#In Defiance of Time AU

[ganondorf--apologist]

It's a Family Tradition

#hollow knight #silksong #lacenet #silkwyrmroot #hornet #lace #herrah #pale king #in defiance of time au #reposting me old art from 2021 bc this one still makes me laugh #chili art

[juicyfruit866]

“Their voidheart caught in their throat as the weight of what they’d just done crashed down on them. He was healing them.” Got lazy near the end so it’s pretty messy but this fanfic is really good

#artists on tumblr #digital art #hollow knight #pale king #ghost hollow knight #in defiance of time au #ao3 #fanfic

[hetagrammy]

What better to put Miss Ireland in than The Green Dress™ from HoTD?

#hetalia #my art #hws ireland #nyo!ireland #aph ireland #asoiaf au #for the record i don't think she's particularly like alicent (maybe a similar level of manic at times) #i just think the green suits her #also the idea of molly continuing to wear her own colors as a sort of defiance is something i like #especially in an era where heraldry/heraldic colors were important #(which obviously this fit is fantasy but the idea applies) #a similar vibe to 'the beacon on the hightower. do you know what color it glows when Oldtown calls its banners to war?' 'green.'

[koalas-koalas-everywhere]

About a month ago (I thought it was longer!) I posted some ficlets with the promise that a longer Lancelot Lives Alt Season 4 full fic was coming. It has been going slowly. Like, "less than 15k words since then" slow. I started alt Servant of Two Masters literally with Mercelot Week and they've just found out that he's trying to kill Arthur slow. And I thought, you know, I could post another sneak peek.

A few days ago, I made myself sad writing the first conversation between Lancelot and Merlin since the latter went missing (not that the scene itself comes off as all that sad, it is from Fomorroh!Merlin, but I thought of how sad Lancelot would've been and well). Yesterday, I made this fic into a comedy:

“It’s probably best that we get there first,” Gwen tried to demur.

“We think Merlin might have been enchanted to kill Arthur,” Gaius said.

Gwen made a sound like a mix between a boiling kettle and a cat whose tail had been stepped on, but Lancelot didn’t pay it any mind.

“What?” he yelped and didn’t wait for an actual answer before breaking into a run. 

Fortunately, while the physician’s chambers were on the top of a tower, isolated from the rest of the castle, they’d also been placed close to the Royal Chambers. He burst through the doors not a minute later, just in time to see Merlin pull an arrow out of a pillar. Thinking only of that weapon in his hand (the danger to Arthur’s life, to Merlin’s life if he was caught after the act, how it’d break his heart if he hurt Arthur or worse) and not the startled look on his face or the bewildered question from behind the privacy screen, Lancelot launched himself at him.

They went down in a tangle of limbs.

“What on earth— Lancelot?!” Arthur exclaimed, running over. “What is going on?!”

“Get off me!” Merlin struggled like a fish on land.

“I just… hadn’t seen him since he came back!” Lancelot said, barely dodging an elbow to the face. “I’m so happy he’s alive!” he insisted, finally managing to wrap his arms around his torso to immobilize him.

“What are you talking about? We just saw each other in the Armoury!” It was a good thing Merlin had dropped the arrow when they fell, because Lancelot was pretty sure he’d have been stabbed by now otherwise. 

“I think you imagined that.” Lancelot was half trying to pin Merlin’s legs under his own, half trying to avoid a kick to any sensitive spot when Gwen arrived at the door, out of breath.

“Arthur, they need you at the Throne Room,” she gasped out. “You have to go.”

“Why would I ever torture myself by imagining more conversations with you? The ones I have to suffer through in reality are more than enough for any sane being,” Merlin said, still wriggling.

Lancelot shot Arthur a wide beam. “He’s so funny.”

Merlin took that moment of distraction to twist suddenly, getting his legs under himself. He might have gotten enough leverage to shake Lancelot off and stand up if Gwen hadn’t jumped on him as well.

“You too?!” Arthur demanded, arms spread. “You saw him this morning!”

“I missed him so much,” she explained, holding on for dear life.

Gaius appeared at the door and Arthur turned to him.

“Let me guess.” Arthur gestured wildly. “Do you want to drop to my floor?”

“No, sire,” Gaius answered, eyes narrowed. “Do you?”

Arthur made a strangled noise that choked itself into a laugh.

“Back to normal, then,” he sighed. He walked across the room, past the wrestling figures in the floor that became a lot more active when Merlin saw Arthur come within reach, and grabbed his ceremonial sword. “I better get going. You” —he waved a hand— “have fun.”

“Wait,” Merlin shouted after him. “Don’t you need me to—?”

Arthur slammed the door behind himself pointedly.

#Merlin BBC #alt season 4 #lancelot lives au #WLWAAOD #(that's When Love Was An Act Of Defiance btw) #Merlin #Lancelot #Mercelot #this is not the first time this has happened #the funny 'sneak around the camp base to get the triskelion and climb to the tower of ashkanar' was directly preceded by a heavy convo abou #dragonlord culture and how much had been lost and destroyed beyond repair #Arthur Pendragon #Gwen #guinevere pendragon

[cannibaltranssexual]

hi jason! sorry if youve answered this before, but what does aaoc stand for? i love the posts that you tag as such so im curious :]

its my tag for posts that remind me of my wip fic(s) !! i havent 100% settled on what to name the series yet but pretty early on in development i stumbled upon that passage by julian k jarboe (from the book everyone on the moon is essential personnel) that goes

Why does God create grapes and wheat, but not wine and bread? God does this because God wants us to share in the act of creation. To be how you made me, to become how God made me, though you, I can remake myself. You and I: we are already only whole, and shifting towards the divine.

and the author also has a tweet relating this concept to transsexuality and youve probably already seen one or both of these floating around on tumblr already but whatever i just wanted to center my t4t hannigram fic around these quotes cause theyre just. so good.

so yeah it stands for "an act of creation" except it should probably be "#taoc" if i wanted it to match the original quote but i cba to go and change it now which is probably not how placeholder tags are meant to work !! oh well . fic playlist <3

#sorry idk if u were asking me abt the tag in general or just the acronym but whatever . infodump time #i have not answered this ask before <3 i rarely get asks and even more rarely answer them 💀 #ask #aaoc #i dont even know how much religious themes to include in the fic bc im like the worst person to attempt to write that (<- raised atheist) #but character wise it would only make sense and it would literally make the narrative so much more layered #anyways . some things that go in the tag: #autocannibalism + transsexuality as violence + transsexuality as cannibalism which is like . thesis statement #rural american towns/houses #wolf/dog symbolism + deer & antler symbolism + especially the two combined #literally any pictures of knives but especially those ones made of canine teeth or deer bones. or ones that just have swag gender vibes #knives r gonna be a big thing for young will and theyre basically his symbolic wolf teeth. but maybe fashioned out of whats left of the doe #and of course literally anything else that has to do with/reminds me of trans hannibal or trans will or t4t hannigram or dark!will #ditto with the characters' youths at any point in time since im writing backstories for both of em as well as a florence hannigram arc #and idk sometimes i just go by vibes. sometimes a post is hannigram but ever so slightly different so it must go in the tag #i seriously cant wait til school is over and i can finally go thru my tag and write scenes/notes of what every single post reminds me of #my thought process for the most recent one was just. gore goes on the hanniblog by default + androgyny = defiance of gender norms = aaoc #then it made me think of our convo abt hannibals relationship with japanese culture and also what would body horror be for young hannibal? #so yeah basically just things for my brain to chew on for inspiration #sorry abt the tag wall im normal abt this au (lying) and also just wanted to write down a list of things to tag for personal reference

[youssefguedira]

neon i need you to know your Hades AU is giving me *such* brainrot it made me go pick up the game again and this moment between Zag and Than:

"I'll wait for you however long it takes" / "what are you waiting for, I'm here already"

SCREAM ok, as you were

GOD yeah its just so??? it makes me feel like screaming into a pillow i also came across this piece of dialogue a couple days ago and

like. They

#neon answers #incurablepeach #i am not Much of a zagreus/thanatos shipper largely bc i dont really do the romance routes in the game #but some of their dialogue is like. yeah #n every time achilles says anything about patroclus or vice versa im like andyquynh.... #hades is fun #hades au #im writing first meeting/General Shenanigans atm. and Then. i havent included the death defiance mechanic thus far #bc it's difficult to explain outside of the videogame format #but i do have an idea. for how it could work. and i wont say what it is but it makes me feel like screaming #in a good way. in the end it all comes back to nicky wanting him to stay but letting him go because its what yusuf wants #and he doesnt want to keep him from it #'letting' more in terms of not asking him to stay than actually preventing him from leaving bc nicky doesnt have the power to do that

[veryrealimagination]

Day No: 29

Prompt: Defiance

Fandom: Murdoch Mysteries

Medium: Fic

Trigger Warnings: torture

SFW

Thanks to Prea on discord, I wouldn't have figured a toy that could be somewhat modified into a weapon with only a little tinkering.

They didn’t give him anything for three days. No food, no water. Llewellyn remembered the Flying Pigs and the Civil Corps warning him about it when he signed up for this expedition. Jackson usually made him pack small snacks that could be stuffed in his various pockets.

They stole everything that he had in his pockets, triple checking he didn’t have anything on himself by making him completely strip in a shower. He wanted to thank the invisible entities that he left the mementos home this time. Otherwise, he would have lost the locket with his parents’ pictures inside.

There wasn’t a sink or a toilet, even if he were desperate enough for the second option. A hole where he could relieve himself was pointed out when he asked.

On the fourth day, they finally dragged him out of the cell, covering his head with a bag so he couldn’t see anything. His struggles made one of the guards chuckle darkly as he couldn’t even shift in his captors hold. After five minutes of trying, he was finally dumped on the ground. The bag was ripped off. He caught a quick look at multiple large machines <;i>Electric furnace, Power generator, Ore recycler, Industrial cutter&lt;/i> before someone grabbed his chin and forced him to face them.

The man was obviously the leader, reminding Llewellyn of a dark version of his uncle. Literally, his hair was darker than his uncles, and he had more of a threatening air around him. “Llewellyn Watts,” he stated. He kept his mouth shut, more out of a possible inability to not being able to talk <i>Jackson mocked me- Jackson? Jackson!&lt;/i> than not wanting to talk. “Do you know how smart you are?”

One of the other people, a woman that he didn’t recognize, lifted up the bubble making toy he gave to Danny and Huey before leaving on the expedition. He saw the hole where bubbles were supposed to come out was larger, and malformed. “Such a wonderful design,” she mocked. “A little modification to the holding area, and it held enough gas to sicken the entire squadron of Corps members and flying pigs that we got you from.” He paled at the thought of something he meant for his little ‘brothers’ was used to poison the squadron he had been traveling with.

“You’re going to make another one.”

A gun was held on him to make him comply. Llewellyn remembered feeling happy at something he could make that none of the other builders could, and something that the twins could enjoy for a gol a day. Not even that. This made him feel horrible. He intentionally screwed up one of the components, completely reworking the interior for a nasty surprise.

After he was finished, they pulled him away so the man and woman in charge could try it out. When it started, the smallest of bubbles came out, and more gathered around it to see what else it would do.

Then the item spewed out the gas that they wanted dissipated into the air. It hit several in the face. Screams, Llewellyn only felt half bad while trying to get to the door and get into the hall. Absolutely he doesn’t know where to go, but he was going to try to find a vehicle and-

An arm wrapped around his waist before he even made it out the door.

Squirming to get free, the man that caught him pull him to a wall that had shackles bolted for wrists and ankles. Another man helped him lock his wrists into the first pair before they each did his ankles. Llewellyn couldn’t see anything, being forced to face the wall. He only heard footsteps a few minutes after being locked there. “Pull up his shirt,” the woman ordered.

One pulled it up and over his head, using the material to stuff into his mouth. Now his backside was bare, and the prefect canvas for what came down. The young man screamed as something hit his back with force. A second one and he felt the area burst into pain and heat while he yelled. More landed on his back, each building up on pain before the tenth would have drove him to his knees if his arms weren’t bolted to the wall. His throat hurt with the screaming and yelling, and his arms were going that was as well with holding all of his weight.

“Take him back to his cell,” she said, “Make sure he only gets enough to survive on.” The men on either side of Llewellyn undid the cuffs before dragging him across the floor. He only realized he was at his cell when they dropped him, took off the bag, and locked the door behind him.

He knew he was crying, and being a baby at the pain radiating from his back. A man would be silent and stoic about the whipping. Llewellyn wanted Jackson treating his back as if it was a swipe from a tripion. He wanted Jackson berating him for being captured by Duvos agents. He wanted Jackson to… He wanted Jackson to… I want Jackson back. I want Jackson. I want Jackson.

True to the word of the woman, he was at least given enough to survive. A doctor came and checked the wounds on his back, commenting that two bled, but were clean enough from him not putting his shirt back over them to clot with nothing in them. After that, it was water and a gruel paste that was force fed to him before they left him again. The exact same thing happened for another day.

Then, on the third, they dug him back into the same room, bag over his head again. All the evidence of his sabotage was cleaned up, and the people that suffered had been treated and healed. “Another chance, Watts,” the leader said. “Make another one.”

“No,” Llewellyn said.

“Builder Watts,” he growled.

Instinctively, he wanted to curl up. But he couldn’t do that. Not here. Not any more. “I’m not building you any weapons,” he said, trying to keep his head high and eyes straight at his. He still had to shift to the man’s nose as his eyes were too much.

The man slapped him. It pushed him back a bit, but one of the guards forced him forward. “You will make-”

“No, I won’t,” he interrupted, getting a punch to the stomach this time. He’s had that before, he can deal with that. “I won’t do it, I won’t do it.”

“Builder-”

“I’M NOT MAKING YOU WEAPONS!” he shouted, amazed at himself for shouting like that, and now terrified because he has pissed off the man in front of him.

He nodded to the guards, who held Llewellyn in place. “You will eventually break,” he promised.

“I,” he tried, breath catching before his mind caught up, “I will die before that happens.”

He smirked, “We’ll see.”

#whumptober2022 #defiance #no.29 #fic #murdoch mysteries #llewellyn watts #torture #my time at portia au #the leader is Davis #the woman is Sally

[mysicklove]

Summary: four-year-old Yuuji didnt mean to bring up Mr. Gojos crush on you, which of course, leads to Sukuna's harsh teasing.

cw: fem! reader (reader gets referred to as girl, pretty, and mommy), curse words, suggestive language, lion king spoilers (lol)

wc: 1.8k

a/n: i love making sukuna an absolute menace. poor yuuji tho. i think i am going to introduce gojo as a character, because I think it would be entertaining to piss Sukuna off lol.

big brother au masterlist

“Su-kuna!”

“The fuck did you just call me?”

“Language,” You scold, not peering up from your book. Yuuji lays sprawled out on top of the both of you – his head in your lap, and practically purring in content when you gently pet the top of his head, while his little legs are on Sukuna’s thighs. 

Yuuji giggles into your shirt, shaking his head mischeviously. “Bad word Su-kuna!”

In an instant, you feel the toddler being ripped away from your lap with a tiny screech. The noise startles you, and you perk up from your book to look to where the boy has gone to. But, you aren't surprised to see him dangling in the air by his ankle – Sukuna’s long fingers skillfully hold onto Yuujis chubby little leg tight enough to not drop him, but gently enough to not cause physical harm. 

The boy doesn't seem to mind this position, being in it so frequently. Giggles and squeals leave the toddler's mouth as he stares at his now upside down brother. “You learning how to speak correctly?”

Yuuji nods his head, and his hands try to reach for Sukunas shirt. You rest your head on the man's shoulder, chuckling at the boy who was squirming in the air. “Uh-huh! F-Fush-i-guro taught me!” The dark haired toddlers last name was hard to pronounce, and it was amusing watching how Yuuji sounded it out.

Sukuna makes a loud groaning noise and you cover your mouth to hold back another laugh. “Of course you made friends with Gojo’s new brat. First he hits on my girl, and now his new kid is gonna manipulate this idiot.” He shakes Yuuji in the air to demonstrate his point, ignoring the squeals. 

You roll your eyes with a laugh. “Just because Megumi taught Yuuji how to say your name correctly, doesn't mean the kid is manipulating him. Y’know Yuuji struggles with words sometimes.” You watch as the child in turn shakes his head in defiance, letting out a “Nu-uh!” that only makes you smile. You turn back over to your lover, kissing his cheek. “Aw, does it make you sad that our little Yuuji is growing up?”

“No,” he quickly rebuttals, “Brat isnt growing up fast enough. I am mad that you're not denying the fact that the white haired idiot is flirting with you.” You know that wasn't the full truth, but alas, Sukuna was extremely stubborn and would never admit that he didn't want his brother to grow up. 

“Fush-i-guro says Mr. Gojo thinks you are pretty!” Yuuji announces, beaming at you from the air. You hold back a wince, smiling awkwardly back at the innocent words of the toddler. You watch as the boys cheeks begin to flush from all the blood rushing to his head, and immediately as if sensing it, Sukuna flips over the boy and instead places him on his lap, holding onto the back of his neck.

The action makes you smile, noticing the thumb that rubs gently at the pale skin. But when you glance at Sukuna, you notice quickly that he was anything but happy. Sukunas dark eyes twitches, flickering to you, and he speaks between his teeth. “Did he now? I may need to have a talk with Mr. Gojo next time I pick the little pest up. Does Fushiguro say anything else?”  

“Sukuna,” you whine, realising that the hold on the boys neck was not out of affection – instead was used to trap the boy while he was questioned. “Y’know Gojo is alot. He just wants to–”

“Fush-i-guro says Mr. Gojo has a crush on Y/N!”

“Yuuji!” 

“B-But, Y/N has a crush on brother,” the boy concludes, furrowing his eyebrows with a small nod. “Right, Ku–um–Su-kuna?” He turns up to his brother, doe eyed with his head slightly cocked to the side in question. 

In response, Sukuna ruffles his hair, nearly sending the boy landing on his back. But, instead he giggles at the rough treatment, shutting his eyes and trying his best to stay upward. “The biggest crush. You make sure to tell the little brat that. Or else Mr. Gojo is going to try take her away.”

Your eyes widen and you push at his broad shoulders. “Sukuna! You're going to get him all worked up!” You exclaim, knowing the very sensitive (regarding you or Sukuna) child very well by now. You turn to the boy, whose own eyes widen as he trying to process the words. “Gojo is not trying to take me away.”

“He is going to take her away if you don't do anything, and little Megumi is going to have a new mommy.” Sukuna was grinning at the boy, as if his brother's fearful expression pleased him. You knew that he was being purposely dramatic – Gojo wasn't even technically Megumi's father, if there was a chance that you guys would ever get together (near zero) you would definitely not be the boy's new mom. But alas, Sukuna continues on with his words. “Thats why whenever you see the two of them talking you have to make sure you to scream as loud as possible.”

You cover the mans mouth before you he can spewl any more nonsense, but it was too late. Yuuji was already tearing himself from the man's lap and into yours – his lips begin to wobble and his eyes flood with tears. “Is-um-is that what you two talk about when I am with Mr. Nanami,” he warbles, thinking back to the multitude of times he has held onto his preschool teachers hand and watched you smile at the white haired man. 

“No, love,” you reassure, turning your attention instead from scolding your lover to consoling the child. “Sukuna is being mean again. Don't listen to him. Mr. Gojo and I are friends.” You ignore the look that Sukuna shoots you, showing how displeased he is at the idea of you being friends with his least favorite person. 

The boy sniffles, wiping his little fists on his face. “I-I dont want you to be Fush-i-guro’s mommy. You have to stay with me and Kuna! P-Please?” He doesn't even attempt to say his brother's name correctly, forgetting how he started the conversation all together. He was focused on trying not to cry, because his brother was sure to tease him, but it wasn't working out very well.

You kiss at his chubby cheeks, shaking your head with an exasperated look on your face, wondering how the hell you got to this conversation. “I am not, promise. I'm not going anywhere. Even if your brother is the worst, brattiest, malicious person alive, I have kinda grown attached to him. Besides, if I left who would I have movie nights with?”

“I am not a–” You shoot Sukuna a nasty glare, and he in return lets out an astonished laugh, but shrugs without care.

Your words make Yuuji perk up from your lap, and his eyes widen with glee. “You like movie nights too?” He was always begging for the three of you to watch movies together, but Sukuna always denies him considering it would end up being a cheesy Disney movie that Yuuji would fall asleep not even twenty minutes into.

“I love movie nights. Do you want to have one tonight?”

“Woah, woah, woah,” Sukuna butts in, and you spare him a glance. “Babe, we have plans tonight, remember?” He tilts his head to the side suggestively and you roll your eyes at him.

“Not anymore. Me and Yuuji are going to watch…”

“Human Earthworm 2!” The boy interjects, completely forgetting about his previous experiences with the movie, not good ones.

You poke at his cheeks, shaking your head. “I was thinking The Lion King.” 

“Yes!”

“No,” Sukuna groans, covering his eyes with his palm.

You look at him with furrowed eyebrows. “No? Why are you putting your input in? You're not watching it with us.”

Sukuna, never have been told this before, looks appalled. “The fuck you mean?”

“Bad word!” Yuuji points to him in accusation, but Sukuna just ignores him.

You cock your head to the side, a sly grin pulling at your face. “You're not invited.”

“Why not?”

The two of you make eye contact for a long second, and after a moment or two, Sukuna sighs. “You're really mad about that?” You don't say anything, just continuing to stare at him. “Okay fuck–Yes that is a curse word, astute observation you brat. I am sorry for making the kid cry again.”

“And?”

Sukuna narrows his eyes at you, but you hold your ground. Then, he turns to the boy with a sigh. “Dont scream when you see Gojo and Y/N talk, alright?” He jabs his finger into the boys chest and Yuuji nods his head rapidly in understanding. But, a foxish grin pulls at the mans face and he says, “Instead…The moment you hear him talk to her, you bite his leg.”

He barks a laugh at the confused face of his brother, but when he looks up to you, the smile falters. “Okay, c’mon it was a jo–”

You point your finger to the door. “Couch.”

“You can't kick me out of my own room!”

You don't move your finger. Yuuji glances at you, cocks his head to the side, and then mimicks your action. “Couch!”

The three of you go silent for a long minute, and at this point the boy's hand begins to tremble from holding his hand out for too long. Eventually when Sukuna realizes that there was no point of reasoning, he lets out a dramatic sigh, before crawling out of bed. 

When he notices your smug smile, he flips you off and you can't help but laugh at that. “I am coming back after the movie is done, ya hear?”

“If Yuuji does not fall asleep,” You tease in return, knowing the boy well, and Sukuna rolls his eyes. 

His eyes flicker to the boy who was snuggling up to your chest, trying to find a comfortable position to watch the movie in. Sukuna chuckles to himself, opening up the door, before turning back to the kid one last time. “Hey brat,” he calls.

“Hm?” 

“The father lion–Mufasa. He is my favorite character, so you'll bound to like him a lot. In fact, I sure do wonder if you'll get attached,” he muses, and your eyes widen when you realize what he is saying. Anything that is linked with Sukuna, Yuuji immediately falls in love with. This was bound to cause hysteria. “Enjoy the movie guys! Y/N have fun!” He calls, before shutting the door.

You pause for a moment, sighing into your hand. “Kuna likes the father lion? I want to see!”

You tried everything to avoid turning on the movie after that. But Yuuji, like his brother, was stubborn, and he desperately wanted to see the lion. He grew attached very quickly in that short period of time.

Deep laughs rumble through the house when Yuuji begins to sob over the animated lion's death. You lock the door, and Sukuna stays the night on the couch. 

#mello.writes #big brother au #sukuna x reader #kid yuuji #sukuna x you #sukuna fluff #yuuji fluff #yuuji tadori fluff #jjk fluff #jjk x reader #reader insert #x reader #fem reader #female reader #f! reader #fem! reader

[saetoru]

imagine rich boy gojo finding out your name for him in his phone is just “satoru” or something 💀 and then from the side geto is like “mine’s got an emoji!”

✩ ‧₊˚ ✩。NO HEART — GOJO SATORU. (rich boy! au)

rich boy! gojo, college au, fluff, established relationships, dramatic gojo which is consistent in every version of him no matter the au

studying with gojo satoru is the worst idea you could ever allow to happen—and yet, every time he asks, you let it happen.

“baby, aren’t you getting my texts?” gojo pouts. it earns him an unimpressed glare from you as you look up from your textbook, a glare that makes him wilt while geto snickers from the corner.

“satoru, if you don’t stop bothering me while we’re supposed to be studying, so help me—”

“but it’s funny, look,” he whines. and before you can stop him, he picks up the untouched phone beside you, tapping the screen to unlock it. except, he doesn’t make it that far.

suddenly the world stills. it stops spinning on its axis. and suddenly, gojo satoru’s face is the dictionary definition of devastation.

“satoru, what’s wrong,” you furrow your brows.

“satoru. satoru? satoru?” he repeats, each time in more disbelief than the last.

“that’s….your name, yes?” you raise a brow. and then realization strikes your features—or so he thinks. he’s soon to find out he’s mistaken. “oh, sorry,” you snort, “toru, is that better? toru, get to studying—”

“my name in your phone is just satoru?” he asks, cutting you off like you’ve genuinely wounded him—the betrayal on his face and the shock in his voice are all too real.

you blink for a moment before you realize the source of his tantrum seems to be the contact name you have for him in your phone. only gojo satoru would find a way to make a big deal out of his own name, you think.

“well, yeah,” you shrug, “it’s your name. plus i had it set when i first got your number from that project. i hated you back then.”

“you called me gojo back then,” he squints accusingly.

“yeah that’s because it was gojo satoru at first,” you nod. from the side, you hear geto snicker again about the full government name to himself—which earns him a pillow thrown at his direction by gojo. “i deleted the gojo part when we started dating,” you add.

“oh so you can delete my surname once we started dating but you couldn’t even add a heart?” he asks, jaw dropped and eyebrows furrowed in that dramatic way he does. it’s a bit cute, the way he’s worked up over something so small—but it’s also entirely theatric, making you roll your eyes.

“would a heart make you feel better, satoru?” you purse your lips.

“no! not if you don’t add it because you want to,” he huffs, “you might as well just say you don’t love me!”

“satoru,” you sigh in exasperation. maybe if you didn’t have physics 1302 problems to work through—a whole six of them due before midnight, in fact—you would humor him in his elaborately dramatized attempt at getting your attention. but you have classes to pass and gpa’s to maintain, so you purse your lips instead. “it’s just a contact name. what’s mine?”

“it’s baby <3. with a heart. see?” sure enough, when his phone is turned to face you, it’s baby <3. with a heart.

“i have an emoji in my contact,” geto adds from the side, ever the instigator, “maybe it’s because i’m cuter—”

“you gave suguru’s an emoji?” he asks in distress, staring at you like you’ve told him you’ve cheated. you think you might hurt his feelings less if you did, with the way his lips are curled in a genuine frown.

“suguru set his own contact,” you defend, shooting the nuisance in the corner a sharp glare. geto only offers you a sly wink in return. “i didn’t realize you cared that much about contact names,” you shrug, “i can change it—”

“no need,” gojo huffs, holding up a hand to silence you as he turns away and sticks his nose in the air in defiance. “i’ll just change yours to your full government name. see how you like it.”

“satoru—”

“and you’re not getting a heart either,” he glares, deleting the <3 slowly just for show, making eye contact with you so you know the severity of your actions.

you roll your eyes, snatching your phone back as you shake your head. “if i make your contact baby <3 with a heart because you’re my baby, will that cheer you up,” you sigh.

he ponders it for a moment, as if debating the offer. and then his arms cross in defiance once more. “no. make it baby boy 💋 with a kiss emoji.”

“gross,” geto twists his face in disgust.

gojo turns to him, face blank and serious as he shoots, “single people should not speak when it’s not their turn,” before turning back to you. “i’ll consider forgiving you if you make it baby boy 💋 with a kiss.”

“okay,” you sigh, “baby boy it is.”

“with a kiss!” he glares.

“with a kiss,” you assure, rolling your eyes.

“can i also get a kiss?” he asks hopefully, eyes wide and bright and earnest enough to warm your heart.

you smile, chuckling at the way he looks so cute, at the way he melts your heart and makes you forget you have physics homework for a moment—but only for a moment because then you mumble, “no. now do your homework.”

PLS THIS PROMPT KILLED ME

#teepods.writings #drabbles. #rich boy! au #gojo x reader #gojo fluff #gojo x you #jjk x reader #jjk fluff #jjk x you #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru fluff #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujutsu kaisen fluff

[babyjakes]

clear blue water.

〈 disclaimer: this blog posts content not suitable for individuals under the age of 18. minors are strictly prohibited from viewing, sharing, or interacting with this blog. for more information on this blog's commitment to protecting minors, read our full statement here. 〉

event | kinkmas 2023

prompt | watersports

pairing | soft!dark!daddies!steve rogers and ari levinson x little!reader

warnings | dark ddlg dynamic (soft!dark!daddies of captive!little!reader.) dub/non-con. shower scene. crying kink. moment of nipple play. thigh riding. clit focus <33 + fingering. forced orgasm. watersports (unexpected wetting.) mocking/humiliation. praise and encouragement. aftercare (cleaning off.)

word count | 1,205

an | they have one of those big fancy walk-in showers with the bench in the back, the ones made of marble?? i didn't know how to describe it in-fic so i'm just dropping that info here lol. i don't usually write shower stuff so i hope this turned out okay :')

edit | this is written in the same au as you all over me, with captive!reader and her soft!dark!daddies.

There was no use in squirming or struggling. Any resistance you showed would only make things harder for yourself. And yet as hard as you tried, you couldn't keep your trembling body still. Perched up on Steve's broad thigh, your shoulder blades pressed back against his bare front side, you felt like a cornered animal as Ari crouched down in front of you on the sleek shower floor. A look of mock concern drew across the brunette's face as he reached out to brush dripping strands of hair out of your face.

Steve's arm was steady around your waist holding you in place, but there was little harshness to his grasp. Neither of the men were particularly rough or violent with you, but there were times when you honestly found yourself wishing they would be. There was just something about the way they treated you, with such love and patience- it felt so wrong, given the circumstances. It was maddening.

"P-please, don't make me..." Your begging seemed pathetic even to you as Ari shook his head regretfully, his large hand trailing down to begin toying with one of your tits. His fingertips teased lightly over your already-stiffened nipple, tweaking and tugging at the poor knot of flesh as he shared a steady look with Steve.

"C'mon doll, you're alright. Be a big girl and let your daddies help you," the man holding you encouraged softly. He brought up a hand of his own to begin occupying your other breast as his counterpart shifted his focus lower.

"Gonna take good care of you, sweetheart," Ari promised as he leaned his face down a little, settling his unwanted gaze on your puffy pussy lips as they sat helplessly atop Steve's muscular thigh. Letting out a thoughtful hum, the crouching man mused, "Now, let's see here..."

Steve shifted you up slightly along the length of his leg, placing a hand on either side of your waist to keep you balanced and upright. "Good, that's better," Ari murmured appreciatively as he brought his own prying hands down to gently spread your pussy lips over the surface you were perched on. A feeble whine rose in your throat as your dripping hole and clit came in contact with Steve's damp skin. "There," Ari smiled approvingly, "right up against Daddy's leg. Are you gonna be a good girl and ride Stevie's thigh, baby? Or are we gonna have to help you?"

Big, warm tears of humiliation sprang from your eyes as you tried to glare at the brown-haired man before you. To your dismay, Ari simply seemed to find your little act of defiance endearing. "Poor little girl, what a pretty pout," he crooned as he leaned in to press a kiss against your forehead.

"That's okay, sweetheart," Steve's voice was low and rumbly from behind you, "little babies need their daddies' help. That's what we're here for." Tightening his grip on your waist, he drew a faltering cry from your trembling lips as he began bouncing his leg beneath you, grinding your hips down with his hands at a steady, punishing rhythm.

Ari's expression was full of sympathy as he reached in again to aid in your torment. With just the tips of his fingers, he spread your labia back further, watching as your poor little bundle of nerves was dragged repeatedly over the slippery surface below. "I know, baby. I know," he frowned gently. "Bet your poor little button burns, doesn't it?"

"Poor thing," Steve played right along with his partner's cruel game of faux pity. "How long d'you think she'll last, Ari? Look at her, she's getting worked up already," he pointed out as your shaking legs kicked helplessly beneath you.

"That's our perfect girl," Ari hummed as he and Steve kept up their steady movements. "Shouldn't take long," he stated knowingly, "poor baby's so sensitive, doesn't take much to make her come."

Heat was rising up through your neck and face as your torture dragged on. As always, you were doing everything you could to fight off the inevitable, but very quickly you were finding it all to just be too much. The way they spoke about you as if you weren't even there, the mortifying detail they were discussing your circumstances in. The way forcing you to orgasm seemed to be their favorite pastime, the way they knew the quickest and most efficient ways to bring you right to the edge of those unwanted climaxes they loved so much...

"Getting so wet, doll. You getting close?" Steve murmured against the back of your neck as your broken whimpers and sobs grew louder and more desperate.

Ari could see that familiar look growing on your face, prompting him to bring the pads of his fingers down to rub quickly and harshly against your throbbing button. "C'mon, baby. Give it to us," he commanded, his voice now stronger with an heir of authority.

"Don't fight it, little one," Steve crooned, his voice vibrating against your ear as the horrible feelings swelled up inside of you. As you were sent reeling towards your high, the man behind you brought a firm arm around your lurching body to steady you. Just as your orgasm began tearing through you, the pressure applied to your lower belly proved too much to bear; in a humiliating moment of complete and total helplessness, a surge of warmth shot out from your spasming cunt as you gushed and came simultaneously.

Feeling the forceful spray hit his thigh, Steve couldn't help but beam at the sight of your forfeited control. Ari caught on to what was happening only fractions of a moment later, immediately sharing in his friend's delight. "There, let it all out, sweetheart," he chuckled softly as the unbearable waves of pleasure and relief continued.

"Poor baby, just couldn't hold it, huh?" Steve joined in as your overwhelming climax finally began to wind down. As soon as you left its grips, your poor body slumped uselessly against your captors' holds. Ari removed his fingers from your twitching button as Steve eased you back to lean against his broad chest, gently planting a kiss to your temple as you sat there helplessly, too weak to do anything but struggle for air through your tears.

"Shhh," Ari brought his hands to rub soothingly over the tops of your thighs. As the humiliation of the situation settled in, your cries only worsened, earning concerned yet understanding looks from both of the men as they sat there with you in the humid air. Steve rubbed your tummy gently as Ari stepped away momentarily, retrieving a rag and the bottle of body soap from the front of the shower before returning. You were too weak and exhausted to fight as the man began washing you off, continuing to offer you soft words of praise and reassurance along with Steve.

"You're okay, sweetheart. Just let your daddies take care of you," the blonde told you softly as the warm, soothing cloth was dragged over your ruined body.

"Our little baby. So good for her daddies," Ari kissed your nose, his loving acts and words only feeling like salt in the gaping wound they had once again torn open in you.

#eun's writing #clear blue water #kinkmas 2023 #ari levinson #ari levinson fanfiction #ari levinson smut #steve rogers #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers smut #chris evans #chris evans fanfiction #chris evans smut #daddy!ari levinson #dark!ari levinson #daddy!steve rogers #dark!steve rogers #ari levinson x reader #ari levinson x you #ari levinson x y/n #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x y/n #ari levinson one shot #steve rogers one shot #ari levinson imagine #steve rogers imagine #ari levinson blurb #steve rogers blurb #ari levinson headcanon #steve rogers headcanon

[ganondorf--apologist]

Hollow, rushing in and frantically signing: Dad I need your help, people are worshiping me again!

Pale King: Again? That's... hmm... and you've tried tripping in front of them?

Hollow: I've tried everything! They found my clumsiness endearing, my drunken foolishness hilarious, my rage relatable—I even tried to lie and say that I wasn't a god!

Pale King: What did they say?

Hollow: They said that only a god worthy of worship would be so humble!

Pale King: That's not good...

Hollow: No shit! What do I do?!

Pale King: ...

Pale King: ... I have an idea.

—

Radiance, groggily walking out of her house, mumbling to herself: You'd think being the literal sun would make you a morning person—oh what the actual fuck?

An Entire Crowd of People: There she is! The Goddess of our Humble God! Please, Goddess, share with us your teachings!

Radiance: Teachings... right... um, be careful what you wish for? Look, I'm going to... I need to go talk to a voidling god about a thing, don't... don't follow me.

#hollow knight #in defiance of time au #the hollow knight #pure vessel #pale king #radiance #Radi: Ghost I need you to send me back in time for a minute #Ghost: What the fuck no?! #Radi: I'm not looking to change anything I just need to punch past me in the face #Ghost: Why??? #Radi: Because her dreams just came true and they're really fucking inconvenient for me right now! #funny lil idea that popped into my head

[ominouspuff]

I love rebel fox's ridiculously big sleeves

So glad you do — I dearly love them too. So many opportunities for flourishing and swishing from a man you would expect to do exactly neither and never

Also. You have given me the opportunity to EXPOUND and I’m taking it

The sleeve is not only aesthetic, but so EXTRA

CW mutilation: Fox’s right hand index-finger: “Ahsoka’s Gift” - In the arc where Fives (appears) to get shot by Fox, enraged by this and by her treatment by the Coruscant guard during her trial arc, Ahsoka takes revenge on the offending digit that shot the gun. With her teeth, btw — it gets a bit wild. Side-note: It factors in for the other clones that Fox is not right-handed, but that’s the hand he uses to shoot Fives. Then again, most clones are trained/raised/adjusted to be ambidextrous, so — it’s just odd all around, from the outside.

GAR armor: In keeping with the AU title and inspiration (Repurposing GAR armor towards the end of pulverizing wrinkly Sith — A guide by CC-1010, ecstatically-ex-marshal commander of Coruscant), Fox has kept his GAR shoulder-guards, a cutout of his chestplate, and knee-guards (plus one shin-guard), though the paint on them has been adjusted or worn.

Oversized sleeve: Beneath the batwing sleeve and dramatic flair, Fox is hiding whatever the rebellion uses instead of the Mandalorian Whistling Birds, in addition to an elbow-mini-blaster that fires a max of four shots, and extra ammo. (Also the sleeve is removable — think detachable bridal train)

CW self-destruction: On the reverse side of his chest-plate piece, Fox has an explosive device with multiple ways to rig it to explode. While it is detachable and likely could be used to explode OTHER things, the primary intent is a last resort gesture of defiance should he run out of other options.

Fox also has a replaced tooth (which he makes use of, but no spoilers here) and a metal plate protecting the surgery point for when his chip was removed. Since Fox is Fox, he prioritized speed over care at the time, so it is permanent vulnerability due to how his skull was treated and recovered afterward.

Do you see the knifes on his thigh they are small but they are important

#fan art #artists on tumblr #star wars fanart #star wars: the clone wars #fix it au #commander fox #rebel!fox #I have quite a few hcs for this design #but also it’ll be delicious when there’s negotiations between the rebels and the Republic and Cody (who is present as the ONLY Marsh. Comm) #Is the only one who knows what’s under that stupid cape-sleeve thing bc Cody would absolutely do the same thing #Cody: *slaps Fox’s shoulder giving Obi-Wan a look right in the middle of a negotiation meeting between the rebels/GAR/Republic* #Cody: This shabuir can hold so much karkin weaponry #Cw: mutilation (minor) #Cw: Self-destruction (hypothetical) #this is so indulgent but please indulge with me #the GAR symbol over his heart and that being the piece that has the self-destruct device is the only brand of symbolism Fox can do #Repurposing GAR Armor AU #OmPu Ask Hours

[kiwisbell]

helen ; chapter two

lure the wolf

Si vis pacem, para bellum. Or, the lie.

series masterlist | my masterlist pairing: joel miller x f!reader tags/warnings: 18+ (MDNI), john wick AU, hitman!joel, husband!joel, established relationship, artist!reader, love as worship (and blasphemy), joel miller has a Reputation, flashbacks, blood + injuries, medical attention, mentions of rape/SA, cars, tommy is the rational brother, joel is an idiot, childhood/religious trauma, criminal underworld, secrecy/lies, betrayal, ANGST, Big Fight, unresolved angst, joel gets shoved a couple times, the typical alcohol/smoking/profanity, i'm deeply sorry overall for what i'm putting you through, dividers by @/saradika word count: ~ 7.1k a/n: i am... sorry. just know that i love you, okay? again, i extend a huge thank-you to @cavillscurls for being my incredible beta and listening to my constant moaning. ilysm honey. also, thank you hugely to moms @tieronecrush & @northernbluess for helping me with *that scene* prev | next

Is this seat taken?

Of all the people crowding the restaurant, Joel noticed you first.

Candlelight drowned the world in burnt orange, and he could very well have been walking into the cathedral he grew up in. A piano player expertly brushed his fingertips across the keys, coaxing Moonlight Sonata’s soft lullaby from the strings. It was fucking warm, his vest tight around his torso, weighed down by the Beretta hidden in the lining. Sweat began to bead at his hairline as he slid easily between tables where guests took their seats, relishing the idle hum of chatter while they lay napkins over their laps and paid attention to proper cutlery etiquette. Some people, he’d noticed, enjoyed having riches to spend. 

Joel found a corner, next to one of only two empty tables in the entire restaurant. His eyes did not leave you the entire journey into the quiet darkness.

You, who stood straight-backed and elegant on the small stage, conversing pleasantly with three men in servers’ uniforms. You, whose eyes gleamed when you smiled, in standing defiance of the dim light.

Paintings, Joel realised, were hanging from the wall behind the stage. Dynamic brushstrokes of muted colours depicted naked bodies and desperate embraces. Blushingly erotic for a public event, Joel thought. Still, he stared, his head tilting to the side as he examined the angles of the bodies, the taut muscles, soft skin, hungry hands. 

Joel spent too much time watching the dip of your throat and the curve of your collarbones as your turn to speak came and you gesticulated idly, humbly. He was here for a job. He was not here to look at paintings and a pretty girl.

And yet he watched, utterly still. The men you spoke to would compliment you, and you would place a hand to your heart or shoo their words away. A simple, fine golden chain hung around your neck. Joel should have been spending these minutes reaffirming his plan, ensuring his target was still in position. He should have confirmed his suspected exit routes. He should have done his fucking job.

But the smile had struck him, stronger than any punch he’d taken. Your smile crinkled the corners of your eyes.

You simply shone.

You gracefully slid away from the men’s attention and took a seat on the chair that had been placed on the right side of the stage. You were here to complete a live commission for the grand opening, he realised. And Joel, the utter idiot he was, sunk slowly, trancelike, into a seat at the empty table in the corner.

Joel listened to music. Occasionally. When he was in a bright enough mood to let the radio stay on in his car, he kept it tuned to an old country channel. Now, he thought he could see music in the way you painted, your collarbones the careful glide of a bow across the strings of a violin, an achingly sweet song that smothered the noise in his head.

You treated your palette and your brush with astonishing tenderness. Your strokes were deft and drifted expertly across your workspace. Your eyes flickered between the crowd and the canvas, and Joel became your reverent audience.

He had no idea how long he sat there, watching. Every rise and fall of your arm held him to his seat like there were ropes around his ankles. When the emcee stepped onto the stage and brought a microphone to his mouth, Joel watched you lift slowly from your trance. You blinked twice, took a deep breath that shifted the necklace on your throat, and loosed it like a sigh. Then a speech began, and Joel remembered that you were not the only person in the world.

Joel had made a point of studying his targets: not only the man, but the place. The guests. The owner. The blueprints and the staff. He knew them explicitly. He was thorough, and he had contingency plans that surpassed the number of fingers he possessed.

So, of course, he knew your name. He knew that you had been painting since you were a child. He knew that you donated all of the proceeds from your gallery sales to various charities. He knew that your income came from commissions.

But he had never seen your face in person until now. Joel had enough of a brain to acknowledge beauty, though attraction was something different altogether, a beast he had never quite wrangled. He could not have possibly predicted the twisting in his chest or the aggressive twitch in his fingers when you shifted off the stage. He wanted to follow. He wanted you to stay where he could see you, where he knew you would be safe, while he conducted business.

Safe, though, was relative. It meant little. Joel took a moment to gather himself, straightened the dinner fork at his place setting as though he was expecting to dine at all, and waited for his target to show his face.

The last thing he needed was unexpected company. Then, a gentle shadow that smelled of summer rain and daisies eclipsed him, and Joel looked up.

Is this seat taken? 

Joel promised himself a number of things.

The problem was that he couldn’t keep a single one.

He had very few contacts in his real phone. Tommy, Cabrera, Maria, Bill. He contacted these people infrequently, some more so than others. He was not fond of texting, and he kept his phone calls short. Now that your name added a noticeable weight to the phone in his pocket, Joel had never been more tempted to stare at his screen all day and night, waiting for a message.

So, the first promise: keep his phone at home while on a job. It wasn’t particularly necessary either way, bringing it along, since he had burners at his safe houses. He left it on his nightstand once before a mission. When he came home, covered in other people’s blood and sometimes his own, he picked up the phone only to find that your latest message had come through an hour previous.

‘I’ve decided. You ever make escargots?’

The night before, you were waiting on a client and Joel was cooking dinner. He put you on speakerphone so he could stir. 

“Where’d you learn to cook?”

“Taught myself, really.” He’d frowned, then. “Grew up in an orphanage. They decided what we ate.”

You could have pitied him: That must have been awful. What happened to your parents? I’m so sorry, Joel. No wonder you’re terribly adjusted.

“Where did you go after?” you’d asked him instead.

“Here,” he had told you. “New York. Good place to learn how to cook if you’ve got no money to spend.”

“Smart man. Is that steak I smell?”

He’d laughed. “Close, but no. Risotto.”

“Shit, I’m hungry,” you’d groaned. “I could eat seven steaks. I haven’t eaten all fucking day; my client is late for this meeting and I came straight from the gallery. C’mon, describe it to me more.”

“I’ll make you dinner.”

It had slipped out, a little wobbly, a deer taking its first steps. But Joel had persisted, white-knuckling a wooden spoon and glaring hard at his cell phone. “Anything you’d like. Name it.”

Staring at the text message, smearing the screen with blood, Joel laughed. Alone. To himself. In his quiet, dark home.

‘You want me to make you snails for dinner?’

He had expected to send the message and put his phone face-down with enough time to shower, to cleanse himself of blood. He’d left you waiting so long, after all. But your name appeared, blown-up, on his screen. You were calling.

“Not the whole meal,” you said. You always spoke first, knowing Joel didn’t care for the hellos and goodbyes of phone-call etiquette. “Escargots is an appetiser, Joel.”

Joel smiled, which revealed some sort of painful contusion on his face he hadn’t known about. As he palmed the tender skin around his jaw, he said, “I can do that. And what about dinner?”

“Well, that, you’ll just have to get back to me on,” you said. “Gives me another excuse to talk to you.”

With that, Joel had officially forgone the promise. He wanted to carry your name with him.

He made a second promise, to set boundaries: he would only allow himself to call you once a week.

But you, who knew people better than most, who sat with them for hours as you painted their very souls into colour and light, caught on. 

“You call me at exactly eight o’clock every Monday night. You could at least vary it by an hour so I wouldn’t notice.”

Joel hung his head. “Shit,” he grumbled. “I’m… I’m sorry.”

“Joel, I’m going to say something. I want you to listen to me.” 

And he, who obeyed your every command, whose marrow sang the song he’d heard that first night at the restaurant, straightened. “Yeah. I’m listenin’.”

“I just got home from a four-hour showing, and I’m achey, and a little drunk, but if I call you, it’s because I want to call you. If I talk to you, it’s because I want to. Because you’re the best part of my day. So if you want to call me, too, just fucking call me. End my misery, okay?”

He wondered how it would taste to slip his tongue past your parted lips, to feel the burn of your celebratory champagne, the crack of your whip-smart resolve as you moaned softly against him. He thought he might like to make you moan.

You wanted to speak with him. You awaited his calls. You liked him. 

As a child, Joel had known God’s wrath as intimately as he had known His love. They were the two sure things in the world, according to the Sisters. They made him memorise Genesis. Joel knew love and evil existed in this world. They had never taught him the in-between, the mundane, the nuances of like. 

“Yeah, okay,” he said. “I can do that.”

So, one call a week lasted less than a week, and it wasn’t a fortnight after you first met that you and Joel were speaking every single day. Your voice was in his head, your laugh in his blood. Like dissolved. He began to need.

He knew your routines, your habits. He knew how you took your coffee (milk and two sugars, sweet to his bitter black). He knew you hated pork. He knew which paints you used most, and which palette knives were best for different details. He knew you hated painting trees, but you loved rivers. 

In his free time, he would visit bookshops. You loved Wilde and Machen. It only made sense—your paintings were decadent, larger-than-life, sinful. Joel enjoyed philosophy. He liked Coleridge, Keats. 

“They would’ve hated one another,” you said one day over breakfast. 

“You think? They were pretty fond of all those flowery words.”

“Poetry and philosophy are opposites,” you offered. 

“Maybe,” he said, “but maybe not. I think they needed each other.”

You smiled over the rim of your coffee cup. “Maybe you’re right.”

A month after he’d met you, he’d rebound a copy of The Importance of Being Earnest. A month after that, he’d worked up the courage to give it to you. 

“Oh my God, Joel…”

“It’s yours,” he said. “I know it’s one of your favourites. It’s stupid, I know, just…”

You beamed at him. “Just… what?”

“Just saw it, and thought of you.”

A dozen other projects were sitting at his makeshift station. Pieces of you already lived in his space. 

In these moments, Joel thought, This is what I missed. There was light in you, a light that had been beaten out of him. Some nights, the dark called, and there you were, the fluttering of strings on the Eolian Harp, and he knew he was obsessed before he drove you home that long first night.

Often, the moment lasted only for the little time you could spare: a brief text, a two-minute phone call. When he limped up the stairs to his home and collapsed in the closest chair, usually bloodied or bruised or both, your name was always waiting for him.

One night, two words: ‘Call me?’

He did.

Joel had just come home from a job in Queens. The gangsters hadn’t put up much of a fight themselves, but one of them did know how to drive a car, and he’d taken a hard sideswipe to his whole body, knocking out the headlights with his ribs. He felt, appropriately, like he’d been pulled apart, his bones stretched, muscles hot and sore.

He had made his promise about weekly calls three months ago. Joel figured he must have been out of his mind then, thinking he could go that long without you. He simply could not.

“Missed you.”

Your laugh, delighted and quiet, melted some of his bones until they gently began to slide back in place. “I missed you,” you said. He quickly assessed that you were home, judging from the buzz of silence on the other end of the line. “Tough day?”

His brother Tommy was a mechanic. So, Joel had told you he worked the books. Gave him a decent excuse to be there as often as he was. Didn’t give him an excuse for anything else.

“Tired,” he said easily, “but glad to hear your voice.”

“You sound like you’ve been hit in the ribs,” you said. “Are you sure you’re okay? Did Tommy rough you up?”

Joel wasn’t familiar with lying. He’d never had many reasons to. Violence convinced people a lot easier. The biggest lies he’d ever told had been the nightly sermons, the recitations of Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Amazing fucking Grace. He didn’t like the way lying to you sat low and heavy in his chest.

“I’m all right. Just gettin’ old. Took the stairs too fast.” 

“Joel.”

He didn’t like the edge to your voice. He was causing you this anguish. Fuck, he hated that thought. He hated that he had no choice but to lie. “Sweetheart, I’m okay.”

Your sigh was soft, resigned. “You promise me?”

“On my life.”

“That’s what I’d like to avoid,” you said with a laugh. “Are you back in New York?”

Joel looked down at the hand on his thigh, flexed his split knuckles. “I’m back.”

“Well, I just got back from a gallery showing,” you said. “And I want to see you.”

Joel listened to his stilted breathing punch out of his lungs in the quiet darkness, clenching his bloodied fists. In his dreams, his head was bowed as if in prayer, but his arms were wound tight around your body. The warm press of your fingers into his skin felt like the lick of a flame. In his dreams, you sighed his name and you called him yours. In his dreams—maybe his one and only dream—he kept you safe more than he put you in danger.

That was where the hopeless dream slipped like smoke through the slits in his eyes. You would always be in danger as long as he was involved in this life.

“I want to see you, too,” said Joel.

Tommy’s day gets infinitely worse the second his brother walks through the door.

“Everyone out,” he snaps, and his guys flee from the garage, letting the door fall with a clang of metal to the concrete. You jump, falling out of step with your husband and hugging your arms to your chest. Tommy narrows his eyes. “What can I do for you both? I was just about to close.”

You open your mouth, but Joel’s already working. “I need a ride.”

“That so?” Tommy cleans the oil from his hands using a once-white rag, now a slick brown, smearing it across his forehead when he wipes the sweat away. “Don’t suppose it has anything to do with the kid who drove in here with your car two hours ago?”

You lower yourself onto the hood of a nearby Porsche 911, dropping the overnight bag from your shoulder and letting it slump on the ground. Tommy watches as you study the ring on your left hand, twirling the bands around your finger. 

“Shit,” says Joel, scratching his beard. “And what’d you say to him?”

“I didn’t say nothin’, Joel. I took one look at your car and decked the asshole. He wanted a tune job. Clearly didn’t know whose car he stole.” Tommy tosses the rag onto a table, next to a decanter of bourbon. “What the fuck are you thinking, pissin’ off Cabrera’s kid?”

Joel meets his brother’s eyes, a lethal glint in their brown that Tommy’s never known to mean anything good. “That,” he says darkly, “was Emiliano Cabrera?”

“Yeah, I’m sure his old man ain’t proud to share their name, either,” huffs Tommy. “I’m gonna ask again, Joel: what the fuck did you do?”

“I didn’t do a goddamn thing he didn’t deserve,” says Joel, “and I need a ride.” 

Tommy’s fingers curl in at his sides. Sometimes, it’s hard not to punch his brother in the jaw. “Yeah, I heard you the first time. Just know it’s a loan. So don’t fuckin’ scratch my property, Joel, or so help me—”

You stand from the hood of the car and pin Tommy with your gaze, a bit distant, a bit icy. “I need to use your bathroom, Tommy. If that’s okay.”

He feels himself soften a bit at the sight of your trembling hands. “Yeah, sweetheart. ‘Course.”

“I’ll show you,” says Joel, reaching for your arm. 

You watch the floor and brush past him. “I can find it.”

Joel’s fingers twitch as you go without another word, his eyes shuttering, and Tommy notices that his knuckles are bloodied. 

“Wanna tell me what happened?” he asks once they’re alone.

Joel sits where you did moments ago, reaching for the decanter next to him. He doesn’t pour or drink; he merely angles the glass and watches the fluorescent lights filter through it. “He broke in. I killed his buddies, but he got away.”

Tommy lowers himself onto the edge of the table. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ, Joel.”

“Yeah.”

“She’s cut.” Tommy turns his head to the doorway where you disappeared. “They do anything else?”

“They would’ve.” Joel slams the decanter back down on the table, and the echo reverberates in the walls. “He tried—”

He does not finish the sentence, but he does not need to. 

Tommy rubs his jaw. “You gotta tell her, man.”

“She’s in shock. She went through a lot.” Joel’s eyes drop to the floor, to the bag brimming with your clothes, and his jaw works. “I… can’t tell her. Not right now.”

Tommy is struck, sometimes, by how transparent his brother can be. He’s killed countless men and bled gold like some invulnerable god, and still, he knows nothing about himself. “Fuck, Joel.”

“I have to finish this.” Joel’s voice is the bottom of an empty well. “I need to find him.”

“Don’t,” says Tommy. “Don’t fucking finish it. Take your losses and go back home. You know better than anybody where this goes, and all you’re doing is putting her in more danger.”

Joel shakes his head. “Tommy, if you think I don’t know—”

“No, I don’t think you know. You want to lose the one thing you worked for all those years ago, fine. But don’t expect her to understand.”

His brother’s head snaps up. “And if you told Maria?” he counters. “Would she have given you a kid if she knew everything you’ve done?”

Tommy’s chest stirs up acid. “You’re treadin’ on thin ice, brother.”

“You’re the one who should be careful.” Joel stands abruptly and winces; he’s wounded under that jacket, Tommy realises. Hiding wounds once again. “You punched Manuel Cabrera’s son in the face.”

Tommy sniffs. “Kid’s got a punchable face.”

Joel is silent for a moment. “Yeah, he does.”

You appear around the corner, giving Joel and his crimson-stained shirt a once-over. “Where are we going?” you ask him.

The way Joel jolts up out of his seat on the Porsche’s hood tells Tommy that it’s the first time you’ve spoken to him since the incident. “A hotel,” he says, approaching as slowly as one might a spooked deer. You do not move, but you do not take his outstretched hand, your fingers curled taut around your arms. Joel frowns at his split knuckles. “It’ll be safe there.”

“Okay.” You’re staring hard at a spot on his chest, your voice hollow as if heard from the dark end of a tunnel. “Tommy, I’m sorry to barge in on you like this,” you add.

“Ain’t no trouble, sweetheart. You just… hang in there, hear me?”

“Yeah.” A wobble courses through your bottom lip and Tommy wants to hunt those fuckers down himself. “I’d be happy to paint your nursery sometime, if you’ll still have me.”

“Christ knows I’d be useless at it compared to you.” Tommy roots around in a drawer for a fob and unlocks the doors to the black Porsche. “Let’s get you both out of here.”

Joel claps him on the back. “Thank you, brother.”

Tommy tosses the fob to Joel. You’re already slipping inside the car with your bag tight to your chest. “Don’t get used to it,” he says. “And Joel? For Christ’s sake, think hard before you dive headfirst back into this shitshow.”

Joel squeezes his arm and slides into the driver’s seat, and Tommy watches his brother go.

He doesn’t remember much of the church, the way Joel remembers. He doesn’t remember the prayers or the beatings the way he knows Joel does. Tommy got off with a slap on the wrist, as far as things go; sometimes, he looks into his brother’s eyes and he still sees the fourteen-year-old kid, sharing a dark room lit only by candles and the picture of the praying hands, devising a plan to escape. We’ll get out together, brother. You and me.

He saw that look again tonight. He saw the flare surging up in Joel’s eyes, an incendiary promise. 

Tommy doesn’t call his guys back in. Instead, he stalks into his office and makes a call.

The line stops ringing after three trills, and Tommy doesn’t wait for a hello.

“Your son is fucking dead, Cabrera.”

“First, you strike my boy.” A lion’s growl, stirring deep in the chest; he’s probably smoking. “Now, you threaten me, pendejo?” 

“You heard me. You fucking heard me.” Tommy licks his teeth. “Do you know what you’ve just started, letting him run around this city like he owns it?”

“I’m the one who owns this city, Mr. Miller,” says Cabrera. “Now, I’d like to know why you punched Emil in the face.”

“Because, sir, he broke into Joel Miller’s house, stole his car, and tried to rape his wife.”

The silence stretches thin, and Tommy can hear thoughtful puffs of smoke burst from Cabrera’s parted lips.

“Oh,” he says at last.

Everyone is staring at him.

The lobby of the Continental Hotel, a flatiron at 1 Wall Street, is understated in its extravagance. The floors are a marble that crackles with the weight of every footfall. There are crystal chandeliers and a too-high ceiling and stained-glass windows depicting the fall of Icarus, Narcissus at the water’s edge, Arachne and Athena. Hubris surrounds you in all colours and shades. And those few milling about the lobby turn their heads to watch your husband approach the front desk. 

Despite yourself, you tuck in a little closer. Joel is carrying your duffle; he didn’t bring a change of clothes.

The concierge, whose nameplate reads Charon, lifts his brows. “Mr. Miller,” he says politely. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

Joel nods. “We’d like a room.”

The concierge only eyes you briefly, but it’s enough that you feel adequately scrutinised. “Of course, sir. Single suite?”

“Double,” you cut in. You feel Joel’s eyes on the side of your head, but you persist with as sweet a smile as you can muster. The concierge nods. 

“Of course,” he says. “I presume, Mr. Miller, that you are utilising your… guest privileges?”

Joel stiffens next to you. “I’ll tell the Manager myself. Nobody else needs to know.”

“Of course, sir.” Charon hands him the key. Joel reaches into his pocket and places a golden coin on the desk. You feel your brows pull together. It isn’t a currency you’ve ever seen. EX UNITATE VIRES, reads the ridged inscription, surrounded by leaves. 

“Is the Doctor in?”

“Twenty-four hours a day, sir.”

“Send him up,” says Joel, stuffing the key in his pocket and fitting his hand on the small of your back. 

The concierge’s voice grates down your spine, like feeling the rough underbelly of a shark. “It is a pleasure having you with us again, Mr. Miller.”

You walk just fast enough to escape the weight of his hand on your back. He’s still covered in blood. 

“Again, huh?” you say quietly, your chest sluicing down the middle. “How often do you come here?”

“I don’t,” he says. “Not anymore.”

“You know, hotels are where husbands take their other women.”

Joel looks at you sharply. “That’s not funny.”

And you know it isn’t true—you know he isn’t like that—but you’ve been lied to nonetheless. The knife twists anyway.

“Right,” you say, and leave it at that. 

There is a man waiting outside your hotel room. He’s squat, old, and seems to have taken on a slight hunch, but he smiles warmly at you. “Pleasure,” he says plainly. “Let’s get started.”

“Her first,” says Joel, turning the key in the lock. 

“You sure?” The Doctor eyes him warily. “You’re the one who’s bleeding.”

Joel glowers. “Her first.”

The Doctor just shrugs, taking a laborious seat at the little round table by the window. It’s nearly midnight now, the moonlight filtering in through the closed curtains. Joel flicks on the light, and you blink, taking in the spacious room.

“Jesus,” you utter, mouth agape. There are two queen beds covered in crisp white linens, a bar cart, a kitchenette, an enormous claw-footed tub out in the open, and a bathroom housing a floor-to-ceiling glass shower and a vanity with two sinks. It’s big enough to host a decent gathering, let alone two people. “How much did this cost us, Joel?”

“I’ll explain later,” he says. “Let Doc check you out.”

Numbly, you sit opposite the Doctor, who dons a pair of glasses and gloves and unlatches a small medical kit. “The cut’s superficial,” he says automatically, brushing his thumb over the tender skin just beneath the knife slash. “It’s already scabbed over.”

“She hit her head,” says Joel tersely. You can tell he’s pacing behind you, his fingers on his mouth.

You sigh. “I feel okay,” you tell the Doctor. “Really, I do.”

But he inspects you anyway, shining a light in your eyes and forcing you to follow his finger and asking you mundane questions like What’s four times seven? and Who’s the president? He hands you a clean bill of health, no concussion, and you switch places with a surly-looking Joel. 

He’s shed his jacket and laid it on the bed closest to you, so you dig around his pocket and produce another gold coin. Joel lifts his shirt to reveal the gash in his belly from the broken glass. And the Doctor clicks his tongue in reproach but says nothing, dabbing a disinfectant onto the wound and chuckling a little at the way Joel hisses through his teeth. 

“Out of practice,” mutters the Doctor. It only makes the knot in your throat pull tighter.

“Is he going to be okay?” you ask. Joel studies you carefully, as if he isn’t quite sure how to understand your question.

“He’ll be fine,” says the Doctor, “if he keeps all movement to a minimum.”

Flipping the coin between your fingers, you can admire the intricate beauty of it. The gold is not tarnished by touch or time; it seems new. Or just unused, if Joel’s been keeping it stored out of sight. The ridges are meticulous, impervious to debasing, and you suspect that’s deliberate. Everything these people do seems deliberate. 

Who are these people?

Joel seems to know. He seems to know everything. And he’s kept it all from you. 

The Doctor leaves with an extra two coins in his pocket, and you’re sure to thank him as you see him out. The door closed and locked behind you, the air suddenly stifles, and the current grows warm. 

You pull at the collar of your shirt and abruptly stop yourself from pulling it over your head. You’re sticky and sweaty and probably covered in someone else’s blood beneath all the fabric clinging to your body. You need a shower. And yet, undressing in front of him—the oldest, most familiar act between the two of you—is the most daunting thing you have ever done.

Joel’s cell phone begins to ring, and you’re spared for the moment. 

“I’m going to shower,” you tell him, though he’s already speaking quietly into the phone. You step into the scalding shower, a lump in your throat, and scrub at your skin so hard that it’s raw and abused. 

The first time you went on a date with Joel Miller, you had to ask him. He would clam up and go quiet when you teased him a little too far, his cheeks taking on a pink hue. He showed up in a stunning black suit and brought you a single daisy. 

By the time you’d known him a year, you had four bouquets. 

The hot water borders on agonising. You stand, back straight, facing the flow, letting it fill your tear ducts and your mouth and your nose. You let it drown you, slipping into the deafening quiet that you so easily find as you paint. 

Sometimes, he’d sit behind you while you worked, those rare moments you weren’t using him as a model, and he’d watch. There was something voyeuristic in the way he could spy on your work for hours as you painted bodies in their many stages of pleasure. 

You watched him kill two men tonight. He’d brought your attacker’s knife to his own throat and spilled his blood like a pig for slaughter. You always thought you knew bodies—but your Joel, your husband, knows them better than you ever thought possible.

You stand in the shower, watching the tiled wall, for longer than you should. But when you dry yourself off and dress, Joel is sitting silently on the edge of the bed with his elbows on his knees. It strikes you suddenly that this is the man you’ve painted a thousand times—often in this very position, when he gets lost in thought—and for a moment, you don’t recognise him. 

He’s more severe than before. The lines of his face are jagged, tensed as though in preparation for a blow. You would paint him in shades of red and orange. You would be ruthless in your brushstrokes, and everyone would know the artist had put a sliver of her own fury into him.

He looks up and meets your eyes, and you fold your arms over your chest.

“So,” you begin, “you’re like Bond? Like, a spy?”

Joel stands, crossing the room to meet you. “I don't try to hide,” he says. “Though he didn't really try, either.”

“So, there's people who know your name.”

The pull at the corner of his mouth does not win out. “Yeah. A few.”

You make a sound even you cannot decipher, and Joel’s hands fidget at his sides. The silence descends again. 

You look up at him and swallow knives. “Who are you?”

He grits his teeth. “You know the answer to that,” he says imploringly, desperately, reaching to take your hand. You step backward and watch his face crumble. “I’m your husband, baby. You know that.”

White-hot pressure prickles behind your nose. “This is the least you owe me, Joel. Who are you?” 

His Adam’s apple bobs. “I…” 

A hand, ghosting across his jaw, as if to conjure the words from his throat. His eyes flicker frantically between each of yours. 

“You might call it a gun-for-hire,” he tells you. “I was contracted under a man named Manuel Cabrera. This hotel is for others like… like me. People who operate in the Underworld.”

The revelation should not surprise you, but the earth beneath your bare feet fractures in one seismic shift. You think of the daisies. The suits. The gifts and the walks along beaches in Spain and the soft whisper of the breeze against your cheek. You think of sleeping next to him every night, his arm wrapped around your waist because it was the only way he would sleep. 

You think of the little he told you about his time in the Marines. The tattoo on his back that reads, FORTIS FORTUNA ADIUVAT. Fortune favours the bold. 

You think of a gun hidden in his bedside drawer. You think of a tough childhood he’s only alluded to: an orphanage, a church, the sisters. A cigarette burn behind his ear. 

“When did this all start?” Your voice is a feeble thing, afraid of its own shadow. Afraid of what that darkness will breed. “How long have you been… doing this?”

“As long as I can remember.” It’s the reply you want and not at all. Joel is looking down, and you realise he’s staring at your wedding ring. “I got out.”

“When?”

“After I met you.”

When he first kissed you, it was barely a brush of your lips, and then he was taken away. He’d frowned like it was a mistake, and when you stood on your toes to kiss him back, the gash between his brows smoothed over, and his hands cradled your face. 

Don’t regret it, you pleaded.

He pressed his mouth to your temple. You are the only choice I don’t regret.

You hate how the memories crowd you now, stifling what’s logical, what’s real. You hate the phantom sensation of his lips on your skin, the bristling of his moustache. You hate the way he holds back from touching you as if it’s something poisonous. You hate his wide-open eyes. As he stands before you now, you would paint him in shades of black. 

The pain in your chest yawns open into a cavity. You want to tear out the viscera and stuff it inside.

You gave your heart to him, and he poured oil-slick lies into the clean organ like it was nothing. Like it was all so easy for him. 

“You lied to me.”

He swallows. Nods his head. “I know.”

You can’t help but scoff at that. “Fuck you. You have no idea. Two hours ago, I didn’t think you knew how to throw a punch. You killed those men back there, Joel. And everyone in this building knows your name. You don't know.”

And the venom tastes sweet. It tastes powerful and strong and enough to rot what remains inside. 

“Was I even real?” you ask. “Was I just a cover story?”

“Don’t,” Joel snaps. “I did everything for you. You don't understand… you couldn’t understand the things I had to do to get out. To be with you. To settle down, give you the life you deserved.”

“Maybe I would understand if you'd told me!” You’re raising your voice, prickling pain behind your eyes, chest sour with an ache you don’t know. “You never even tried. You never even thought to tell me the truth? Your own wife?”

“Civilians can't know about the Underworld,” says Joel, and he looks as though he wants to say more, but you’re shoving him square in the chest—he doesn’t budge; of course he doesn’t fucking budge—and getting louder still.

“Don't patronise me,” you say, burning with vitriol, giving him another hard push. “I gave my life to you, and I’m just a civilian?”

Now he’s getting louder, grasping your arms and pleading with his eyes to make you listen. “I wanted to protect you,” he says, his voice breaking. “I wanted to give you a good life away from all that shit I’ve bled for, killed for. I needed to keep you safe, baby.”

Baby. You’ve always been his—his baby, honey, sweetheart, endlessly closing her eyes to a truth she was too blind, or maybe too unwilling, to see. And although you may resent him for keeping it all from you, you resent yourself, too, for never even guessing that something was wrong.

You feel so goddamn stupid. 

“Nine fucking years.” You shove him again only to see him falter slightly on his feet, to see the helpless glimmer of tears that shine, unshed, in his eyes. You hate him for crying, you hate him for being so strong, you hate him for all the touches he’s made you question. “You have lied to me for nine fucking years, you bastard.”

“That ain’t fair—”

“No, shut up! Shut the fuck up and let me talk. You kissed me and fucked me and gave me flowers and gifts and you’ve built it all on one big lie. And you expect me to forgive you because you were trying to protect me? I married you, Joel Miller. I loved you. We made vows to trust one another, to be truthful. Did that mean anything?”

Joel’s lips crack apart like water seeping through stone. “‘Loved’?”

“You’re selfish, Joel,” you spit, your throat raw, the pressure building hot behind your eyes. “You didn't tell me the truth because you didn't want me to run.”

“Would you?” he asks. A sluice has driven hard through the resolve in his face. “Would you have run?”

The fight bleeds out of you, the excess drawn from the skin. “You never gave me that choice, so don't you dare give it to me now.”

Maybe you would run, if given the chance. Maybe you would flee far away from the dangerous man you now know he is. But you wear his rings. You’ve taken him inside you countless times. You’ve given him your soul. There is no maybe. 

“You don't get it,” he croaks. “Don't you understand the things I’d do to keep you safe? Don't you understand that I’d kill for you?”

The sob bleeds from your lips. “What if I don't want that?”

Joel shakes his head. “I said no tears,” he says. “No tears, baby, please.”

No tears, he would always say. No tears for me until I’ve earned ‘em.

But it's like weights have been tied to your wrists, and you cannot lift your hands to wipe them away. Why should you have to? Why should you care to listen to him at all?

“No tears?” you shout. “You’ve lied to me all this time and you don’t want me to cry? You want me to just let it go? Fuck you, Joel Miller, and fuck you for giving me your last name, for letting me love you all this time when you knew you were lying to my face.”

Joel steps back like you’ve struck him in the face. The words are dry, blowing slightly on the air, and you must moisten them on your tongue to dissolve the numbness, water saturating a teaspoon of sugar. He does not say a word.

“What are you going to do?” you ask him. The sound of your own voice is foreign to you. 

He stands silent before you, as if mulling over a million words he wants to say. Instead, he flexes his fingers, and the scabbed skin of his knuckles cracks open. “Finish it.”

“Why?” you ask. “They could have chosen any house. They chose ours. It was never personal, Joel, until you made it personal.” 

You embrace your trembling arms as your adrenaline seeps, bone-deep exhaustion settling in. “I would have gone back to sleep last night,” you tell him. “I would have crawled into bed with you and let it all go away.”

A flicker travels through his eyes: like he’s been lashed in the back. “I can't,” he says. “I can't just… let it all go.”

You laugh, and it’s so hollow, so nothing, that you know a part of you is forever gone.

“I never really knew you, did I?” 

He shakes his head, reaching for you only for you to pull back. A dance. “You know me. You do,” he pleads. “Baby, c’mon… you know me.”

Maybe you do. Or, maybe you used to. You knew that his favourite colour was blue. You knew that he liked to bind old books as a hobby, and that you went to used bookshops in your free time to surprise him with new projects. You knew that he was a good cook. You knew that he liked John Keats and old, terrible action movies and Hank Williams. You knew a Joel you may never have known at all.

You cast your eyes down at his knuckles, at the stitched wound in his belly. Red stains the grooves of his palms. Doesn’t he know that you just wanted to go home? “You may be doing the killing, but all of that blood is on my hands. Did you ever think about that? Do you even care?”

“He gave me no choice,” says Joel.

“There is always a choice.”

Joel traces his thumb over your wound, his eyes glimmering. He's beautiful in this light, in the way he looks a little broken from the inside. “He would've hurt you. He would have violated you.”

“What will you do when you get your revenge?” you demand. “What happens then?”

“It’ll be done,” he says desperately. “And we can go home.”

“Home.” You chew up the word and it tastes like glass. “Home is with my husband. I’m looking at you now, and I don't recognise an inch of the man I married.”

Joel chokes, giving up, giving in, his hands on your face, touching his forehead to yours. “Baby, please. You have to understand…”

You cradle his wrists like they’re porcelain, allowing yourself this final silence. “We don't have a home anymore, Joel. We have this hotel room. And right now, I just need to go to bed.”

You pry away his hands and cross the room. It’s colder here, the autumn air a balm to your skin. You begin to untuck the sheets from your bed and catch a glimmer of gold out of the corner of your eye.

Joel doesn’t turn to face you, but you hear his voice like it’s coming from your own chest. 

“I love you,” he says. “I've only ever loved you.”

You look down at the golden coin you left on the table. Unity is Strength. 

“That's the one lie I still want to believe.”

#fic: helen #kiwisbell's fics #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #the last of us #tlou fic #joel miller angst #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller au #joel miller fic #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x f!reader #john wick au #pedro pascal

[peachdues]

THE SWEET FAR THING (TEASER)

Knight!Kyojuro x F!Royal!Reader

Kyojuro my beloved, it is your time to shine again.

Have a sneak peek from my Royal AU featuring one of mt favorite tropes — sworn protector/guard x royal.

Obviously this will be super NSFW, who do y’all think I am.

CW: suggestive/horny content ahead.

Scene context: angy Knight Rengoku slips into your chambers late at night following a failed coup attempt.

He’s angry and you know why — you’d directly disobeyed his orders and launched yourself headfirst into the chaos which erupted in the Great Hall.

His presence in your rooms is daunting; a dark anger ripples off him like waves of heat roll off stone in the summer, and yet he says not a word as he slowly stalks toward where you stand near the edge of your bed.

A predator stalking his prey.

Only when the tips of his boots meet the toes of your slippers, only when you feel the blustering heat rolling off his body and enveloping you within its suffocating warmth, does Sir Rengoku open his mouth.

“Where.” It is all he says, his voice low and rich. His eyes are twin pools of molten ore, but even now, you can see the rage simmering within their ochre depths.

“Where.” He repeats, though his tone is harsher.

“‘Where what, Sir Rengoku?” Your voice is as soft as the shadows cast around the walls of your chambers by the flames crackling merrily in your hearth.

A muscle feathers in his jaw. “Your wounds,” his face twists as though the very thought of any harm befalling you is offensive. “Where are they.”

It is not a question, but a demand; one that you know spells trouble if you should answer truthfully.

Trouble that piques your interest nonetheless; one that stokes a curiosity within you that you know is dangerous.

You pursue it anyways. “I am unharmed.”

The knight’s mouth curls into a snarl at the obviousness of your lie. “That is not what the healer claimed.”

“What good is the word of a healer against the crown?” Defiance rears its head within you, eager to both rise to his challenge and to see exactly how far you can push him. “Is my word not law?”

Rengoku scoffs as he steps closer, his leg slotting between your thighs and forcing you to lean back into tour bed frame for support. “It may be so,” he admits, though the fury in his eyes make no such concessions. “But empires built on baseless laws are inevitably doomed to fall.”

“Meaning?”

The Knight’s eyes flash. “Your words are horseshit and you know it.”

He’s right and but you’ll be damned before you admit it.

“You overstep,” the bite of your glare is belied by the way you’re forced to shift your weight awkwardly from foot to foot, as you try your best not to think about the burning press of his thigh between yours. “Now kindly remove yourself from my chambers.”

Rengoku makes no effort to move and his obstinacy thrills you.

Instead, his hands rise to the front tie of your dressing gown and begin tugging, slowly undoing the haphazard knot you’d fastened in your haste to make yourself decent.

Your fleeting moment of triumph is chased away by the breath which lodges in your throat.

“What are you doing?”

Your knight — your fiery, loyal, compassionate yet utterly insufferable knight — slides a single hand between the parted folds of your robe, coming to rest on the dip of your waist covered only by the thing fabric of your nightgown.

The weight of his palm feels like a brand against your skin. “Since you refuse to be forthright about the extent of your injuries,” Rengoku says, pushing the robe away from your shoulders. “I shall have to take inventory of them myself.”

Your dressing gown drops to the bed behind you before sliding to the floor to puddle around your feet. Wordlessly, Rengoku steps away just enough to kneel before you, though his eyes remain locked with yours.

You are wading into treacherous waters, and you know you are without any raft or life preserver which could keep you afloat.

“I shall scream,” you warn, though you do not mean it; not really. You intend only to give him an out, a means to come back to his senses before the blazing heat of his stare consumes you both. “I shall alert the rest of the palace guard.”

His fingers skim up the length of your shin, a phantom caress that is a mockery of how you truly wish for him to touch you.

“My duty is to guard the Crown and ensure no harm befalls it, your Majesty,” Rengoku’s breath follows the path carved by his hands up your legs. He pauses at the knee-length hemline of your nightgown, his chin resting against the slight bend in your leg.

It nearly frightens you how much you adore seeing him on his knees, peering up at you like you are the embodiment of salvation itself.

“So by all means, call forth the Guard,” the Knight’s fingers slowly push below the hem of your nightdress, brushing against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. “Call forth every living creature within the palace, for all I care. They will see only the Princess’s Knight, carrying out his sworn duties and managing her every need.”

Your chest begins to rise and fall rapidly as Rengoku’s fingers tease higher and higher up your thigh. “And what are my needs, Sir Rengoku?”

Your flame-haired protector only hums. “To have your wounds tended to, for starters,” and it takes everything in you not to let your head fall back with a cry as Rengoku presses a single, chaste kiss just above your knee.

But the sweetness of the gesture is undercut by the darkness of his gaze. “And to be punished for directly defying the orders of your Guard.”

yes daddy punish me —

#demon slayer #kimetsu no yaiba #kyojuro rengoku #kny #kny x reader #kny fanfic #kny rengoku #kny kyojuro #kny smut #demon slayer kimetsu no yaiba #demon slayer smut #kny fic #demon slayer fanfic

[xx-kitsune-xx]

Fatal Allure

Leon x Reader

Summary: To save the country from a devastating war, your parents promised their only daughter's hand in marriage to the first prince of a rival country. Ignoring your own fears, you face the future you were fated to have. You only hoped that the heir to the throne would not turn out to be a monster.

Warnings: Royalty AU, Arranged Marriage, Porn with Plot, P in V sex, Loss of Virginity, a tiiiiiny bit of angst in the beginning, no use of y/n This is also my first time writing smut so... yeah, you have been warned

Word count: 4.8k

Also on Ao3!

As you looked into the mirror, you could feel your heart tighten. You looked… mesmerising. A beautiful lady looked back at you from the mirror. Perfectly pinned up hair, adorned with crystals, impeccable make-up and the beautiful gown befitting the future queen.

You looked like the perfect bride. Or you would, if your reflection smiled. You sighed and smoothed the material of your dress one last time, before someone knocked at the door.

“My lady,” you heard a woman’s voice as the door opened. It was one of your servants, Claire. The young woman had only recently joined the palace staff, but you had grown very fond of her. Being close in age helped you get along. “It is time” She said, offering you a sad smile.

For a moment you wondered if she knew what was going on in your mind. If she could read the thoughts of running away and never coming back from your face. If she did, you were glad she didn’t try to comfort you or offer any words of wisdom. You had enough of the latter from your mother. If you heard one more ‘you’ll learn to love him’ you’d become violent towards the person who uttered the words.

With a final sigh, you nodded and followed the servant out of the room. With each step, the weight of your duty grew.

An arranged marriage was hardly the future you had imagined for yourself. You had always imagined true love, someone who would sweep you off your feet and promise you the world. Someone you could trust. And here you were, about to marry the future king of the neighbouring country. Though you hardly considered it a marriage, despite the words of everyone around you. ‘Royalty always marries this way’ they said, or ‘I met your father once before we got married! And we are happy!‘ – something you wanted to argue with, because apart from official events, they spent barely any time together.

But the sweet words and assurances that you would be happy, you knew this was no ordinary arranged marriage. It was a peace offering from your parents, who were losing the war. A last resort to save themselves and their country. And they didn’t even ask!

You clenched your fists as anger once again seeped into your body. You could still run. Or try to embarrass your parents during the ceremony, to show your defiance. What would happen if you simply said you wouldn't marry the prince? Would he start the war again? You didn’t exactly know what he was capable of – after all, you only knew him for his achievements on the battlefield!

“My lady, are you well?” the sweet voice of your servant brought you out of your trance. It was only then that you realised you had stopped walking, only a few steps from the doors of the wedding hall.

You looked at the poor girl and the guards standing behind you. No turning back now. You met the servant's gaze once more and offered a smile. Once behind this door, you would have to start looking like you wanted to be here. You might as well start now.

“I am” you replied briefly, walking the rest of the way to the door. You straightened up as someone put a bouquet of flowers in your hands. You stopped yourself from turning around to see who it was, but suspected it was one of the guards. Somehow the thought of one of those big men walking all this way with a wedding bouquet for you amused you. So much so, that when the door opened, the smile on your lips was an honest one.

Music began to play and everyone turned to look at you, but you couldn’t concentrate on them. Your eyes were fixed on your future husband. A pit in your stomach deepened as the reality hit you. This was now your future. No a bad dream or an ill-conceived joke. In a few hours life would never be as it was.

The walk to the altar was faster than you had hoped. It seemed that it wasn't true what they said, the time did not stop in stressful situations. It rushed, like it couldn’t wait to get to whatever you were most afraid of at the moment.

You looked around, muting whatever the priest was saying. Everything looked dreamy, and if you were here of your own free will, you would deem it beautiful. The venue was out of this world. Your eyes swept over the decorations, the guests and then landed on your future husband. He looked puzzled, and for a second you wondered whether the same expression was on your face. 

The silence enveloped the room and you could only wonder if the time had stood still. No one moved or even whispered as your future husband took your hands in his, offering you a light squeeze. The ceremony went on, but neither of you seemed to be paying attention. The prince never took his eyes off of you, whispering words meant only for your ears.

“I promise that I will respect your wishes and give you freedom.” He began, offering you a gentle smile. “You do not deserve to be trapped somewhere against your will.” You couldn’t help the exhale that escaped your lips as he straightened up again, seemingly trying to focus back on the ceremony.

But you couldn't think of anything else but his words.  ‘You do not deserve to be trapped somewhere against your will’. It pained your heart to know that he wasn't mistaken about your feelings about the whole situation. Worse, he was here against his will as much as you were. Once again you felt the anger at your parents' plan.

But deep inside, a small flame of hope ignited in your chest. Although you could only judge him by the couple of words he whispered, a small promise he made. But he seemed… reasonable Unlike most of the princes you've met. Well… mostly unlike your brothers, who would be happy to be in his place – not to marry you of course (not that the marriages between family were unheard of, but this was never such a close family), but just to marry a good-looking woman who couldn’t exactly say no.

“I do.” Leon said, gently slipping a ring on your finger. You realised you spaced out again, this time doing your best to actually focus on the ceremony.

“Do you…” The priest turned to face you now. “…take Leon Scott Kennedy as your lawful husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and cherish until death do you part?”

You practised saying I do precisely for this moment, to not hesitate. To not show so many people that you were not sure about this marriage. But when it came to it, the words stuck in your throat for a moment.

Feeling everyone’s eyes on you, did not help.

“I do.” You finally answered as you placed a ring on Leon's finger. You swore you could see the priest smile. With the pause you took, he probably wasn’t the only one who thought you were going to say no.

“I now pronounce you man and wife!” He said, sounding more excited than he had throughout the whole ceremony. “You may now kiss the bride.”

You could feel the expectation of every guest, their eyes glued to the two of you. Waiting. Impatience was almost palpable in the air. You realised that up until this point you hadn’t really thought about this part of the ceremony, or… other duties you would have after this wedding.

Leon’s eyes were as full of uncertainty as yours – probably not how either of you had imagined your first kiss to happen. But slowly, giving you the opportunity to pull away, he leaned in. Though brief, the softness of his lips was reassuring in a room that was bursting with excitement. You couldn’t blame them, royal weddings were rare enough – one between two countries even more so.

As you pulled away, Leon held your hand tight and led you down the aisle you had previously walked to him, sealing your fate once and for all. As you walked, people threw the most unusual things at you, to ensure a happy marriage – from rice to flags.

Leon helped you into the carriage, following soon behind you. It was not until the doors closed that the excitement of the guests subsided. Even after the carriage started moving, you still held hands, a faint smiles on your lips.

“Thank you” you said, breaking the silence. “For what you said. I also do not wish for you to be trapped by our parents’ schemes. And… I do hope we can…” you lacked the right words, as ‘love each other’ seemed too heavy for the moment. “…come to understand one another.”

“You need not thank me, dearest” he replied quietly, a smile on his face. “And I meant what I said. I wish for you to feel safe and respected around me.”

≻──────⊹⊱✫⊰⊹──────≺

The rest of the ride was spent mostly in silence. But for the first time since you'd found out about the marriage, it wasn't an awkward one. There would be time to get to know your now husband. Preferably after the whole celebration – for now, you were just happy to believe that Leon wasn’t a bad person.

When you arrived, he helped you out of the carriage and led you inside of the palace where the wedding reception would take place. You took in the sight of the castle, and like everything you saw today, it was gorgeous. Being in another country meant different architecture, and you couldn't help but admire the big towers and high, rounded ceilings. And for a brief moment, before the joyful cheers of guests drowned out your thoughts, you wondered how long it would take you to get used to the new scenery. 

The ballroom’s floor cleared around the two of you, and in an unnatural silence, everyone waited, their eyes glued to the newlyweds. Leon didn’t hesitate to follow tradition, as he took off his cloak and wrapped it around your shoulders, proudly showing everyone present you were now a part of his family and his to protect.

“My dear wife” Leon said, holding out his arm to you. “May I have this dance?” he asked as if it wasn’t tradition for you to have a first dance. The small gesture still warmed your heart, and something told you that he wouldn't push if you refused.

Still, you gently took his hand and let him lead you to the centre of the dance floor. Slow music played around you as Leon placed his free hand on your waist. He twirled you around the dance floor, his deep blue eyes never leaving yours. This could have been worse, you thought to yourself, offering your husband a smile. Though the future might prove you wrong, you were almost… glad, to have Leon on the other side of this arranged marriage. Many girls in your situation married brutes who only wanted them for their bodies. But Leon seemed like a good man. Respectful. You hoped he would still be during what happens after the whole wedding. You swallowed thickly, all of a sudden worried about certain duties expected of newlyweds.

Gradually, more people joined you, and you tried to silence the worrying thoughts, to push them deep into the back of your head. After all, respectful or not, it had nothing to do with it. There were traditions! Disgusting traditions where someone thought it was necessary to make sure the couple consummated their marriage.

“Are you okay?” Leon’s voice snapped you out of your unpleasant thoughts. Were you so obvious?

“Yeah, sorry, I was just… thinking. Or rather trying not to” you answered, letting out a small chuckle. You were quite spectacularly failing at that. Your husband raised his eyebrows, silently asking if you wanted to share whatever was troubling you. You sighed, losing the smile you had tried to put on earlier. “I just worry for the night we are to spend after the wedding.” You confessed. This time he was the one to chuckle.

“Darling,” he whispered, pulling you closer. Close enough for his lips to be right next to your ear. “I promised to respect your every wish, did I not? If you do not wish to spend the night with me, you will not be forced.” His voice made you shiver. Filled you with an unfamiliar warmth. Warmth that you attributed to satisfaction with the answer, mixed with relief.

The two of you swayed for another song, before slowly retreating to your table. Your chairs looked more like miniature thrones than actual chairs, only matched by the actual throne of Leon's father.

“You’d think he would give you the spotlight on your special day” you joked, making your husband chuckle.

“Careful, he might hear” he said in a rather joking manner, though you couldn’t help but wonder if there was any truth to he said. You both looked over to where his father was. He looked rather… bored. Sitting on that throne on an elevated platform, it was no wonder. His wife’s seat was empty, and there was no one else seated beside the current king and queen. You frowned at the distance between the king and his people. The rest of his family even.

“He’s always like that” Leon spoke as if he had the ability to read minds. “Just let him be. I think he prefers to be left alone” he shrugged and with that, it was the end of that conversation. You turned your head away from the king and turned to face your husband. A small frown was present on his face.

“How about, when you are king, we won’t sit on a platform and like statues?” you offered, noticing the corners of his lips lifting slightly. He nodded and swiftly changed the subject.

The rest of the night went smoothly. You danced, ate and celebrated like newlyweds would. You even got to learn a little bit more about your husband. Everything was going well until your mother got up.

When it came to your parents, she was always the one doing the talking, with your father agreeing to whatever she was up to at the moment. You were pretty sure it was the same with the arranged marriage. She had him wrapped around her finger.

“Your Grace” she began. It wasn’t often that she used titles with others, even kings. That was enough of a sign to know that you wouldn't like the words that were about to leave her mouth. “There sure was a lot of talking today, the prince wrapped my daughter in a cloak, but they have yet to be husband and wife! A key needs a lock!”

The king looked at her, then at you and Leon. He sighed, but smiled nonetheless.

“Then, let us bed them!” he exclaimed, and the whole room cheered. The guests began to gather around the two of you, excited to carry you to the bedchambers and watch as the newlyweds consummated their marriage. You held Leon’s arm a little tighter as some of the men began to lift you up.

You were glad for his quick reaction. Leon did not let go of you, keeping you close to his side. Much to the confusion of the guests.

“My dear people” Leon raised his hand, stopping anyone who got too close. Your feet slowly met the ground again and you forced yourself not to sigh with relief. “While honoured traditions must be respected, trust that my duties to my wife will be fulfilled.” He moved to leave a soft kiss in your hair. “We wish to be alone.” his voice was no louder than a whisper, but with the silence that had fallen upon the crowd, you were sure it had more impact than a harsh order for them to retreat.

All eyes were on the king, awaiting his decision. You'd say he looked annoyed, but that might just be his resting face. He rather dramatically sat back down on his throne, and you swore you saw him roll his eyes.

“If it is their wish” was all he said as his answer. Though a little unhappy, the guests offered understanding smiles and congratulations, before walking away to let you go about your way.

Leon smiled at you, before sweeping you off your feet himself. The people cheered one last time, before he carried you out of the ballroom and through the palace halls. The walk was silent, and you couldn’t stop thinking about the warmth you’d felt ever since Leon kissed your hair earlier. It was a protective gesture, something you hadn’t lacked in your life with your father, brothers and all the guards they considered necessary for your safety. But this time… this time the gesture tingled in a nice way, so much so that you wished to experience it more.

You focused on Leon again as he gently placed you on the bed and went to close the door. When the old entryway clicked shut, he turned to look at you, taking a few moments to admire you. The dress pooled around you, shimmering in the dim light of the candles.

Without a word, you extended your hand in Leon’s direction, inviting him to come closer. He hesitated for a second, before walking over to you and squeezing your hand. It was warm and a little sweaty, and you wondered if he was just as nervous as you were.

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t feel comfortable with” Leon assured, crouching down in front of you. His hand clasped yours in a gesture of understanding. “We can just go to sleep and figure it out later.”

It was your turn to hesitate. Though you couldn’t be sure if it was hesitation or if you just got lost in his eyes for a moment. So close to you, his face lit only by the flickering light of the candles, you couldn't tear your gaze away.

You didn’t want to.

Without a word, you leaned closer to him, lips hovering over his as you gave him a moment to pull away. But he didn’t.

“What if we… don’t go to sleep?” as you whispered, you could feel his hand squeeze yours a little tighter. Leon didn’t answer. At least not with words. He closed the remaining distance between your lips offering you a kiss. It was soft, a little hesitant at first, as if he was afraid you would pull away and slap him.

Slowly, he became more confident and deepened the kiss. All the emotions you had before were now released as you shared this moment. His hand found it’s way to rest on the back of your head as he rose from the floor and gently positioned you to lay on the bed. Leon hovered over you, holding his weight up with one hand, the other still in your hair.

“Are you sure?” he asked, concern visible in his eyes. “If you think that you have to– “ you didn’t let him finish, grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling him in for another kiss.

“I want to” you assured him, almost rolling your eyes. He gave you plenty of time to protest, and still put the energy into asking whether you were certain it is what you wanted and not what you felt was your duty as a wife. “You’re too good for your own good, dear husband.” You giggled, your hand resting on his cheek. Though the constant reassurances slowed the whole process, it made you want him even more. So caring for his new wife.

Leon sighed and nuzzled his cheek into your palm, planting a soft kiss on it. His fingers ghosted over your body, still hesitant to touch you. A touch you longed for, needed more with every stroke of his fingers that actually touched you. But just as soon as they touched you, he pulled away even faster, as if your skin burned him.

“Sweet husband” you said, taking his hands in yours, stopping his pointless wandering around your body. You brought them both to your mouth and kissed each of them. "You have asked me a thousand times if I am ready," you whispered, moving your gaze from his hands to his eyes. "So let me ask you now. Do you want to be intimate with me, dearest?”

Leon looked shocked by your words, but as soon as the shock wore off, he nodded quickly, desperate to assure you of his own willingness.

“Yes! I- I do! It’s just…” Leon bit his lip “I do not wish to hurt you”

You wanted to tell him that he wouldn’t, of course, being so sweet and cautious, how could he? But you had the impression that words would not work in this situation. So instead you moved his hands, placing one of them on your breast and the other on your hip. Leon froze, before finally squeezing the flesh under his palms. He was cautious at first, but warmed up to the feel of your body under his. Suddenly it was as if a switch had been flipped in his head and he was all over you, trying to cover every visible bit of your skin with his mouth. You could feel his hands growing bolder, clutching at the dress when it started to get in the way. He quickly grew annoyed with the material and turned you onto your stomach, his hands working to undo the corset. Or rather trying to, because Leon cursed under his breath and started fighting with the garment.

“You have to be slow” you giggled when he yanked on the corset particularly hard.

“Beloved, I will not hesitate to take you in that dress if it’s not off your body soon” he groaned, stopping the war with your dress for a second. You didn’t doubt his words and fortunately he didn't have time to prove his honesty. The dress tore in the back, leaving you both stunned. To be honest, you hadn't expected him to use so much force - you hadn't thought it would be so easy to tear such good quality fabric! When the maids fastened the corset, you thought they  were using immense force to squeeze your poor insides, and they weren’t even close to damaging anything. Just how strong was he?

“Sorry” he murmured. Apparently his regret wasn’t strong enough to stop him from pulling the gown from your body. A shiver ran down your spine when it was gone. You felt… vulnerable. Excited.

“Don’t worry, I ‘m nit planning on getting married again any time soon” you chuckled, turning back on the bed. Facing him felt even worse somehow. Now you could see the way he looked at you, the hunger in his eyes.

“Good” his gaze flickered from your body to your lips. “Because I want you only for myself, my beautiful queen” with that, Leon closed the remaining distance between you and took your lips in a tender kiss. The world fell away as you sank deeper into the kiss. Once you parted for air, you gazed upon him, now completely bare in front of you.

He chuckled when you tried to look away, a little embarrassed.

“No need to be shy, dearest” his hand was on your cheek, slowly turning your head back to him. Leon smiled at you and planted a soft kiss on your forehead.

At first he began to move slowly, his fingers trailing up your thigh, stopping when he reached your clit. You let out a nervous sigh as he massaged you gently. For someone so seasoned in combat his fingers were surprisingly soft and gentle when they caressed your body.

“Relax for me, darling” he whispered, feeling your body tense up. Closing your eyes, you tried to take a deep breath.

He was everything. Slow and caring. Yet, the unknown still frightened you, even if Leon was your husband, one couldn’t just forget years of pestering about the importance of staying innocent.

Leon kissed your temple, whispering sweet nothings and promises against your skin. It worked like magic, calming down your mind enough to allow you to relax the tense muscles. His lips then trailed lower to taste the sweetness between your thighs, coaxing sweet gasps and sighs from your lips until you bucked desperately against him.

“H-husband, wait–!” you tried to plead through moans as the unknown warmth began to spread through your body. But your words only seemed to spur him on. Soon you were writhing underneath him, moaning his name out with a hand tangling into his hair as you came. Leon didn’t stop for a while, easing you through the overwhelming feeling.

When you stopped trembling, Leon was back up next to you. You didn’t see the way he wiped his lips before he leaned down to kiss all over your face. A soft giggle escaped your lips at the ticklish sensation.

“May I?” your husband asked, between the kisses. His hand was already back on your thigh, slowly pushing them apart.

You placed one hand on his chest and the other around his neck and, without breaking eye contact, moved your legs to wrap loosely around his waist The silent approval didn't go unnoticed by him, making a smirk appear on his lips.

“Stop me at any time, dearest wife” in this compromising position, his promise to respect your possible change of consent warmed your heart, successfully ridding you of any remaining hesitation. With your nod, he positioned himself at your entrance and paused, once again searching your eyes for permission, before sliding inside with a groan. He was slow, ignoring his own need for pleasure as soon as he heard a gasp leave your lips.

The stretch burned unpleasantly, causing you to wince in pain. Still, you didn’t try to stop him. You didn’t have to, he noticed your pained expression and came to a halt.

“You’re doing amazing” he whispered, kissing your wet, tear-filled eyes. The kisses spread around your face as he continued to whisper sweet encouragements until you relaxed once again.

With another nod he moved again, sliding in until he was all the way home. A sigh of pleasure escaped his lips once your hips met. He took a moment to take in the situation, calm himself down as he admired your beautiful form beneath him.

In his eyes, you were a goddess, beautiful and radiant. If the evening you spent together was any indication, you were everything he could ever want and more. He could already see how your future might unfold. As he stared at you he prayed to the gods above for you to stay by his side – a rather silly request, given that the two of you had just got married. Yet he wished it was what you wanted of your own free will.

“Dearest?” you snapped him out of his daydream, no sign of displeasure remaining on your divine features. You looked rather hot and bothered by Leon’s pause.

He chuckled, whispering an apology and placing a soft kiss on your lips. His kisses trailed down your neck as he moved his hips backwards. A motion he stopped when only the head of his cock remained inside of you, teasing you, before moving back in again. Leon set the most unhurried pace, simply extending the pleasure you experience.

Soon the room was filled with the sound of your joined whimpers and the slapping of skin against skin. The warmth began to grow faster  the quicker Leon moved.

“I don’t need the universe when you’re in my arms, beloved” he breathed out, your gasps and cries thrilling him beyond measure. "My glorious queen…" Leon gasped against your lips, capturing them once more as passion overtook you. Your legs tightened around his waist as if seeking to meld into one, and Leon let go of any remaining restraint with a groan. His motions grew deeper, quicker, more eager.

You cried out in unison as you came together, holding each other tightly. Spent and sated, Leon kissed your flushed cheeks, caressing your body with gentle touches.

You didn’t move, letting Leon worship your body with kisses. They were just what you needed. Almost unconsciously, your hand found it's way into Leon's hair, slowly stroking it. It felt heavier than usual.

“Beloved husband” you murmured as your eyelids fell. You couldn’t fight the sudden wave of tiredness that washed over you. He stopped showering your body with kisses, instead he settled down next to you in the bed. His hand wrapped around your waist as he covered you with a blanked.

“Rest, dearest” he whispered. Your unspoken need for closeness was satisfied by a gentle tug that pulled you flush against his body. Amidst the warmth of the blankets and Leon’s body the consciousness slowly began to slip from your body, lulling you to sleep.

#leon kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy smut #resident evil leon #resident evil #arranged marriage #royalty au #smut #resident evil smut #re leon #leon kennedy x y/n #leon x you #leon smut #leon kennedy fanfic

[euphoricfilter]

𝐒𝐞𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐀𝐧𝐱𝐢𝐞𝐭𝐲 | 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟐

how another little bit of hope dies

tags/ warnings: game designer! jungkook || non-idol au || established relationship || angst || hurt and no comfort || bad communication (womp womp)

length: 1k

notes: no taglist! no taglist!!

☆ collaboration with: @bonny-kookoo 💕 ☆

☆ series masterlist

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆.

You’re sprawled out on the couch when he gets home, something he has told you not to do time and time again. Because although you’re taking time off work, he knows how grouchy you can get after staying up as late as he usually does.

Because as much as he would love to indulge you tomorrow morning, with breakfast in bed as you complain about how much your head hurts from sleeping in longer than you’d have liked, he simply won’t. He can’t.

“Baby?” he throws his jacket over the back of the chair.

You tilt your head to look at him slightly, though only for a moment before your eyes are flickering back towards the TV. Another silent act of defiance. Though you doubted he would do much about it, each small little thing you know he hates slowly whittling its way into your life, anything for him to just… realise your existence.

Just to know you’re still there, that you understand work is important but surely you should be important too. The both of you had fragile human hearts, and for the longest time you were convinced his held more empathy than yours ever had. And maybe in all those quiet intimate moments, it had leaked from every crevice of his body, absorbed by you until his heart lay a little wearier of your existence. The low hum of love only buzzing in the back of your mind as his life is consumed by what you can only assume are more important things.

“Hey, I’m talking to you” he says, moving your legs over his lap when he sits down, “Why’re you still up?”

You swallow, every morsel of your entire being telling yourself not to snap. Not to have a go at him and start a fight when really you wanted to be in bed, where it was warm and safe, yet ever so lonely. Even as he clings onto you, hours later from when he’d gotten home and yet you still couldn’t sleep.

‘Just not tired’ it hadn’t been more than a whisper, slipping off your tongue like you’d practiced for hours while he was gone, ‘where have you been?’

He’d only shrugged, sheepish little smile on his face that had your heart tugging in your chest, mind whirring with what it could be.

‘Just out’

You wanted to ask where, who he was with, why he was out longer than he’d promised, all the silly silly little questions that would make you sound like a jealous girlfriend, nit-picking at every little part of his life. Simply because it felt like you didn’t know him anymore.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆.

“Jungkook?” you call from the kitchen, knife still in your hand as you peer out into the living room, eyes catching on the closed door of his office, “Jungkook” you call a little louder. Bitter frustration tickling the back of your mind at his silence.

You slam the knife down on the counter harder than intended, awful little clatter ringing in your ears as you storm over to the closed door. You don’t bother knocking, tell-tale signs of anger slowly working their course through your body as you step into the room.

His eyes are wide when they meet your, echo of him slamming his laptop closed sinking into the walls. He drops his phone, scrambling to pick it up when the screen falls face-up, harsh glare of whatever website he was looking at stinging your eyes momentarily as he shoves it into his pocket.

You pause for a moment, mush of words pinching between your eyes, so much to say clawing up your throat and dissolving on your tongue.

Jungkook stands up, and you take a step back when he steps towards you.

“Y/n?” he asks, eyes still a little wide. And maybe if he wasn’t stepping towards you, dull thump of his feet against the carpet, you’d be able to hear his hammering heart.

“What were you looking at?” you ask, eyes glancing over at his closed laptop, eyebrows furrowing as you look back at him.

It comes out in one breath, so quick in defence that ugly feeling in your chest seems to blossom that little bit more.

“Nothing”

“It didn’t look like nothing” you shake your head, exasperated at his answer, “Jungkook what was it?”

“Really” he laughs, “It’s nothing to worry about”

“Show me then” you say, tongue wetting your bottom lip.

He sucks in a short breath, “I can’t”

“What do you mean you can’t? If it’s nothing, then why can’t you show me?”

He winces at the raise in tone of your voice, running a hand through his hair.

“You’re being unreasonable” he shakes his head.

As soon as the words leave his mouth it simmers over, so much pent-up frustration seeping through every pore of your body. Absolute rage knocking at your brain.

“You know what?” you point at him, “Fuck you”

He opens his mouth, but you stop him, “I’m being unreasonable? Me?”

He steps towards you, utterly baffled as to where this was coming from, the pure unbridled rage in your eyes, cheeks warming up to the tips of your ears. You pull your arm away from him when he tries to hold your hand, his eyebrows furrowing in hurt as you try and push him away.

“Y/n” he says, tone low, “Hold on a moment”

You take a step away from him, “No, you can’t do that”

You swallow down the tell-tale sign of tears, “I’m leaving”

“Where are you going?” he follows you into the bedroom, stood in the doorway of the bedroom as you rummage around for your own hoodie, tugging his one you were wearing over your head.

You ignore him, tugging clothes out of the closet, left in a pile over his clean washing he hadn’t put away yet, another job you’d started refusing to do.

You duck under his arm, slipping your shoes on.

“Y/n, come on” Jungkook says, hands hovering, unsure what to do with himself, “Let’s talk about it.”

You pause for a moment, “No” you shake your head, turning to him with narrowed eyes, “Go back to whatever you were doing”

You nod towards his office, “And make your own fucking lunch for once!” you shout before slamming the front door.

You release a long-drawn breath, rattle of the door ringing in your ears. You don’t hear his footsteps, nor another call of your name.

Wretched disappointment clawing at your insides, another piece of fragile blossomed hope wilting.

#bts imagine #bts fanfic #bts fic #jungkook #bts smut #bts fluff #bts #bts x reader #jungkook imagine #jeon jungkook x reader #jungkook fanfic #jungkook fic #jungkook fluff #jungkook x you #bts jungkook x reader #jeon jungkook imagine #jeon jungkook fanfic #jungkook x reader #bts jungkook