in such a foul mood lately.” He turned to you. “Don’t you think he’s been a little too happy when one of us gets clipped by the wrong edge of the sword?”

You thought back to his threats in the mess hall. “He seems normal enough to me.”

Kaminari mulled that over. “I suppose he’s usually that awful.”

Mina smiled. “Talking of which, shouldn’t you be getting on with your patrol? I’d hate to find out what he’d do if he found out you were in here gossiping.”

A spike of panic stabbed through your heart and you grabbed Kaminari’s sleeve. “Excellent observation, Mina. We really should be going. It was wonderful to meet you!”

You tugged Kaminari roughly back through the doorway. You thought it was a testament to his own fear of the captain that he went willingly enough.

The rest of your patrol proved uneventful, however, Bakugou thankfully never being alerted to your social stop. Your patrol ended just after the dinner bell and you ate quickly in the mess hall, then rushed off to the training pitch.

Today was also the last day of your punishment for fighting in the mess hall on your first day, and you thought dreamily of all the rested muscles and extra time you’d have on your hands once extra training ended. You might be able to sneak off to bathe at a normal time of the evening instead of in the dead of night, starting tomorrow.

Your good cheer faded quickly, however, as you arrived at the pitch to find Captain Bakugou there.

Nishimura was just behind you and he stopped short at your side. “Where’s our usual drill officer?” he demanded.

A horrible grin cut into Bakugou’s features, bearing his sharp canines. He looked like a wolf ready to tear into a nest of rabbits, and your stomach flipped. “Ojiro’s off duty tonight. Thought I’d see if you’d learned your lesson myself.”

You inhaled sharply, and Bakugou caught it, laughing. “Thought I’d forgotten about you two fucks, didn’t you?”

You lowered your gaze and took a deep, steadying breath. Just tonight. You just had to get through tonight and you would be free.

Nishimura seemed to steel himself as well, sweeping a hand through his dark hair. “What are our drills tonight, Captain?”

Bakugou’s crimson gaze flickered over you both. “Fight me.”

You looked up, startled. “Fight you?”

He looked you over disdainfully. “You’re a goddamn soldier, you telling me you can’t fight? Didn’t seem to stop you in the mess hall.”

You bit your lip, but Nishimura stepped forward, that violent gleam in his eye. “Yes, sir.”

Bakugou grinned. “I’m gonna fucking wipe this field with you.”

Nishimura didn’t dare correct his superior, but his hand went quickly to his sword and he leaned forward eagerly. Before you even had time to blink, the clash of metal rang out across the field and Bakugou had Nishimura on the defensive, pushing him back into step with you. You hadn’t even seen him go for his sword.

Swearing, you fumbled for your own blade, whipping it out just in time to catch the swipe Bakugou aimed at your side. You stumbled under the force of the strike, tripping backwards.

Nishimura growled and lunged again, but Bakugou was faster, parrying his attack and following up with his own. A low chuckle escaped him as he caught Nishimura with the back edge of his blade, winding him and sending him staggering back.

Bakugou whipped back to you, targeting you with another fast swipe that you barely caught in time. The strength of his blow almost knocked your sword from your grasp, shuddering up your arm and leaving you gasping.

“What the fuck are you in the kingsguard for if you won’t fight?” he snarled. Another swipe came your way and again you barely caught it. Your heart beat frantically in your chest and you tried to duck out of range of his arm.

“Come back here, pretty boy,” Bakugou taunted, advancing on you, but Nishimura cut in with another attack. Bakugou whipped the edge of his blade up again, faster than your eye could follow, catching the strike. You caught the curl of that savage grin on the corner of his mouth again before he moved, ducking under Nishimura’s arm and twisting his blade. It slid along the edge of Nishimura’s sword with an awful screech, then caught the hilt at an angle, ripping it straight out of Nishimura’s grip.

A kick from Bakugou had Nishimura on the ground and just as quickly he twisted back around, stalking back towards you. Your heartbeat quickened in fear as he approached, crimson gaze burning into you.

“You don’t belong here if you can’t face me,” he ground out. “Fight me or I’m discharging you. That’s a fucking order.”

You trembled, but lifted your blade. You needed the money to send back to your parents. It was too early to be discharged - if you left now, they’d have no way of clearing the debt.

You thrust your sword forward but Bakugou dodged easily. You quickly flicked through all the maneuvers you’d been drilling the past month, and followed up with a lunge. Bakugou grinned, flicking it aside with a quick twist of his wrist.

“Put your back into it, shrimp,” he demanded.

You gripped your sword with both hands, bringing it down on him with all the force you had in you. Bakugou deflected, and before you knew what was happening, your sword was rent from your grasp, skidding along the dirt of the pitch behind you.

The flat of Bakugou’s sword came up to tip your chin up to him.

“Pathetic,” he spat, “you fight like a damn woman.”

Your hands curled into fists at your sides. Bakugou’s sharp eyes caught it and he smirked. “You gonna punch me, pretty boy?”

You struggled to tamp down the hot anger bubbling up inside you like a spring from the earth. “No, sir.”

He eyed you distrustfully, pressing the flat of his blade into your chin a little harder. “I’d think seriously about what the fuck you think you’re doing here. This is the kingsguard and I don’t need weak little shits like you endangering the royal family or your fellow soldiers.”

You stared back at him, not daring to speak. Your blood rushed in your ears and your heart hammered wildly in your chest.

After a long moment he lowered his blade, sheathing it back at his hip. He looked over at Nishimura, who was delicately picking himself up off the ground.

“Disappointing,” Bakugou said roughly. “I’ve seen enough here. You’re both dismissed - back to your dormitories.”

You nodded, backing away from him. Nishimura stalked off, and you turned and picked your way gingerly back across the field, stopping only to pick up your sword and tuck it back into the belt at your waist. You set off slowly for the barracks, something like hot tears stinging at the back of your eyes.

You didn’t look back, but you swore you could feel a pair of crimson eyes on you as you slipped quietly through the dark.

#bakugou x reader #fanfic #bakugou katsuki x reader #bnha #bnha x reader #boku no hero academia #bakugou katsuki

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