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#Wrath of The Dark Curse
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A fictional man: *is dark haired, morally grey, has a traumatic past and a teasing grin*
Me:
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etruatcaelum · 8 months
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On Semblances.
As this post mentions, neither Salem nor Ozma have ‘true’ ancient magic anymore: her immense power derives from the pools of light and darkness, and when Ozma created the maidens, they sacrificed their divine gifts but awakened their aura. Both now wield powers functionally identical to the aura and dust-based magic of modern humans; the sole difference between them and ordinary humans is vastly greater experience and, in Salem’s case, the interaction between her infinite aura and her grimmness.
(That is the subject for another post, but in essence grimm flesh and atrum ‘burn’ aura and this reaction can be controlled and channeled just like dust; Salem, who is grimm, uses this to her advantage to mimic ‘true’ magic.)
And, because their ‘magic’ is really just aura trained to a level beyond what any mortal could achieve in a single lifetime, both of them do have semblances.
Salem’s semblance is less an outward projection of her self than an inward one. It developed through the slow reconstruction of her mind and soul after a long period during which she had no sense of identity and was just kind of mindlessly dreaming all the time; her semblance sparked from the need to become whole and to know herself again. What it does, in essence, is immanentize her thinking.
Think method of loci, but crystallized from the imaginary construct into a real, tangible place—in a sense, the interior of her soul, her semblance, is a realm. Not one anything like as vast or complicated as Remnant or the Ever After, but quite a bit larger and more intricate than the vaults, and accessible only through doors she chooses to open.
It’s how she keeps herself sane and also why her sense of identity and conviction are so unshakable in the present: Salem knows herself extremely well and nearly everything that defines who and what she is, she made a deliberate choice to include as a fundamental part of herself. She is capable of change—and in fact capable of changing herself very rapidly and easily, once she decides to do so—but she cannot be forced or coerced or compelled or worn down or manipulated into it. Because the only way she can change is for her to literally disassemble and reassemble parts of herself and her semblance will not let her do that if she doesn’t truly want it to.
Ozma doesn’t know that they even have a semblance, because their semblance fluctuates from one life to the next; they believe the permutations of their own semblance have all been semblances taken from the lives they steal. What’s actually going on is that their very fragile sense of self gave them a semblance that lacks clear definition because it has yet to be fully-realized. It warps and bends and molds itself into the hollowed-out masks of every host, then loses that shape once those masks crumble again to expose Ozma.
There are, however, some constants:
The base essence of their semblance is remembrance and accretion of time. It’s the grasping for another chance and the tearing pain of almost and the venom of what if and maybe then and it wasn’t supposed to happen this way all rolled into one. It’s the aching possibility on the trailing edge of a mistake. Often, it takes the form of small-scale temporal manipulation: with Ozpin, it became an ability to ‘skip’ a second or two here and an idle moment there and ‘save up’ that time to spend all at once, squeezing several minutes worth of action into a single fraction of a second. (<- Ozma still has this ability and Oscar can tap into it for a while, but after the events of V8 it fades as their self-identification as Ozpin disintegrates.)
As themself—once freed from their curse and restored to live as their own person—their semblance is effectively only half-formed: not quite latent, but not truly manifested either. They will need to find themself and know themself before they’re able to fully bring it out. In its true, unalloyed form, Ozma’s semblance is unbinding: the breaking of chains, the opening of doors, the snipped thread of fate to unleash boundless possibility.
In less poetic terms, they will be able to reach back and bring forward the moments when what is now became inescapable. Nothing can be undone, nothing erased: the past cannot be unwritten, but what they can do is create a second chance to rewrite the future, whether by literally making a new possibility that didn’t exist before or by cutting through whatever beliefs or rationalizations a person clings to to pretend that they have no other choice.
Their fully-realized semblance will turn inward and confront them whether they like it or not; toward other people it is entirely under their control. (<- It is also quite likely the one thing capable of reaching into Salem’s head and shaking the foundations of her self, by drawing out her line of reasoning for committing to those choices and asking her to walk those paths anew, decide again.)
Oscar does not have a semblance and will not have a semblance until he’s separated from Ozma. If the integration were completed he would eventually produce a new permutation of Ozma’s, but it wouldn’t in any meaningful sense belong to Oscar, because Oscar as an individual would, for all intents and purposes, be dead.
But once he’s separated from Ozma, and once he sorts out who he is and who he wants to be outside of the looming existential dread of becoming Ozma, he’ll be able to discover his semblance.
(<- Also his aura, when not subsumed by Ozma’s, will turn out to actually be orange. Like a pumpkin. Because his Ozian allusion isn’t Tip OR Dorothy, it’s Jack Pumpkinhead)
Oscar’s semblance is… essentially, a hyper-specialized form of empathy: he can take the words people say and unfold them to reveal the things they mean, the feelings they’re trying to express but can’t communicate clearly, and then find the words to articulate those things back. He’s an interpreter, not of language but of emotions. He’s able to very quickly talk through to the heart of a problem, and he’s preternaturally good at listening in a way that makes people feel seen and heard. It also has the side effect of making him almost impossible to lie to.
Even with Ozma in his head, there are traces of this latent ability eking through to the surface—his determination to connect with Ironwood throughout V7, his intuitive sense for what to say to Hazel and Emerald to earn their trust, and even earlier, his realization that Ozpin is lying and his ability to break through long enough to spill Jinn’s name: these are all inklings of what could be, if not smothered by Ozma’s curse.
That sort of rising-to-the-surface is very rare among Ozma’s hosts. With Oscar, it’s happening partly because he’s fighting so hard to hold on for as long as he can, partly because his upbringing gave him a pretty strong sense of identity to begin with, and partly because the nature of his semblance itself resists falsehood and obfuscation. Latent though it is, it still gives him a firm place to stand when he pushes back and asserts himself against Ozma’s resignation. This struggle also has the effect of deepening the potential of his semblance—in effect, training it before it even properly manifests—so that once he’s free and it emerges fully he gets in tune with it fast.
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thefatalflawexists · 1 year
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minthy-fresh · 11 months
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For Laira: stillness, roots, hair?
Heyo! Thanks for the ask!!
stillness: How does your OC act while still? Are they fidgety? Do they have any common gestures or tics? Does their clothing affect how they hold themselves while at rest?
She have a tendency to cross her arms when she's standing still, holding a dagger in her hand. She's not really what I would call fidgety, but more cognizant of her surroundings and looking around. When she's really deep in thought, she will often look to the sky and tilt her head, sometimes closing her eyes to concentrate. She'll also tap her fingers on her arms when she's not holding a dagger. The inquisitor outfit that she wears help give her more confidence and allows her to be less likely to holding daggers, as she will be able to get them out pretty quickly!
roots: Is your OC's look inspired by any specific style of clothing or fashion trend? What are the roots and/or inspiration for their look?
I remember looking at the inquisitor robes and immediately really liking the outfit and designing based off that. Her look was honestly more inspired off of colors more than any particular fashion trend, but I think her look is inspired by a mix of combining Van Helsing and Dracula, but less noble than what Alucard wears. She would fit pretty well into a Curse of Strahd/Ravenloft kind of game.
hair: How does your OC wear their hair? Does it have some kind of meaning?
She wears her hair incredibly long and ties it back during the heat of battle in stressful situations! She used to have it in a pixie cut back during her time in the temple she was raised to better fit the hat that she was required to wear, but she hated how it felt. She now wears it long and she feels vastly more comfortable in it, and she views it as choosing how she follows her faith in her own way instead of the extremes of her temple.
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halfblood045 · 1 year
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Monsters could be created but never tamed
kingdom of the feared
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shadowglens · 7 months
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shadowheart leaving shar behind being the thing that helps cress leave bhaal behind i'm 😭
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i-only-see-daylight · 13 days
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Emilia: Go to hell! 
Wrath: Where do you think I come from?
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fairysluna · 3 months
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the wolf's cage.
After being captured by the Northerns, you found yourself with the Lord of Winterfell whose strange politeness makes you doubt his true intentions.
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MASTERLIST
PAIRING — Cregan Stark x Wildling!Reader.
TAGS — smut (p in v, m!oral, spanking, use of the word whore, face fucking, hate sex(?, dirty talk, degrading/praise, belly bulge), cursing, mentions of war, blood and bruises, kind of enemies to lovers, dilf!cregan, and idk if this counts as dark!cregan but I'll add it just in case. If something is missing let me know!
AUTHOR'S NOTE — it's the first time that i write smut after a very long time, and i wrote this in a rush, so it's not perfect but i loved it anyway bc i fell in love with this trope. Reader is loosely based on Osha from GoT. REBLOGS AND COMMENTS ARE ALWAYS WELCOMED.
WORD COUNT — 5.3k. (oh damn)
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤenglish is not my first language.
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“We found her close to the Godswood,” one of the men said. “She was hiding and preparing herself to kill, my lord.” 
Cregan walked slightly closer to you, his curiosity peaking when he noticed how small you looked curled up in a corner of your cell, covered by thick pieces of fur. Your face was stained with dirt and dried blood. His men had told him you were a menace, but after looking at you, he didn't believe it. 
“She seems harmless,” he pointed out, kneeling beside you. 
“She is not, my lord. She's responsible for the death of three of our men,” the same man explained. They were all in combat position; holding the hilt of their swords just in case you would dare to attack their leader. Cregan, however, seemed to be unafraid, getting closer to you and trying to see more of you. He was certainly intrigued.
How was a young girl like you able to kill a group of ruthless men? 
He raised his hand and gently pulled a strand of your hair out of your face; he saw a scar on your cheek and a cut on your lip. Then, you met his eyes with yours. Your cold and mercenary haze did little to intimidate him. You were finally in the presence of the man you hated the most; the man who had killed your people in cold blood. He could see your wrath burning through your haze, and he understood it. 
With his thumb, he removed the drop of blood that was dripping from your lip — a soft touch that felt so foreign to your skin. He attempted to do it again, but you moved your face away and he knew it was enough. With a sigh, he stood up casting a large shadow over your smaller frame; you looked down at the floor, ignoring his penetrating stare on you before he turned around and walked out of the cell. 
“Tell a maid to give her a bath, then bring her to the dining room,” he ordered. 
“My lord, I don't think-”
“Tell the cooks to make a meal for two, and tell a maid to keep Rickon out of my room tonight,” he abruptly interrupted him, the guard was left in surprise. 
“I beg your pardon, my lord, but I do not think it’s a good idea at all,” The maester advised him, talking in whispers so you would not hear a word. “I believe that being in a room alone with that savage would put your life at risk. We cannot afford that, not when we're in the middle of an imminent war.” 
Cregan turned to give one more look at you before one of the guards locked your cell again. You looked so fragile, and you were probably starving after spending days in the merciless Winter cold. He knew you would not be such a threat in such a condition, so he did not follow his loyal Maester’s advice.
“The decision has been made,” he spoke as he started to walk away from the dungeons. The old man quickly followed his pace. 
“I would advise you to make some double thinking about your decision-” 
“Are you questioning my methods?” His voice came out low and slow, but it carried a bit of an intimidating undertone that was easy to catch. The Maester took a step back when his superior turned around; his Lordship was an imposing man, tall and with wide shoulders and some grey eyes that would pierce through your soul. Lord Stark was a kindhearted man, but whenever he was angry he was unrecognisable. 
And the Maester trembled when he saw a small glimpse of his anger. 
“Of course not, but it is my duty as your advisor to give you the best options… risking your life it's certainly not.” 
“That girl is craving for a meal, I will not let her starve,” he grunted. “Besides, I might steal some valuable information from her. She's just a girl, and she's unarmed. She will do no harm.” 
The old man simply nodded, knowing that it was a lost battle and not having the guts to continue to defy his lord. Cregan cleared his throat, repeated the instructions and then turned around to leave his men behind. They shared confused looks, doubting his plan and how unusual it was for him to have mercy with the people of your kind. This new and sudden sympathy towards you raised suspicion among the northern guards, but they were all too afraid to speak up. 
They just obeyed the orders of their Lord. 
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Cregan was tapping his fingertips against the table, patiently waiting for your arrival as he was blankly staring at his half-empty cup of wine. The only sound that was heard was coming from the fireplace, and the rest of the room was deadly silent. He was wondering how much time would it take for you to arrive when two guards opened the door, and two others were carrying you inside. They were grabbing your arms, tight enough to leave a bruise behind. Cregan stood up the instant you showed up, and, with a slight nod from him, you were freed from their grip. 
Lord Stark took the time to look at you, shamelessly glancing at every inch of your body. He noticed how your skin was glowing now, freed of any stain or impureness on your face, except for that scar on your cheekbone that seemed to be quite recent. Regardless of that, you were such a sight for his eyes, so pretty and young and fierce all the same. The glow in your eyes was still yelling your hate for him and, somehow, that would make you even more appealing to him. He followed the trail down your neck and found your bossom being squeezed by the dress which looked a bit too small for you, but that fit your body like a glove; shaping your curves and enhancing them, he had to take a deep breath after seeing you. 
All the beauty that was previously hidden under thick layers of clothes and dirty hair and face was now starting to show.
“You can leave now,” he indicated to the guards. They nodded and followed his orders immediately. 
Once they were alone, Cregan pointed at the chair on the other side of the table, inviting you to take a seat. You were reluctant, staring at the large amount of food with distrust; you thought this was a trap, no one ever invites their foes to supper. You did not obey him at first, standing still in your place, using a pair of borrowed shoes that were almost crushing your feet and making you feel like walking on burning coal. 
You knew one thing for sure; you needed to get out of there as soon as you could. Or, better yet, you had to kill that man. 
“Please, be seated,” he spoke so softly and politely that you could not believe it. It was so blatantly obvious. “The pork it's better when it's warm.” 
A glance at the table and you saw your plate already served; this did nothing but increase your mistrust. However, you walked towards the spot, slowly and with your guard up. The sound of your shoes clacking on the wooden floor as you made your way to your seat until you finally sat. 
Then, a silence fell over the room. Cregan's eyes seemed to never look away from you as he raised his cup and brought it to his lips. You nervously played with your cup, already filled with wine. 
“I gave myself the liberty to fill your cup,” he said. 
Besides that, your plate was full of beans, pork, carrots and mashed potatoes. Everything was already cut into tiny pieces, and only then did you realize you only had a spoon; no knife, and no fork. 
“Is wine not of your taste?” Cregan asked after your long silence. “Would you rather have some ale? or juice?” 
Nothing came out of your mouth. Cregan was losing his little patience, but he knew better and he stayed calm. Upsetting you would only make things worse. 
“You might be wondering why I spared your life today,” he started, attempting a two-sided conversation. “If you were any other, your head would be in a spike by now… but you might be useful for us.” He made a pause, sipping his wine so delicately and manly. Then he added, “For me.”
Again, no answer. 
“I believe you have valuable information that would help us to understand your people better,” he explained, trying to sound likeable and friendly, even giving you a warm smile. “Maybe that way we'll understand your reasons.” 
“Why would I give information to the one who's murdering my people?” You finally spoke. 
Cregan heard your thick northern accent and a smile was drawn on his face. He hid the gesture by grabbing his fork and knife and cutting a piece of meat before putting it inside his mouth. You realized that contrary to you, he had a knife; you wondered how you could reach it without him noticing.
“Ah, so you can speak,” he claimed, cheerfully. “For a moment I thought you were mute.” 
“I am not,” you grunted.
“You could stop an imminent war, you know?” He continued the previous conversation. “Save the lives of your people, avoid a bloodbath.” 
“You are the only one causing those things, my lord,” the mocking tone in your voice when you uttered the last two words was obvious. “This war carries your name.” 
“You are the ones taking over our lands,” he debated. 
“We're escaping,” you snapped. “You have no idea what's beyond that wall. You and your men would do the same in our position.” 
“And what is it that's up there with all of you?” 
“You wouldn't believe my words. You'll have to see it.” 
He hummed, not convinced at all. He leaned back on his chair. 
“How did you get that scar on your face? It looks quite recent,” he slightly narrowed his eyes. 
“An accident while climbing the wall,” you simply explained, not wanting to give out too many details. 
“When did you cross it?” 
“A few weeks ago.” 
“And what have you been doing all this time?” 
“I already told you… trying to survive.” 
Cregan clicked his tongue, sipping his wine once more and letting the topic go. “You haven't touched your food,” he pointed out. “Nor your wine. The cooks work hard on this food.” 
“I'm not hungry.” 
“It's not poisoned,” he let you know as if you would believe his mere words. “If I ever kill you it wouldn't be with a drop of venom, that it's not an honourable way to murder your opponent.” 
“Honour,” you repeated with a mocking tone. 
“Does that word sound funny to you?” 
“It does when it's you saying it,” you muttered, clenching your jaw. “You have the blood of innocents in your hands, you have no honour.”
The tense environment was interrupted by the sound of the door opening. Soon, a small child entered the room and ran towards Cregan; it was his son, his spitting image standing right next to him. His weakness. You looked closely, and you noticed how Lord Stark's demeanour was briefly replaced by a softer one when he held his child in his arms, only to get angry again when one of the maids walked in rushing behind the boy. You were observant, and then quickly an idea of escape lighted up your mind. 
“I apologize, Lord Stark,” the maid murmured, shaking and breathing unevenly. “Little Rickon wanted to say goodnight and he ran away from his chambers-” 
“Don't let it happen again,” he stopped her before she could go on with her explanations that were of little interest to his Lordship. “Just take him to bed, and don't let this happen again.” 
“Yes, my lord.”
He kissed the child's forehead and hugged him one last time before the maid pulled his arm and took him away. The boy was looking back at his sire with saddened eyes as he walked, and once he was out of sight, Cregan was back to his tough facade. However, you knew new information, and now you knew exactly how to manage to escape.
“Was that your child?” 
“Indeed,” he nodded. 
“Beyond the wall, children are taught to fight and hunt from a very young age,” you randomly told him. “Does he know how to do that?” 
“He's still learning.” 
“How old is he?” 
“We are not here to talk about my child,” he snapped, growing impatient with each passing second. 
You stopped, only for a brief second to let it rest and prepare yourself for the next thing. The suddenness of your next question left him speechless.
“Where's his mother?” You noticed how he tensed, clenching his jaw and forming a fist with his hand. There it is. “Is she around?” 
His silence gave you the answer you were expecting, you had to hold back a smile.
“Let me guess,” you murmured, “Childbirth?” 
His fist smacked against the table and you noticed how all the plates jumped due to the impact. He stood up, fuming, all the kindness and politeness vanishing from his body as he lost his patience with you. Yet, you did not seem fazed by his roughness, you barely flinched. You stood up too and slowly started to walk around the table, to get closer to him. 
“I bet your nights might be lonely now that you've lost your wife,” A false tone of empathy was heard in your voice as you kept taking step after step. “Does your bed feel empty at night?” 
“That's enough,” he growled. 
“You dressed me, bathed me and fed me… perhaps you're trying to convince me to stay by your side,” you deduced, using your seduction skills to distract him from the fact that you were getting closer to the knife on the table. “Is this your intention? To make me yours? To turn me into your whore?” Your voice lowered itself a few tones, getting raspier and more seductive.
You reached his side, his eyes were stuck on your face as his breathing was starting to get faster with each second. You saw his jaw, sharp as the knife you were trying to grab, and tensed as he tried to hide his growing arousal. Of course, he has noticed your attributes before, and of course, he had secretly —and shamelessly— fantasized about ripping your dress to see what was underneath, but now your words would only make his struggle grow. 
Perhaps the Maester was right. Perhaps this was a bad idea. 
“Have you heard what they say about the women from the Free Folk?” You were teasing him, boldly raising your hands until they went to his thick coat and untied it; it fell around his leather shoes, and only a thin shirt was beneath it. Your eyes glanced at him, noticing the chest hair on his skin as your hands felt the hardness of his abdomen; years of training with the sword had certainly made its effect. “People say we're difficult to handle, but that we fuck like goddesses. Wouldn't you want to try it out?”
One of your hands travelled lower and lower until it was able to feel the shape of his growing cock in your palm and through his pants. A winning smile appeared on your lips. His growing lust did not allow him to see the moment when your hand took the knife. Luckily for him, his reflexes were quite fast, and he was able to stop your hand right before you almost stabbed his neck. Your eyes widened as he grabbed your wrist and turned your body around, slamming you against the table. He pressed himself against you, your dress now ruined with the food beneath your frame. 
Cregan's hand grabbed a big portion of your hair and pulled it back, roughly, forcing you to arch your back. You could not help but whimper due to the pain in your skull. His breathing soon reached your neck and caused shivers down your spine; it smelled like wine. 
“You little whore,” he mocked you, “you thought you could've killed me?” 
His voice was completely different to the one you have heard before; it was almost like a growl, so deep, slow and hoarse. You would be lying if you said you did not find it amusing. His touch was rough and lacking the gentleness and delicacy that it had hours ago when he wiped the blood off of your lip. 
“It was worth the try,” you breathed out, laughing at him when you felt his arousal pressing against your arse. 
“What's so funny, huh?” he grunted, pulling you harder and making you hum. “I could kill you right here, right now,” he threatened. 
“But you won't,” you murmured. 
“That's right,” he mumbled, breathing in your scent. Even after taking a bath you still smelled of pine tree, it was an intoxicating smell. “I will prove your word first. Let's see if the wildlings whores fuck like goddesses, mhm?” 
Your eyes widened when you felt his hand freeing your hair and going towards the skirts of your borrowed dress. He lifted them, holding them in place on your waist behind your back. He saw how your pussy was already starting to glisten with your arousal, even when he had barely touched you beforehand. His cock twitched inside his pants when he noticed that all of this was because of his rough touch. 
You filthy slut, he thought. 
You heard a soft stump on the floor as his pants fell down his thick legs. It did not take too much time for you to feel his leaking tip brushing against your folds, spreading them open and smearing your slick all over it. You had to bite your lip, holding back a gasp as he teasingly rubbed against your clit; this was certainly not what you were expecting, but it felt good enough to make you want more. 
Slowly, he started to make his way inside you, grabbing your arsecheeck with his free hand and spreading it only to see your needy cunt taking him. Cregan gasped, your soft walls were wrapping around him perfectly, squeezing him just right and creaming all over him. He hummed in delight as he felt your legs already starting to shake. Gods, he was big, stretching you out as of you were a fucking maiden, providing you with that sweet pain that made your eyes close. 
When he was halfway in, he pushed himself all in with a single thrust. His head touched that sweet, spongy spot inside of you. “Fuck!” you cried out, involuntarily spreading your legs further, at the same time your hands pushed all the plates and cups away from your side. It all ended up spilt on the floor. 
He remained there for a few seconds, still inside of you and not moving an inch. Cregan's hand reached for your hair once again, pulling it back until your back was pressed against his chest and his lips were brushing against your ear. His breathing was ragged and unsteady; his tongue licked his lips as they started to get dry. You were able to feel him, his veins pulsing inside of you as he would twitch each time you clenched around him. Cregan hummed against your ear. 
Without warning, his hips started to move and your legs suddenly felt as weak and giggly as jelly. Your hands gripped the border of the table as his movements started to increase his pace. He was filling you up so good, so deep. You found yourself murmuring senseless words as you slowly started to lose your mind, which was a weird thing for you; you would usually be the one in charge. 
Though you did not mind submitting to him for a while. All your morality was soon gone, and all thanks to the man whose cock was good enough to make you forget about how much you hated him.
His hips started to meet yours with more force, thrusting hard but slow. It was just the beginning, and he wanted to make sure you would feel every inch of him, to feel every vein. All while he was also losing his mind over how good your pussy was taking him; your tight grip around him was sending him to the heavens, his eyes never looking away from the place where both of your bodies would join. Your walls contracted around him whenever he was pulling out, almost as if they were reluctant to let him go. Cregan loved that a bit too much, he might have become addicted to it. 
Then, he sped it up. His grunts and moans were falling from his lips in cascades that reached your ears. A vocal man he was, expressing his lust with the most arousing sounds you have ever heard. It brought a sense of pride to your chest, having such an imposing man as him reduced to a moaning mess. But the truth was, you were not doing any better; his animalistic movements were now sending you over the edge quicker than you thought. The sound of your bodies slapping against each other and the feeling of your arousal falling down your thighs was enough to pull you into a cloud of raw lasciviousness. Your mind felt dizzy. 
Suddenly, Cregan grabbed the knife you were trying to reach and threw it right next to your hand. You saw it through your heavy eyelids as you panted and gasped. You felt his lips pressing against your ear once again, but this time he spoke,
“Try to kill me now,” he hoarsely said. “Go on. Where's the girl who tried to kill me? Not so brave now with my cock ripping you apart, huh?” 
“Fuck off…” you managed to say in a murmur. Cregan mockingly laughed, and his hand fell against the soft skin of your rear, leaving a pinching pain behind. Gods, you hated the fact that you loved it so much.
“So fiery, and yet you're a mess…” he chuckled, his heavy breathing against your nape making you tremble under his touch. “I wish you could see how your little cunny is taking my cock… you're fucking soaking for me.” 
You moaned, louder than you should have. 
“Want to take a look?” he teased you, pushing deeper inside of you. You tried to mumble an answer, but nothing came out of your mouth. His hand met your arse again, this time slightly harder. “Answer me,” he demanded, using his lower tone which made your knees go weak. 
You had no choice, “Y-yes…” you whimpered as tears of pleasure were gathering in the corner of your eyes. 
He pulled out of you and you immediately whined, complaining about his absence. His hands went to the ties on the back of your dress, starting to pull them out to get them loose enough to remove that piece of fabric that was just bothering him. When he finally did, he pulled it down in a single movement, and just like that you were completely exposed to him. 
He took a quick look at your body once you turned around, glancing at your breasts and your perky nipples, and then looking at the glistening mess between your thighs. His hand wrapped around your jaw, and he leaned forward; his leaking cock rubbing against your belly as his nose touched your cheek. Suddenly, his lips trapped yours in a heated kiss that lacked any delicacy; he was claiming your mouth, swirling his tongue around yours and devouring you. You heard how he pushed the rest of the dishes, plates and cups on the ground, then he lifted your body forcing you to spread your legs. Only then he pulled away. 
He looked down, watching your pussy drenched with your arousal and chuckling at the sight. “Didn't know wildlings women were such whores… getting this wet when I fuck you rough,” he mocked you, tightening the grip around your jaw and forcing you to keep your eyes on him. 
Cregan guided his cock towards your slit, repeating the same teasing game as before, rubbing his tip against your now throbbing clit soaking it with the mixture of your juices and his. He gave a few taps afterwards, making you whine and your legs shake. You never, in a million years, thought you would be thinking of begging a Lord like him, yet there you were, about to plead to have him inside of you once again because the ache between your thighs was becoming unbearable. 
As if he had read your thoughts, he soon pressed his cockhead against your entrance, pushing just the tip. You sighed, biting your lip as you looked down at it. You could have come right there as you saw how he slowly filled you up and stretched your walls once more. The way your labia would spread to take him in; such an obscene sight it was, yet you couldn't bring yourself to take your eyes off of it. 
Once he was fully sheathed in you, you managed to perceive a small bulge forming in your lower belly which would appear each time he would bury himself deep inside of you. He did not take too much time to be rough this time, starting to snap his hips against yours and making you moan and drool until your mind was fully gone once again. His big hands were grabbing your hips, his nails digging into your flesh and making it slightly painful for you; yet, you didn't want it to stop. The sound of him entering your wetness was enough to make you mumble nonsense, and it wasn't long before you managed to see a ring of your juices around the bottom of his shaft. Your eyes rolled back. 
His animalistic movements were sending you over the edge, and it was humiliating how loud your cries of pleasure were; you were certain that they could be heard in the hallway, but neither you nor Cregan cared enough to stop. Both of you were consumed by each other's touch, it was rough and passionate, you could feel the heat running through your veins as he possessed every inch of your insides until you were nothing but a moaning mess. Your skin was glowing with a layer of sweat, and Cregan leaned forward to lick on your collarbone, his tongue creating a path to your breasts; his lips closed around your nipple, sucking and nibbling. You grew desperate for release. 
“Fuck- I need to… I'm so close,” you whimpered, your eyes locking with his. 
“Come on,” he hoarsely murmured. “Show me how good of a whore you are, and make a mess on my cock.” 
His words blurred your mind, sending a stimulus right into your core. You felt that sweet sensation of culmination when he touched your most sensitive point inside of you over and over again until you were sobbing with the tears of pleasure gathering in the corners of your eyes as you felt your release exploding and washing over you until your legs felt sore. You felt weak, trembling and overwhelmed. Your hair was sticking at your forehead due to your sweat and you were far gone into the pleasure he had just provided you. Yet, he seemed to not have enough. 
Lord Stark pulled out of you. His length had a layer of your release coating it, and you felt your cheeks grow warm. It was unusual for you to feel this shy in this situation, but this whole thing was something rather unusual and rare. Sleeping with the biggest foe, you were a traitor now. 
But Gods, it felt so damn good.
“Get on your knees,” he ordered. His hand wrapped around his leaking cock stroking himself, legs slightly parted as he looked at you with darkened eyes filled with lust. He was achingly hard, you could tell; his stones seemed heavy with his seed, which you would rather feel inside of you. 
Yet, you obeyed, kneeling and looking up at him through your lashes. He cursed with a sigh, twitching with the lustful sight of you ready to take him once again. 
“Open wide,” he instructed, brushing his cockhead against your swollen lips. You did what you were told. “Wider,” he demanded, and you obeyed again. “That's a good little whore…” he hummed, content. 
You stuck your tongue out and felt his salty taste as he tapped his cock against it. You moaned, and he grabbed the sides of your face to keep you still as he started to move in and out of your mouth. He groaned, looking up and then back at you; such a skilful little minx you were, taking him so well. 
Soon, your gags were echoing in the room along with your gulps and his moans. You were drooling; your saliva running down the corners of your lips as he fucked them as fast and hard as he pleased. 
“There you go, take it all just like that,” he praised you, and you felt the warmth of the tears falling down your cheeks. “Mhm, fuck. I might start to believe what they say now. You're sucking my cock like a fucking goddess…” 
You felt the back of your head pressing against the border of the table as he sped up. You were choking around him, and the sounds that came out of it were obscene and filthy, and Cregan loved it. 
Before you could tell, he spilt himself inside of your mouth, forcing you to swallow every drop that left him. And you did. 
Once he freed you from his grip, you pulled away. A string of saliva was still hanging from your lips as you desperately gasped for air, and only then Cregan noticed the big mess you had become. Hot and soaked cheeks, eyes tearing up, your lips swollen and covered with his thick and pearly seed. You were such an unholy sight. 
His thumb reached for your lip, wiping your drool out of it. Such a gesture brought you back to that very same evening when he wiped the blood out of the cut in your lip. It did not feel foreign anymore. You were breathless, trying to regain composure as Cregan looked down at you with a satisfied glance. 
“Seems like the rumours are not false,” he muttered, starting to pull his pants up again. “I might keep you so that I can feel those pretty lips around my cock again.” 
“Keep- keep me?” you asked, confused and overwhelmed.
Cregan arched an eyebrow, “You think because I fucked you I will let you go?” he chuckled. You felt his hand wrapped around your jaw once again, forcing you to stand up. You trembled a little, feeling your legs shaky and weak. “So naive of you… to think that I would have a taste of you and then let you go.” 
You felt your heart sink inside your chest as you heard him. 
“Since you offered so nicely before, I will accept,” he sighed, picking up the dress you were wearing and throwing it up to you. “I’ll make you my personal whore, how about that?” You went silent. “Oh, come on, don't pretend this was not your idea… I was going to let you go with a warning but you came out with a better proposal. How could I say no?” 
“I don't- I-” you shook your head. 
“You belong to me now,” he chuckled. “A wildling made just for me to fuck as I please… Sounds perfect, does it not?” 
You look into his grey eyes, perceiving and reading the mischievousness in them. You tried to escape and return to your freedom. Instead, everything went wrong and now you were trapped in the wolf's cage once again. 
You were not sure how to feel about that.
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radiance1 · 7 months
Text
Inspired by this because I thought that an otherworldly entity speaking obscenities through a child be FUNNY.
When Danny defeated Pirah Dark, he didn't become Ghost King, nor the Prince, instead.
He got another passenger in his head.
It's like, Pirah Dark is somehow astral projecting his thoughts to Danny, and Danny doesn't know why. He does not need the commentary of an eons old Ghost King stuck in his head thank you very much.
Then it got even worse when said Ghost King managed to astral project a small piece of himself that just, hangs around Danny 24/7.
Which nobody but him could see.
How the hell did he even manage that when he's a damn ghost for ancient's sake, he didn't know.
He' just gotten used to him, at this point.
One thing he's learned about Pirah Dark, however, is that said ghost has an extreme competitive streak.
Most of his newfound obscene vocabulary came from him. Not that he could use said vocabulary, mind you, because his mother would have his head in that case.
But still.
The number of games Pirah took over from him and progressed fast through was... both inspiring and somewhat insulting.
But anyways.
Until he got summoned by cultists, because apparently having a small piece of the Ghost King floating around him 24/7 is enough for him to get summoned in his place, and Pirah's eyes landed on one guy in a coat.
Well.
He didn't even know like 90% of the words he used could be profanity.
Then he expected him to say all of that to some guy he doesn't even know. He sweat dropped, because, while physically he could say all of those words, his mother has a sixth sense when it comes to such things.
Curse a guy out word for word by a Ghost King and face his mother's wrath for saying such words, or decidedly don't do that and not face his mother's wrath?
He'll take the second option, thank you.
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Text
The Supreme Empress
Kylo Ren x Reader
Summary: The dark side chose you. They pried you out of the rebel camps and dragged you from the ashes and the corpses of your family. The dark side chose you to strengthen the force, to be the vessel for their plans, to be the bride of the Supreme Leader's pupil, to bear Kylo Ren's seed and ensure the might of their divine wrath.
Word Count: 11k+ 🧍‍♀️💀
Warnings: fem!Reader, slow burn, forced marriage AU, themes of stockholm syndrome/gaslighting/brain washing, mentions/depictions of violence, enemies to lovers?, smut (scratching, marking, ?manipulating?, fingering, vaginal penetration, cock warming), fluff, angst, typos, etc.
A/N: this fucking ai chat man. fuck that shit MINORS DNI honestly. its my fault for making a plot. i just wanted to write smut fml. i hate it here. i couldn't even finish it cos now i cant write the smut dafaq? anyway im sure i got typos so you must forgive me. i have not gone through this yet and i need to brush my teeth and pull myself together bye Tagging: @pinksirensong @aralezinspace @sloanexx
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I fell to my knees. I was in tears, in dust, in blood, and in pain. My wrists were bound behind me and my clothes were tattered and torn.
This was it. This was the day I die. I felt it in my bones. This was the reckoning.
And then my deliverer, my executioner, came before me. And then I felt the Force in him echo in the room and ripple through me like a blade through my chest.
It was him. The phantom that haunted me every time I closed my eyes. He was the nightmare in my sleep, and the damning voice in my head in the morning. The dark warrior, death given form, the murmuring voice of the shadows.
The Sith Lord.
Here he is, crossing this bridge from the entrance of this cursed compound.
The place is busy, busy with its plans of destruction. I heave at the grandness of it all. It was terrifying to see it up close, especially since I was evidently at the top, and it was a very long drop down.
I crane my neck up at him, face stained with tears. I was exhausted but I put on my last show. I bared my last look of defiance before he kills me, before he finally completes this cycle of torment he has been inflicting onto me.
I close my eyes and await his judgement.
I feel him come before me, but he instead walks past, and I hear someone choke from behind.
"Did I not instruct that she be left unharmed?" his voice barks through his dark mask.
My heart pounds as I hear straining from behind me. I steal a look from over my shoulder and instantly regret it when I see the two stormtroopers that dragged me here get thrown down the side of the bridge. I shudder. Like I said, it's a long drop down.
I look straight when he returns to me. I feel him undo my shackles with his Force, and then... he clutches my arm to help me stand.
I look up at him. I see my reflection on his helmet. I clench my jaw, "what do you want from me?"
"My empress-"
My stomach rolls.
"-I have finally retrieved you from your sullied camp to bring you to your rightful place next to me. To claim you as my own."
A shiver runs down my spine.
No, this can't be real.
My breathing strains. I grip my hands and I begin to step back.
It electrocutes me, this searing cold voice in my brain. It was a suddenly as if I remembered the dialogue in the horrors of my slumber that I so hardly tried to suppress. It was replaying now, the voice of the malevolent, the voice of the creature ruling my nightmares. "I give you to my pupil. With your Force converged with his, the purest of warriors will be borne. And my power will know no bounds."
"You remember now, bride," my captor iterated, "that voice in your head right now-- that is the Supreme Leader; that is Snoke."
I step back, "bride?" my breath hitches.
I was his b--
My knees almost give in, but again, his hold on my arm keeps me upright.
I feel my eyes begin to water.
Please, please, let this be another horrible, horrible nightmare.
"Is everything prepared?"
"Yes, my lord," two voices call out from behind me.
"Good," he says, and I released, "I will watch as you prepare her. I will not allow her be injured further."
I was--
I was here to be sacrificed to the darkness.
I was here to answer to the calls that have been plaguing me for so long, ever since that day my home planet was invaded, ever since everything I knew was reduced to atoms.
I let out a loud yelp when I am splashed with cold water. I let out a breathy curse and the servant who had done it, who had profusely apologized, is suddenly being choked.
It is only now I am cognizant again. It was now that I was aware I am in the bathroom, stripped naked in a tub, and my captor has his servant in a chokehold from across the room. I gasp and cover my bare chest, looking over my shoulder as he hisses, "you could not have made the water warmer? How would you like to be dunked in a pool of ice water?"
My breath hitches, "let her go!"
His voice buzzes behind his helmet as he curls his hand further with his outstretched arm, "she has one task, one simple task, and if she cannot perform it, then she is no use to me."
I panic as I see the servant's eyes water. I jolt when the other servant grabs my shoulder and begins to wash my skin as though nothing was awry. I turn from the servant back to him, "LET HER GO!"
He does nothing.
"LET. HER. GO!"
He seems to be debating my words.
I panic and quip breathlessly, "let her go!"
I sigh in relief when the servant is dropped.
A shiver runs down my spine when he goes at ease by the door. He clutches his hands before him and announces, "thank your empress for her mercy."
Immediately, before she can even catch her breath, the servant responds, "th-ank you, empress." The woman quickly begins to attend to me again.
I am far beyond perturbed.
I don't know what to do with myself, not when I was being bathed by strangers, not when I naked in the tub, not when he was there, watching me.
Why the fuck did that sicko have to watch like a bird in a fucking cage?
Careful, bride.
I stiffen in my place. The servants working on my body halt their work and ask me if their touch was too rough.
Lest you forget I have also been in your dreams. You ought to honor me even in your thoughts, baby bird.
"... my empress?" one servant calls.
"She is fine," he answers for me, "you may proceed."
And then, I'm being dragged out of the tub and patted down in front of a huge mirror. I don't know what to cover, and I can feel him looking. Never mind my naked form in and of itself, but my cuts and bruises from ripping and screaming at the stormtroopers that pried me into their ship. It was loathsome sight to see.
"Must you watch me?" I ask accusingly yet under my breath.
"Yes," he replies, as if it makes anything better, as if it was actually a question, as if he didn't know what I meant with my words. And then he clarifies, as if it helped, "your physical state does not bother me. It does not make you any less than you are, my bride."
My eyes twitch as I am finally handed undergarments to wear. I find my voice again, finally, "that's not the-"
"My pretty bride."
I cease my movements. What the fuck is he saying?
I don't have time to ponder those words as the servants urge me to dress and then quickly begin to fasten me with bandages, namely on my thigh where I had a cut and on my bicep that had a burn.
And though I so badly wanted to whine in protest and dramatic spite, I do my best to contain them. After all, the servants were helping me, they don't need to be Force choked for doing a job they were tasked to accomplish by their malignant master.
The next moment, I was being put into an elaborate garment and then they started painting on my face. Suddenly, I was.... turning into something else. I looked at the mirror and everything was so very real and unimaginable all at once. This was all happening to me. This wasn't a nightmare, not a fever dream, and there was no escape.
And then they told him- my groom- that I was done and I stared at my reflection, unable to recognize myself.
Who in the world were you?
"Come," he says, raising his hand up to me, "we must not delay any further."
I look at his reflection from the mirror. I look at his hand, hid behind his glove, his body, hid behind his cloak, and his face, hid behind his mask. I was going to me wed to this stranger, hidden in darkness?
I stare at him. I clench my jaw. I tell him I'm not going but utter not a single word. I sear it in his brain with my eyes. I scream it, blare it out as loudly as I could.
And yet he only watches me. He watches me with an urging dark hand.
My heart pounds in my ribs. I expect him to begin to lash out at one point, to choke me next, but he doesn't. He stands there, just stands there, reaching out to me.
Was this his twisted way of making me feel like I was willingly going to him? His way of telling me he was the only route in my life now?
My nostrils flare and I gather my skirt. I stare at him as I walk past him. My body was rigid and I had no idea where I was going, but I walked. And then he opened the doors for me.
My hand twitched when he took it, as he was suddenly beside me. I gasp at the unexpected and uninvited touch and I turn to him in surprise, but it is arduous with this ridiculous headpiece on me. His hand is massive and burning hot against my freezing clammy one. He tugs me toward him, "it's this way."
So, we when go this way.
We tread the halls, and I swear I could feel people following after us, more and more each moment, but I couldn't look back, literally, the fucking headpiece was in the way.
And then the atmosphere started to get darker, and it was like it was suddenly so much harder to breathe. It was clear to me we were heading for that large door, and that whatever was behind there was not good. It was not good at all.
He waved his hands once and the doors opened.
There was a great and terrible rush of Force that knocked into me. It was so strong and terrifying, I tighten my grip on my captor, and I cling onto him for safety. My breath is knocked out of my lungs, and all at once I am facing this large entity, this massive body of darkness, the literal flesh form of all my worst nightmares.
I was reeling back in fear. My stomach was in my chest and my heart was in my mouth.
I was in front of him. The Supreme Leader. Snoke.
And he was looking at me, looking right at me with contempt, with impatience, with exasperation.
My feet were stuck on the floor and my fingers were digging into arm of the man by my side. I couldn't do anything but feel my eyes water.
I snap to look my side when my name is called out. I turn to my groom as suddenly he is pacifying me, comforting me even, "the sooner we get this done, the sooner we can leave."
I don't know how I feel about his words, I don't know how I feel about how he takes my chin in his fingers and makes me turn my body to him. I don't know how I feel when he steadies my stupid headpiece when it knocks onto his shoulder. I don't know how I feel when I follow him mindlessly, when he and I head towards his gargantuan master.
Snoke speaks the moment we are in front of him. His voice rings, it reverberates, in the hall, in my ears, in my thorax, and in the dark corner of my mind that shudders at the recognition, "you have done well, my pupil. Very well."
My eyes lock with Snoke. I evade his stare and abruptly pull away from the man on my right. He stares at me for a moment when I do so, then looks back at Snoke, "thank you, master."
Snoke grumbles, "well, remove that ridiculous thing on your head and let us begin."
I don't know whether it is because I am fearful of the evil-king before me or because I am anticipative of the face of the man behind the mask, but I turn to him with a desperation. I turn to him when he removes his helmet and my breath catches in my throat.
He tucks his helmet under his arm and looks at me with his brown eyes that glistened with something sinister behind them. He parted his lips and I noticed the scar by its side that started by his brow went far past his cheek and collar. His hair was somehow perfectly tousled even after staying inside his face cage for so long. I don't know how I felt after seeing him face to face like this.
I suck in a sharp breath when he takes my hand. He promptly begins to speak.
"I-" he turns to our joined hands as he lifts them chest level, "Kylo Ren," his eyes dart back to me, "take you-"
My skin pricks at how he whispers my name. He says it as if it were a secret, as if he meant it with reverence, as if it was solemn.
"-to be my wife."
My empress.
I suck in a sharp breath at his voice in my head. My breath picks up. My stomach rolls. Get out.
Kylo Ren rubs my knuckles, "To protect you, to honor you, to venerate you until my last breath, or even beyond."
And then he looks at me. He stares at me. He bores into my being and plunges into my soul. I feel my hands begin to shake in his hold.
Kylo Ren looks in silence and I look in fear.
I start at the harsh call of the Supreme Leader to our side, "SPEAK YOUR VOWS, GIRL!"
I screw my eyes shut and gulp. I have to get out of here. Get me out of here! My breath strains now more than ever.
Suddenly, I hear a soft voice in my head. Suddenly, I dare to open my eyes and I see a disconcerting softness in my groom's expression.
Shhhhhhh.
He hushes me in my mind. He repeats his words from earlier.
The sooner we get this done, the sooner we can leave.
I open my mouth and huff helplessly. I repeat my groom's words and tears begin to fall from my eyes.
Snoke leans back in his throne and tents his hands together, "good, good. Then by the power of the darkness, the power vested in me, The Supreme Leader, the ruler of the galaxies and all peoples," he nods his head, "two have now become one."
My shoulders rise and my heart pounds at the explosion of loud exclamations. I look around the hall and only now realize that there were hundreds of individuals, looking down at us from the balconies above.
"Long live the Emperor and Empress!"
I am at a loss for what to do next. I don't know if I want to run away or drop dead. I find myself looking to Kylo Ren. Kylo Ren, whose brows slightly furrow in his seriousness. Kylo Ren who looks up to his people and raises his hand that is clutching his helm, inspiring them to cheer even more. Kylo Ren, who then looks down at me and firmly grips my hands before leading me out of the room.
I don't know what happens after that.
I think I'm having a panic attack.
Am I having a panic attack?
Can someone even think if they're having a panic attack?
I'm not having a panic attack.
I'm not having a panic attack.
"Enough," he speaks, turning to me, clutching my cheek. Kylo Ren looks at me with knit brows while his gloved hands make me face him. My neck strains because of the weight of my headpiece. He blinks at me and slips the thing off my head. A weight is lifted off my shoulders. Very suddenly, I think I'd have preferred if he removed my head altogether. He uses his Force to bring the object away. I watch as it floats off to a dresser, beside his helmet that was already there.
All at once, I realize I was in a bedroom. I look back at Kylo in horror. Oh, fuck, I was in a bedroom.
He huffs through his nostrils, "your thoughts are as loud as sirens."
I clutch my skirt tightly and slowly begin to move back.
Kylo watches me. He tilts his head down slightly and narrows his eyes.
I swallow the lump in my throat, "so what?" I shudder, "you're going to force an heir in me now?"
He raises his nose and tilts his head to the side, "it is my duty to sire an heir."
I gulp. My breathing begins to get shorter and shorter.
I start when he steps forward. I put more distance between us.
I shiver when he calls out my name.
"Don't," I point, "don't come any closer."
Kylo Ren offers me the courtesy of stopping in his place.
I catch my breath and watch him as he brings his hands behind him. Goosebumps form on my skin when he speaks, "I have just vowed to protect you, to honor you, and to venerate you." He brings his hands to the clasp of his cloak, "I will not force you to do anything with me that you don't want."
I scoff, tightening my grip on my clothes, "and you think I wanted to marry you?!"
I tense when Kylo unfastens his cloak and folds it in front of him. I freeze in my spot in anticipation of what he's going to do next. He looks at his cloak then looks at me, "you do not understand it now, but you are the key to securing the strength the Sith, securing the Order."
A shiver runs down my spine. How can he say that so plainly?
I cannot comprehend how utterly indoctrinated this ideation is in his being. It is shocking honestly, to see up close and personal that he believes so much in his cause, that he genuinely does not see fault in this, in forcing me to marry him, in taking me by force, in destroying my camp, in laying waste to my people, on wreaking their ill-judgement to the stars.
I shake my head, "do you honestly believe I will eventually come to you with- with open arms?!"
Kylo Ren straightens his posture. I nearly trip when he walks over to me as I attempt to rush back. He raises two fingers and keeps me upright with his Force. He keeps me in place and stands before me. He leans his face close to mine, then barely opens his mouth to speak, "I do."
And then, he releases me and walks away.
I watch him as he exits the room and leaves me. The sound of the door closing is all that's left.
I begin to pant. I begin to heave in anger, in loss, in panic, in desperation. I have to get o-
I slap my hands on my mouth. I screw my eyes shut and shudder.
Silent. I have to be silent.
The next day he asked me to accompany him while he ate.
Breakfast, lunch, and dinner, he said, I should join him, so that we would both grow accustomed to each other's company during such intimate moments, and that we would also get to know each other more.
I scoffed at the idea, so much for not forcing me to do anything I don't want.
"I am not forcing you, wife," Kylo calls across the expanse of the long table.
My eyes that were idly watching my fork swirl the unknown delicacy on my plate dart to him. My shoulders tense as Kylo Ren grabs his glass and drinks from it.
I huff, "do you mind getting out of my head?" I ask though it wasn't really a question, it was a threat, as much of a threat a captive could give.
Kylo sets the object down and taps his finger on it, "if you don't want to join me..." he thinks for a moment, "you don't have to."
I straighten in my seat. I silently look out to him in challenge.
I stiffen when the pitcher begins to float and water is then poured in my cup. I clench my jaw, turning back to Kylo, finding his raised finger.
"I would prefer if you dined with me though," he says, putting the pitched back down.
I turn to my food, idly pushing it around again, "I would prefer if I dined by myself... in my-" our "-room."
I hear him exhale. I hear the contact of his cutlery on his plate, "a disappointing conclusion."
I slowly avert my eyes from my food to him. He is now focused on his own plate. He mumbles, "but I will allow it."
The next day, I am woken to eat breakfast and urged to get out of bed. I explain to servant I was allowed to eat in my room and that I don't want to eat yet. I scoff in disbelief when I am told I am meant to tour the place with the master, with that damned Kylo Ren, and is thus advised to get ready.
And so I did. I got ready and went into the dining room and interrupted his breakfast. If I can't have peace, neither can he.
Kylo turns to me and nods, "wife."
I clench my teeth, "tour me now," I huff, "I'm not hungry, so tour me now."
He turns back to his food and seemingly debates my words for a moment. He then stands from his seat and puts on his helmet, leading me out of the room. If I could burn holes onto his back with my eyes, he'd have been nothing but charcoal.
I suppose I should have given more attention to his tour than I did because knowing the place would surely benefit me when I make my attempt to esc-
"Are you certain you're not hungry?" Kylo Ren asks out of the blue as he leads me down the weapons room, "you're quite snippy and demanding. I would assume that's because you're hungry, baby bird."
I can't help but scoff at his mockery, "or, this is just how I am," I mumble, "so don't act like you know me." I aimlessly look at all the weapons on display, weapons meant to destroy others like me.
But I do know you.
I avert my gaze to him. I stiffen as I glare.
"I have been in your mind and seen the depths of your soul," he mutters, "and I know you're irritable because you're hungry."
And then he conjures up a tin-wrapped object in front of me.
"Here," he gives me the item using his Force, "you can eat this while we walk back to our chambers."
My lips curl in disgust, "is this meant to be enticing?"
He tilts his helmet clad head, "it's meant to be my lunch for later," he grabs the floating object, then my wrist, placing the silver thing on my palm.
I tense in his touch and I am glad he doesn't linger long there. I look at his would-have-been lunch then turn back to him, seeing my scowling reflection on his dumb helmet, "what an honor to know I won't be poisoned since this is apparently yours."
"It is mine," he rebuts rather impatiently.
I roll my eyes and shove it into his chest, "if you want me to be less irritable, let me go back to my chambers." I catch myself when I say this. It sounds like I want to be in that damned cage, instead of outside of this compound. I correct myself, "or better yet, let me go."
Kylo Ren places his lunch in pocket that I didn't know he had, "We will continue this tour tomorrow."
And so we did. This time, he made sure to have someone come to me after I ate.
I must say, perhaps he was partially correct in the fact I was irritable because I was hungry. I did find him more bearable today, as far as forced husbands and captors go. But then again perhaps it was because he was touring me in the biggest library I have ever seen.
I couldn't even feign disinterest as he motioned to each area of the place and explained they were arranged by planet of origin.
I was far too busy craning my neck up to see how high the bookshelves reached that I bump into one. Or at least I thought it was a bookshelf and not fucking Kylo Ren. I jolt when I look at him, firstly because we had a collision, secondly because he magically didn't have his helmet on anymore.
I reel back as he looks down at me, on I think a more figurative sense if anything.
I am immediately uncomfortable under his gaze. I mutter, "sorry."
"You have questions," he mutters. He turns to me and lifts his chin, "ask them."
I evade his stare. Don't tell me what to do.
"I'm not telling you what to do," Kylo Ren retorts after hearing my thought.
I turn back to him. I snort and grumble, "stay out of my head."
He looks up at the shelves and then looks down at me with his eyes, "a hundred layers."
I pull my head back and scoff in disbelief, "the shelves have a hundred layers?" I look over my shoulder haphazardly, "seems unnecessary hard to manage."
"Well," he brings his head down, "it hosts knowledge from peoples across over the stars. It must be capable of securing the vastness."
When I look back at him, I tense when I see he has come far too close to me. It would have been wise to pull away, perhaps to even shove him off to get my point across, but somehow, I find his proximity as a challenge. I grit my teeth and narrow my eyes at him, "undoubtedly stolen, plucked from the rubble of your destruction."
A chill rushes up my spine when he smirks at me. It remains lopsided and smug as he whispers "I don't feel the need to preserve artifacts from a race that is unable to see the glory of my purpose."
That's it. I begin to slowly step away from him.
"Do you want to know how these shelves are managed?"
"No, I really-"
I make a sound when he grabs me and locks me against his chest. Before I can even begin to fight back, I find my feet get lifted off the ground along with him. Next thing I know, I'm gasping and clinging onto him for dear life.
"Put me down," I gasp against his chest as I seal my arm tightly against him.
He chuckles as we continue to float up. He tightens his grip on me as I feel myself begin to slip. He flexes his feet and pushes them beneath mine. I look up at him as I step on his boots.
"This is how you manage them," he iterated, then motioning to his side, "or you use the ladder."
I scoff in disbelief, grabbing onto his collar, "put me down, Kylo."
He blinks at me, lips curing into a bigger smile, "alright."
He slowly bringing me down and I tense when he clutches my waist and speaks out my name.
I look away from him and watch as the floor nears. By the time it was close enough, I jump off him and walk away.
Kylo Ren watches and chuckles, "the exit is the other, baby bird."
I stop in my tracks and glare at him. He does not waste time and walks up to me. My breath hitches when he does, reeling over the look on his face. He moves past me and walks away.
I watch him as he does so, and then an idea strikes me. I debate my chances on living here and convincing the servants to get me food... a bucket-
"Don't be ridiculous. I will throw you over my shoulder if you will not follow," Kylo Ren announces. He stops in his tracks and looks over to me, "you are my empress, not my captive, even though you feel that way."
I watch him as he raises his hand to me, reaching out to me again like on the day of our wedding, except this time, I could see his eyes and is pouty lips. I huff through my nostrils and grip my fists. I walk over to him glaring at him all the way until I move past him.
Kylo watches, a glint in his eye as he does.
I hear him chuckle.
The next day, I woke up, realizing I was allowed to sleep in. That got me tremendously excited, and so I quickly began to ready myself to begin my attempts at an esca-
I slap my hand on my mouth and release a deep breath from my nostrils.
I take a few more moments and ready to exit my chambers.
The moment I'm about to exit though, I am faced with a servant. I tense at the sight of her but offer her a pinched smile, "Rezba."
Rezba nods and walks in with a tray of food, "please eat before you leave. I will be scolded if I am found to failed to feed you."
Dammit, Rezba.
I sigh, turning to my feet. I watch the woman as she walks off and sets the table. She was one of the servants that helped prepare me on my... wedding day, the one that didn't get choked. As for the one that was, I have not seen or heard from her ever since.
My conscience presses on me every time I think of this. I sigh, walking over to her. I sit down on the chair by the table and smile, "thank you, Rezba. You can go now."
Rezba nods, "as you wish, empress."
I wipe my face as he walked away. I quickly stuff my face with the food. I mean, after all, if I manage what I do, I'll need all the food I can get.
The moment I was done, I exit my chambers and head outside with purpose. I nod at the personnel that greet me and make sure to keep my mask of confidence as I make it to the launch pad.
I practically beam when I see a ship ready for the picking. But then I feel a force surge through me.
"Fuck."
My bride.
I turn over my shoulder in horror. Lo behold, the dark mask of my groom, strutting over to me with troops behind him.
"Come to visit me?" he muffles out behind his helmet.
I clench my jaw and turn to him, doing my best not to roll my eyes.
Somehow, I can see his smirk underneath as he speaks, "you didn't even change out of your nightclothes."
I let out a strangled sound as I turn to the two people behind Kylo. One had red hair and one was as clad in uniform as the Supreme Lord.
"This is General Hux and Captain Phasma," Kylo motions to the two of them.
I hum, "yes... hello," I smile without meeting my eyes, "well, now that I've... seen my husband, I'm... I'm going back to my chambers."
The two behind Kylo nod at me. I try not be so annoyed as I walk away.
Next time you plan to escape, you should probably change into something that would protect you from the harshness of space.
I grit my teeth and snap over my shoulder, "GET OUT OF MY HEAD!"
General Hux recoils at my voice. Kylo Ren chuckles under his breath.
The next day, I have no such luck of escaping at all.
"Don't you have some-" I quip over my shoulder as Kylo tails me like the dark shadow he was, "-I don't know... planet to blow up," my voice gets increasingly smaller as I say this and hear myself.
Kylo Ren, in one of the rare occurrences he did not have his helmet on, stops to look at me. He presses his lips together, "do you have a pla-"
"No!" I raise hands, "forget that I said that... please."
I turn away from him and begin to tread deeper into the halls of the library.
I hear him snort behind me, "I don't want you to continue to delude yourself into thinking escaping is an option. It would just be a waste of both our time if you do so."
I roll my eyes and shake my head, "and I don't want to delude you in thinking that I would ever stop trying to escape you."
I actually stop in my tracks when I hear him laugh out loud. I turn over to him in great offence as he then turns to me with bright eyes.
I seethe with venom, "I'm glad one of us finds this funny."
He straightens himself up and crosses his arms, "it's funny how you fail to see how alike we are."
My face drops in horror. I march over to him and point a finger at him, "we are nothing alike!"
I jolt when he grabs my wrist and pushes my hand down. The amusement in his face falters and shifts into something else, "aren't we, my empress?"
My heart begins to pound. I pull away from him and recoil.
My breathing begins to pick up as I rub my wrist.
Kylo watches me and makes up for the space between us by walking forward, "did that hurt you?"
"Does it matter if it did?" I quip.
His face softens yet his brows tighten, "it does."
I scoff.
"I am not the monster you make me out to be."
I scoff again as I continue to walk back, "oh yeah, then what ar-" I gasp when I hit something. I panic and turn, seeing it was the step ladder. I have no choice but to halt as Kylo presses nearer. I swallow the lump on my throat as I look at his face.
I will myself not to be so affected by his presence.
I clench my jaw.
My willpower is not very effective.
"I am your husband," he mutters.
I freeze when he brings his hands to my side, though he does not touch me. His eyes dart to my hands that I clutch to my chest. He releases a breath, "I want to bring order to the galaxy."
A shiver runs down my spine, "Kylo..."
His eyes lock on mine. I even my breathing.
I shake my head and knit my brows, "do you genuinely think," I speak softly with no hint of malice, "that killing billions is order?"
His jaw tightens. He drops his hands to his side, "it is an necessary stake for the greater good-"
"Greater good?!" I quip under my breath, grabbing onto his cheeks. I look at him with wide eyes as he looks at me with a similar shocked expression, "you believe razing through the stars is the greater good?"
My whole body pricks when he takes my wrists in his hands and whispers, "my love."
I suck in a sharp breath.
"You do not understand it now," he explains, shaking his head, "but everything that I am, everything that I do," his voice becomes really quiet, "is for us."
My expression drops where his softens.
"For our future," he whispers, "for our next generation and after."
"Kylo-"
"I do it because I believe in our cause," he cuts me off, "I do it because without us, the galaxy will never know anything but chaos."
My breath begins to strain.
He releases one wrist and reaches out for my face, "I will do all it takes, and give you all the time to understand this."
Mu face burns at the feel of his gloved hand. I shake my head, "why?"
"Because you are my star, my burning destiny," he mutters, "the Force brought you to me. I felt you that day on your home planet, you were so strong, you were so strong and so misguided. I tried to kill you that day, but you got away."
My eyes begin to water. I begin to relive that day in my head.
"Then I dreamt about you, I dreamt about how you escaped me and how I hated that you did. Snoke saw it. He saw you in my head. He saw your drive. He saw your weakness. He saw what you could become. And then, he said I burned because you were meant to be mine. He said our Forces were calling for each other, which was why I could not stop dreaming about you."
I begin to tremble against him.
He clutches my face with both hands, "don't be afraid. It took me a while to understand it as well, but-"
"Kylo-" I shudder, "you don't dream of me because I'm your bride, you dream of me because of him!"
He stills.
"Don't you see?" I pant, "he's manipulating you. The dark side is mani-"
"If anyone has been manipulated, it is you, baby bird," he grunts, "you were indoctrinated with beliefs that are short sighted and weak. I would not-"
He doesn't finish and turns his head to the side when a voice of a stormtrooper buzzes through the hall, "apologies for the interruption, my lord. I was tasked to escort you to the throne room, the Supreme Leader is summoning you."
Kylo Ren turns to face him. I suck in a breath as suddenly, he grabs my hand and pulls me with him as we walk past the stormtrooper, "an escort won't be necessary."
If I wasn't shaking a while ago, I surely was now, and Kylo Ren could feel it. Kylo stole looks over his shoulder. I did nothing but try to even my breath as we tread the hall.
I could feel him holding onto me with his Force, trying to contain me almost... trying to comfort me.
I tense when he releases my hand in lieu of draping his arm over my shoulder, "he will not touch you. He will not harm you," he mutters as I look up at him. He stares straight as we continue walking, "I will make it a point to keep this brief. You have nothing to worry about."
I wanted his words to comfort me, I wanted him to be able to comfort me so badly. And yet when I was face to face with his master, I couldn't even muster the courage to put my faux brave face on. He pulled away from me and pushed me behind him as he greeted the being.
"Why do you continue to disappoint me so, Kylo Ren?" Snoke inquires with a voice of disdain.
This had something to do about me, I am sure of it.
"I am doing everything you asked me," Kylo retorts rather simply.
"And I gave you a bride, yet still you have no efforts for an heir!" he accuses, "must I teach you even in the ways of the flesh, boy?!"
Kylo clenches his fist, he mumbles, "no."
"THEN DO YOUR DUTY!"
"I am making sure everything is perfect for her. She cannot bear me and heir if she is damaged or scared," Kylo retorts.
Snoke tilts his head, "and are you trying to say that has something to do with me?"
"I am SAYING-" Kylo Ren starts, raising his voice as he did. In my shock, I pull back at his cloak, not wanting to feel the wrath of his master. Not now, not ever, especially not in my dreams, not again.
Kylo holds himself back. He huffs, "I will do my duties as her husband. This isn't something for you to meddle with."
"Meddle?" Snoke scoffs but then laughs. He, in fact, laughs so hard, it echoes in the room. He catches his breath then sighs, "Fine." Snoke raises a finger and suddenly, Kylo's boots skid on the floor as he is moved away to reveal me from behind him.
I turn to Snoke, feeling my heart quicken in my ribcage.
Kylo steps back in front of me. I take his arm and hold onto it for dear life.
Snoke stares at his protégé. He tilts his head, "I expect this to change, soon. Her belly should never not be carrying an heir."
Her belly should never not be carrying an heir.
Her belly should never not be carrying an heir.
Her belly should never not be carrying an heir.
"Enough!" Kylo snaps me out of my trance. I turn to him, eyes wide, body trembling. We weren't in the throne room any more, we were in our chambers, soaked in dark retreat of it all. I had no idea when we got here. All I know was I was here with Kylo, who was clutching my face so tightly. He looks at me with something of annoyance, something of concern, "don't think about him anymore, think about me. Just think about me."
I shake my head in sheer disbelief. I push his hands away, "is that supposed to make me feel better?"
Kylo straightens.
"You," I start, "want me here for the same reason he does!"
His expression hardens.
"You and him had plagued me with nightmares for as long as I can remember," I shake my head, "the only reason, I think, I don't have them anymore is because I actually get to live my nightmares out in real life."
"So?" he quips, "what do you mean to say?"
I bite my lip, "just-" I feel my eyes water, "take what you want and... and-"
I hold my breath when Kylo grabs my chin and tilts my head up to look at him. He brings his face close to mine. His nose is barely brushing my own. I feel his hot breath on my face as he enunciates one word, "want."
I blink rapidly at the sound of his voice.
"Shhh," he hushes, "if it's Snoke you worry about, don't. I have been planning something for him, long before you even came to me. He is the least of your worries," he explains. "But do you know what I want, bride?" he asks, as though to taunt me.
I shudder. I think of replying, but I don't.
"I know what you want," he mutters. He begins to move forward, and so I have no choice but to move back as he pushes me in the direction he wants, "you want to run away from me, baby bird. You think you can break free."
His hand only leaves my chin when my calves hit the foot of the bed and I fall back, heart hammering, breath clawing at my throat. He drones, "but what I want?"
Kylo Ren undoes his gloves and undoes his belt as he towers over me.
I want to strangle your light. I want to break you so badly. I want to fucking burn you from the inside until you can only hear yourself screaming from how good it feels to finally have your wet, little c-
I slap my hands to my mouth I hear the thoughts running through his head.
Kylo stills. He tilts his head then chuckles, "so... you heard that?"
I sigh deeply, attempting to even my breath as I back away from him. I squeak when he lunges and traps me beneath him. He crushes me against his chest and pins my wrists by my head. I turn away from him as he whispers hotly against my ear, "it would be so easy to have you like this, right?"
My screw my eyes shut. Tears lace my lashes.
"You won't even fight me off, you couldn't."
I shudder when he releases one of my wrists and brings his free hand down to my thighs. I feel my body burn and tingle at his slow caress.
He kisses my jaw and my skin there is set ablaze, "you don't want to fight me off," he chuckles, "you could at least do something with your hand to save face."
When I finally remember where my free hand is, Kylo takes it back in his and lifts his head, "too late." He pushes himself up, "look at me."
I clench my jaw.
"You'll know never to make me ask for the same thing twice."
I give a shallow huff and open my eyes, looking up at him.
"I want you to beg me," he whispers, "I want you to be so desperate to finally," he begins to further pull away, "finally, take you," he knits his brows, "to make you my wife that you get on your knees and weep for it."
A shiver runs down my spine as I watch him get up from the bed and grab his gloves, "until then," he reaches his hand out and uses his Force to cover me with the sheets, "you belong to yourself."
He haunts me in my dreams that night. Not as a figure of darkness, not as a ghost, but as a man, as starving entity, ready to consume me, eager to take me.
He haunts me every night after. And every night his intentions are made clearer and clearer until I wake up and think he and I wake up and I'm shocked he's not actually there.
It became hard to look at him, especially when my stomach began to flip and my thighs involuntarily pressed together. I was turning sick.
And then one day, the news spreads like wildfire. Snoke is dead, Kylo Ren is the Supreme Leader, and I, his Supreme Empress.
It was weird. I was called Empress before and he was called Emperor before, but now, now it was real. Now I was parading with Kylo Ren in the capital, looking at citizens waving at us and throwing flowers our way. And then I was shaking strangers' hands and Kylo snarled at whomever dared embrace me a second too long.
But what really cemented our reign and the realness of it all, was when someone tried to attack me. Kylo felt the assailant before he got too close though and choked him dead in the middle of the crowd. I watched as the man's weapon fell to the ground, as he withered in pain, as he eventually stopped moving. He suffered. I knew Kylo wanted him to. The festivities were long over after that, and I was then I was reminded of who he truly was.
He was a brute. A beast. The shadow in my mind. He was-
I turn over my left as a blanket is draped over my shoulder. Kylo Ren sits beside me on the bed and offers me glass of water, "I'm sorry you had to see that."
I huff at the sound of his apology. I wrap my blanket tighter on me.
He sighs and brings the glass to the table using his Force, "I would do it again, though. You should know. I would not hesitate even a second."
I curl my legs up into my chest, "am I supposed to be grateful?"
"I would prefer if you were," he mutters.
"Kylo..."
I suck in a breath when he says his name.
"I'm- I'm too tired to argue. I want to go to sleep," I mutter, moving on the bed until I was laid down. Kylo watches me as I do this, then stands.
"Wait," I call out, surprising even myself.
Kylo stills.
No turning back now. "I... I don't want to be alone... not after that... even though you did it."
Kylo waits.
He debates my words.
I hide behind my blanket, "nevermi-"
The next thing I know, I feel him move next to me. And there, he lies.
I feel him next to me. We're under the same blanket. I feel myself begin to grow warm.
"I can get a separate blanket if you're so uncomfortable."
"Get out of my fucking thoughts."
"... ... I don't want to."
I grunt and wrap myself tightly under the blanket, surely yanking however much was on Kylo off.
"Your mind is an oasis to me."
I say nothing.
"My mind is a dessert, you are my oasis."
I huff through the sheets, "don't talk to me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like that!"
"I'm telling you what-"
"I'm done with this conversation."
I close my eyes and tighten my embrace on myself. I release a breath and try to clear my mind.
"Are you that cold?" Kylo murmers
"I'm not cold."
"I know."
"Then why did you ask?" I quip turning to him.
I freeze when I do so, instantly regretting my decision. He was lying on his side, looking at me, his face was right in front of mine and his arms were wrapped around himself. He blinks slowly as he looks at me, "I know you want to be held."
I huff through my slightly agape mouth, then I clench my jaw tightly. I move back from him cautiously, retreating into my covers, into myself.
"I can hold you," he mutters softly.
I turn away from him, feeling my body ignite.
"I want to hold you," he whispers even softer. Let me hold you.
Shut up, get out of my head.
He takes a moment before speaking again. He releases a breath, "am I that terrifying to you, baby bird?"
Yes.
"Then why do you mutter my name while you sleep?"
I tighten my arms around myself. Stop trying to get into my head.
"I'm already in your head," he retorts, voice closer now, "and in your heart."
"Shut up," I whimper.
I hear high-pitched laugh in my head. His voice surrounds me through the Force. It makes my skin raise. I'm only telling you the truth.
"Face me," he mutters, "coward."
I scoff. I heave, feeling my insides curdle. I clench my jaw then hiss, "at least I'm not a killer with no remorse."
He laughs, "you're making it seem like I should have let him attack you."
"You didn't have to kill him!" I snap, turning back to him, pushing myself up on my palms, "you could have given him a prison sentence."
"For what?!" he barks back, unravelling his crossed arms, lifting face up slightly, "so he could plan to attack you again, but next time when I'm not around to defend you?!"
"He only wanted to attack me because I'm married to you!" I hiss, sitting up from my spot.
Kylo sits up too and shakes his head, "he wanted to attack you because he thinks you're my weakness."
"Because I am your weakness!" I quip, "I'm your docile bride!"
He scoffs, grabbing my jaw, "you made yourself into this, little girl," he leans towards me. My pulse quickens as he pushes my head back, hand coming to the side of my face, fingers digging into my hair, "you where the rebel that fought against my troops and managed to escape me. The Force is strong with you," he places his other hand on the other side of my face, "that is why you are my bride."
When Kylo Ren pulls away and lies down, my insides begin to burn, to fume, and rage at his words. I watch him and I slowly begin to see red. And yet, he closes his eyes and acts like this whole conversation didn't happen. He prepares to sleep like there's nothing wrong.
This is my final straw.
I lunge at him. I dart my claws out and growl. I jump on him and press down on his throat. I straddle him and lean all my weight all my strength onto his airways. His eyes shoot open. His hands dart to my wrists. He begins to choke. I put all my anger into my grip. I force against him, knowing full well if I lost the upper hand, I'd be dead.
Except he doesn't make an move beyond clutching my wrists. I wait for him to attempt to overpower me, I wait for him to throw me off him the way I knew he could, and end all of this, and, in turn, kill me instead, but he doesn't.
He doesn't fight back.
Instead he looks up at me as his air leaves him as his face begin to turn maroon, as his veins begin to stress, as his final breaths escape his lips. And then I realize what I was doing and I pull back.
I pull back and heave in horror, wrists breaking free of his hold, hovering by my chest as I looked down at him while he caught his breath. He closes his eyes as his palms land on my thighs. My eyes water, the same way tears laced his lashes.
Why didn't he fight back?
Why isn't he fighting back?
He wanted me to kill him?
He wanted me to kill him?
I watch as his chest rises and falls beneath me. I am then suddenly aware of our position. I feel a tinge burn in my cheeks and my core. It's inexplicable, whether I am embarrassed over the fact I tried to kill him or the fact I was straddling him beneath me.
Before I can get off him though, he finally overpowers me and traps me beneath him. Easily. Swiftly. I was nothing against him. And this fact was amplified as he pins my wrists down on the pillows overhead with just one hand. He presses himself against me, heaving heavily, as if he was doing something with great restraint. It makes my stomach drop.
"That's the difference between you and I," he pants, as his one hand comes up to my neck, "if I wanted you dead, my love..." he begins to press down on my throat.
I begin to panic and thrash beneath him.
Shhhhhh.
He steadies me still in his place. I am overcome by him, unsure if it was just his physical prowess or if he was using his Force as he pushes down on me. I get a semblance of an answer when the pressure on my throat remains and I unable to move my wrists though both his hands go to the sides of my thighs.
I gulp as he leaves hot kisses all over my skin. I huff sharply when I am released of my Force bounds. My hands dart to his torso, gripping at his clothes as I try to push him away.
I would never damage you.
I let out a sound when he releases his chokehold.
Not unless you want me to.
Kylo then begins to bring his face close to mine, pressing our cheeks together for a moment. My stomach rolls and my breath hitches when his hot lips meet my mine. My heart is racing. He undoubtedly could feel it against him.
My panic rises. I quickly manage in between kisses, "Kylo-"
"Beg me," he pulls away and breathes against my ear, "beg me..." he kisses the pulse on my neck, "to get off you-- to leave you alone, to shoot myself into the sun-"
Kylo begins to rub himself between my open legs. Slowly. Roughly. I whimper. He freezes. I feel blood rise up my face. I begin to push him back harder.
He tightens his hold on me, repelling my actions by pressing his weight further onto me, "beg me to finally make you live out your fantasies," his voice loudens, "to make you mine."
I grit my teeth tightly.
"Beg me," he groans, "beg."
I whine, nails digging into his sides as I push against him.
He kisses my jaw, hands leaving my thighs, grabbing my wrists, pushing them down on my sides, "use your words. Hark to me, my baby bird."
My breath hitches, "Kylo, please."
Kylo pulls his face back, nose just above mine, looking down at me with hooded eyes. He waits for me to continue, breath straining as he did. My lips part and my feel my pulse echo in every inch of my body.
I gulp and ready to speak... but I can't. I don't. My mouth goes dry and all I could think about was how his dark locks were framing his face, and how his lips were moving as he heaved arduously, and how I wanted to find where the scar on his face ended.
Then I am ripped out of my incredulous thoughts.
"Please what?" his breath his hot against my face as he coaxes.
I close my lips and catch my breath that was leaving me, "please... stop."
"Stop what, darling?" he utters. I close my eyes when he leans his forehead against mine. He releases my wrists, hands coming to my sides, nails scratching down me until his large hands ended up on my thighs again. I squeak when his hips buck into mine with more intent.
My hands come to Kylo's neck, fingers digging into the roots of his hair.
He shifts atop me, pulling his head back up, weight all on my core, making me moan at the pressure. His nose brushes against mine. He breathes out my name. My eyes shoot open because of it.
I find his eyes are screwed shut, a line between his brows. His jaw clenches. His nostrils flare as he steadies his breathing.
"Kylo-"
"Yes," he speaks before I even finish saying his name.
His eyelids slowly part when I tug his face towards me, legs tightening around his waist, crossing over his back. He lets out a huff that bounces from my face to his. His hands rub down to my butt and there his grip tightens.
Right when our lips brush against each other, he lifts his head ever so slightly and whispers, "beg me to make you mine."
My throat tightens.
"I need to hear it," his voice is soft.
I suck in a breath and call out his name.
He releases a sharp one as he says mine.
I call out his name.
He responds with mine.
I hesitate.
He rubs his nose against mine then says quietly, "make me yours please."
I suck in a breath. My stomach explodes with butterflies. "Make... me yours," I mumble, relaxing against him, hands rubbing down his neck to his shoulders. I close my eyes and sigh, "please."
He nods, "louder."
"Kylo-"
"Louder," he mutters with a tight breath, "one last time."
"Make me yours, please."
Kylo hisses then connects his lips to mine. He moans, amplifying the hungriness of the kiss. His hands are quick and desperate as they grip at my clothing. He pushes off me and begins to strip me of all the hindrances on my being
I whimper as he eagerly does his work. One by one, he rips my clothes off. He does so with such impatience, I hear the tears and the strains of my clothes.
He sits me down as he removes each piece off me until I'm left in my panties. I wrap my arms around my bare chest. Kylo leans in, hands rubbing my bare thighs. My skin pricks because of the contact. He mutters, "your turn, my dear."
He kisses me as he grabs my hands. He pries them off my chest and ends our kiss, placing my palms at the hem of his top. He lifts his hands, eyes not leaving mine, wordlessly urging me to strip him.
I shift on my knees and pull his top off, discarding it along with the rest of my clothing that he threw on the floor. My hands instinctively come to his pants, fiddling the belt on his waist band.
He gets on his knees and grabs my face. He pulls me in for a kiss, moving closer until I'm pressed against the headboard. He guides my hands as they push his pants down.
We keep kissing until he breaks away to strip all together. I don't have time to react cause when he does, he pushes me down using his Force, and brings my legs together as to rid me of the last thing keeping me modest. I screw my eyes shut as he snatches my underwear.
Before I could feel too conscious about being naked in front of the man that was my husband, about to consummate our marriage, I let out a shaky sound as my legs are grabbed and pushed apart.
I suck in a breath as my arms fly again to my chest. They only stay there for a moment. Even that, Kylo pulls apart as he presses against me. He presses my arms down on the pillows by the sides of my head.
I am unable to conceal my cries at the feel of his hot body pressing against mine. I feel his taut stomach press against my core. It drew out another sound I could not keep in. I feel my pulse against him. I feel my wetness smear on his skin. His hands leave my arms to grab onto my thighs.
When I finally dared to open my eyes, I caught the moment Kylo sank his head onto my chest and began to suckle at the skin on my sternum.
I whimper then I bite my lip tightly. Kylo looks up at me as he takes my left breast and nips at it. He begins to rub against me.
I fist his hair into my hands. I press my head back against the pillows. Kylo's hands travel to my hipbones and digs in his fingers into me. He releases my breast and checks on his work, appreciating the mark he left of my skin before continuing to attend to my breast with his mouth.
I tighten my legs around his waist as he continues to grind down on me. I feel my heart racket behind my ribs as Kylo moves to my other breast.
"Kylo," I whimper, as my nails dig into his scalp.
He moans and releases my flesh, whispering hotly against my skin, "yes, my empress?"
I exhale through my open mouth and look at him with a dazed expression. I clutch his cheeks, "I want you-- need you-" I sigh.
Kylo lifts his body slightly, one hand releasing my hip. "To what?" he murmurs, "-need to hear you say it."
His fingers roughly draw a line from my side to my core. I gasp when he touches my aching nub. I lift my head, looking out at his hand as he looks down on me. His two digits dote on the wet heat between my legs. He slowly rubs circles on my flesh, teasing my entrance.
He holds my hips in place as a squirm beneath him. Then his hands hook by the curve of my thigh and pushes one leg up to my chest. He leans in and says, "need to what, my bride?"
I whine as my hands brush down to his shoulders. I claw at him, pulling him closer to me, "need to..." whimper, "to be made yours."
He exhales loudly. He heaves heavily as he sinks two fingers into my sopping core, slowly and firmly rubbing into me, stretching my flesh deliciously. I whine like a wraith.
"You have no idea how long I've imagined touching you like this," he admits as he toys my entrance with his fingers.
"Kylo."
He pulls his hand away and grabs my other thigh, pushing it up by my ribs.
I look at him as he brings his face close and lifts his hips. He digs his fingers into the bend of my knees and my toes curl when I feel him press against me, hard and pulsing.
I lick my lips and break into a whine when he slowly sheathes himself into me, releasing a hot breath by the crown of my head as he did so.
I whimper at the feel of him sinking in all the way. I tighten my legs around him and reach out to the sheets by my sides and rip at them.
Kylo slowly begins to rock into me, groaning as he does so, "so warm, wet and soft," he grabs my hands and places it on his back, "so soft and-" he licks my skin and bites down.
I choke on my breath as he does this. His pace thrusts hasten. He hands grab my knees and push them into my chest, "mine. All mine."
He lifts himself up and ruts into me with vigor.
Soon enough I feel my mind blur while my voice lets out incoherences at the snapping of Kylo's hips.
I claw at his back with little regard for how much it may hurt him.
Kylo howls in response, quickening his pace even more, adjusting his hold on me until his position was perfect and my head was knocking slightly into the board.
"Fill you up with me," he grunts, "fill you until you're a mess, mark you until you're tender, repeat until you're sore."
I don't respond. I don't know what to. I don't have much of a brain to speak anything anyway.
Kylo thrusts into me at such a strong and steady pace, it's not long until I feel a flurry in my stomach and a tingle in my chest.
I whine out his name. I pull him into me. He leans in and huffs against my cheek, "feels good, right? I can make you feel good."
I catch his lips into my teeth. He rip away only to kiss me as he breaks me.
We pull away to breathe yet Kylo does lose his tempo. I feel my eyes water and my mouth dry over my continuous jaw dropped cries.
"Just want to make you feel good," he whispers heavily, "want to make you mine."
"Feel so good," I mindlessly mutter, "so - Kylo."
In that next moment, I feel my insides shatter around him. I let out a loud cry of relief. My fingers curl into his back as I tighten and convulse around him. My toes curl as I lock my legs around him. Instantaneously, I feel a sharp heat splatter into me and it magnifies my delirium.
I hear him curse and whine against my ear. I feel him tighten his hold on me as he continues the work with his hips, still as quick as before.
And as I ride out my high and tighten around him, only then does Kylo's actions find some irregularity. My head no longer hits the board, though my body very much still moves up and down with Kylo's movements.
As the final ripples of my pleasure calm down, so does the knocking of our hips.
When he is satisfied, he releases my hips and grabs my face. He kisses me and catches his breath in between.
"Do you want me to get off you?" he asks.
I quickly shake my head in disagreement and wrap my arms around him.
"Good," he rests his head beside mine and slowly relaxes on top of me. He sighs and brushes his nose against my head, "I want to stay in you forever."
I bite my lip and lean my face into his.
"I will write your name in the stars," he whispers, "I will give you everything in the galaxy. All you have to do is be mine."
I gulp and sigh heavily, yet I internally find myself agreeing.
His hand rubs my side, "I hope you don't get pregnant too quickly," he kisses my head, "there's so much I have to do with you first."
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styllwaters · 4 months
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KNIGHT DEITIES
It's been a hot minute since I posted Vivere 44 art. Been intensely busy with school for the past few months but now that I've graduated I've got a lot of time to kill! Since the Knights post surpassed 1k notes I figured I may as well elaborate on them more. I'm so blown away by how much love they're getting already! Thank you all <3
I'm gonna talk a bit about Mountain and Plains Knight religions, mythology and a snippet of evolutionary history. I will cover Polar Knight religions in another post. The focus is on two gods in particular, Uwet-Jana and Kiraiarik.
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Uwet-Jana is the demigod of good health, vitality, and inner balance. In some regions they are also the god of fertility. The name of their Host is Uwetsil, and their Helmet is Serrjana. Mainly worshiped by Mountain cultures, Uwet-Jana takes the form of a Knight whose Host and Helmet are physically merged into a singular being.
Kiraiarik [pronounced ki-rai-ah-rik] is the personification of the host-helmet symbiotic relationship. They are the god of symbiosis, rebirth, and love. Kiraiarik was the name given to two immortal partners, a Host and a Helmet, who began as a singular being born to the sea in Ettera’s prehistoric era. Ettera decided to make them Two, one half (the Helmet) ruling over the sea and the other (the Host) having domain over the land. The story goes that in every form they take, they try to find each other - for their body remembers being One.
Both gods have lots of lore to their name. Further information below!
UWET-JANA
Uwet-Jana's Host body has long spines and red stripes like a Pike, and long fingerlike paws like a Helmet's manipulators. The Helmet section sports two long horns and elegant facial markings. Uwet-Jana has an iridescent sheen on their golden fur, catching the rays of the sun in a shimmering glow.
The story of Uwet-Jana is as follows: Both Uwetsil and Serrjana were born as runts, in a dark time when sickly Knights were seen as curses and not worth caring for. Their Order, believing them to be bad omens, cast them out to wander the tundra alone. They believed that the natural forces of Ettera (the Knight’s homeplanet) would quickly end them. However, Ettera took pity on the castaway, sending them three blessings. The first gift was a bone with marrow inside that ensured one is never hungry or thirsty again. Then, Ettera sent a warm, sweet wind into Uwet-Jana’s lungs which warded off all sickness and disease. Finally, a sun shower fell, the rains cleansing them and blessing them with a coat made of ivory and gold.
Transformed into a demigod with a hybrid body, Uwet-Jana was offered a place among the deities in the sky - but they refused, preferring to stay on the ground to share their gift with the mortals. Unbeknownst to them, their Order who had exiled them was struck by three curses from the Gods to mirror Uwet-Jana’s blessings: all the rivers in the area dried up and all their hunts were unsuccessful, leaving them with no food or water. Infections and diseases picked them off one by one, and a great storm ravaged the land, destroying their home and all remaining survivors. Uwet-Jana now blesses Knight Orders who take care of their sick and ailing members, and ignores those who don’t, leaving them to the wrath of the Gods.
Although they are nomadic and always on the move, many Mountain Orders will refuse to leave any sick members behind. They may also keep ivory statues of Uwet-Jana in their bags as a token of good fortune. Sometimes these statues are filled with bone marrow, or have holes which make a whistling sound as wind passes through it as a reference to Ettera’s gifts. Occasionally Pike Helmets are born with an extra long ‘horn’ spike, and are considered a child/reincarnation of Uwet-Jana. Additionally, whenever it rains while the sun is still shining, it is seen as a blessing from the demigod.
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KIRAIARIK
Kiraiarik's Host is depicted as a small creature with a striped pelt to mirror its ancestral form, and the Helmet as an aquatic beast with long, trailing red fins. It is frequently shown twisting around the Host, sharing its blood. Kiraiarik is also often simplified as two disembodied eyes looking at each other. (And yes, the artstyle is a nod to medieval depictions of heraldic beasts!)
To understand Kiraiarik, one must be aware of how much Plains religions are intrinsically tied to concepts of evolution and paleontology.
Digression on the origins of Etteran symbiosis: 
Large stretches of Plains Knight deserts and scrublands were once submerged beneath the sea. As a result, there are countless fossil hotspots which have been unearthed over the centuries. These high concentrations of fossilised remains have lead to Plains cultures basing their religions around said discoveries. Although many features have been warped, the general timelines are strikingly similar.
For instance, a mass extinction event occurred on Ettera millions of years ago, caused by a series of catastrophic volcanic eruptions on a worldwide scale. This event is known in Plains culture as The Remaking, traditionally interpreted as the planet shedding its skin. Many species were decimated, but some groups survived; these happened to be phyla who possessed an exposed ‘Interfacer’ organ, a precursor to the specialised Integrator organ which connects the Host’s brain to the Helmet’s. Before The Remaking, there was no prior record of the deep symbiotic connection which Knights possess (scientifically deemed ‘Hyperadvanced Mutualism’). The Interfacer organ was used in the phyla for species to communicate simple stretches of data to each other, such as health and reproductive status. After the extinction, populations of these species were dwindling. To ensure their survival, an odd phenomenon occurred in which many individuals began to interface with different species who possessed the same organ - strangely enough, some were able to successfully exchange information. These individuals survived and passed on the practice to their offspring, eventually culminating in what would be discovered as a very primitive form of mutualism. Host and Helmet ancestors (pictured above) were some of the first species to achieve this.
As the planet recovered and populations increased, the relationship continued to solidify and become more complex, with symbiotic species sharing memories, emotions and complex thought. In modern times there is now an entire class of organisms on Ettera which possess an Integrator organ for Advanced Mutualism, including Knights.
Kiraiarik is said to be a manifestation of this relationship. After The Remaking, their two halves finally managed to find each other again, eternally locked in a joyous dance of love. (Side note: the love in question is not platonic nor romantic, but a deeper kind which is indescribable and not easily understood. Due to their intricate nervous systems, Knights have a higher degree of emotional intelligence and can experience sensations we would consider alien). When a Plains Knight is experiencing inner turmoil, they will often pray to Kiraiarik to restore a healthy connection. The god’s blessing is also called upon when an infant Host and Helmet first Assimilate.
Note: Many Plains ‘saints’ and deities have palindromic names which can be read both forwards and backwards, an indicator of holiness. Fun fact, the word Kiraiariku means “Your heart and mine are very old friends.”
Thank you for reading! More Knight content coming soon ;)
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I'm not saying that Wrath going feral with jealousy, destroying half of Greed's castle and grabbing Emilia and throwing her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes is hot but it's hot!
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diejager · 7 months
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Hi hi I love your monster fics you don't have to write anything about this I'm just a little curious on how you think the boys are react to their human reader getting turned into a monster and then reacting to the painful process and you can choose whichever monster and whichever way I'm just a little curious
Pairing: Monster!Task Force 141 x reader
Ce: mentioned torture, blood drinking, biting, vampire!reader, forceful transformation, canon-typical violence, imprisonment, tell me if I missed any. Wc: 1.7k
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Let’s imagine you were contacted by Laswell before the MW2 campaign, freshly given the rank of corporal and still as dumbfounded that Price had asked for you. You had the time to connect with the other men - monsters - and get to know them, to see farther than the image they portrayed to others: broad, gruff and dangerous beasts of the 141.
Graves caught you and Alejandro, locking you in different isolation cells that were made to hold hybrids. You were bitten pale in the darkness of your isolation, your cries and whimpers of being sucked nearly dry reached the other men who were equally unfortunate. Alejandro seethed, growling and turning in his cell, he swore curses and threats at Graves and his gang of servants. He turned you the same night, weakened and dying, ichor dripping from your wounds. He used your moment of submission, of weakness to feed you his essence, a part of his being in his blood. He cradled you as he drank the last of your life force from your veins, making room for his own to fill the emptiness in you, to remake you into his own. Your body was wracked with jerks, limbs shaking and twitching, and you convulsed in a cry of pain, every fibre of your essence remaking itself into the thing he created: a thrall. 
Alejandro, the one who bared witness to your change and suffering in his cell, felt guilty for not being strong enough to escape, it weighed heavily on his mind that he had been the first to get captured and in turn, hadn’t been able to protect you. He’s the first to rush to your cell once he’s freed, if you jump on him in hunger or remained seated against the corner of your cell, restraining yourself from jumping Alejandro, he’d let you drink from him anyway. Partly a token of apology from him, for failing you and himself, and another part because he wanted to be the one to curb your hunger and rage from your transformation. It would be an honour to help you ease into the life of a monster, even though he seethed with wrath and dripped with threats. He’s a shifter, his bones crack and bend every time he shifts, so he understands the pain of changing, he - and Soap, he guessed - could relate and ease the first pains. With his shifting came enhanced strength and agility, easier to withstand your onslaught of attacks when you trained with him. He doesn’t use his claws or teeth on you (unless you’re playing bite with him like you do with Soap, he wouldn’t mind leaving a mark or two on you.), but will take your charpentes nails and practiced blood manipulation that you trained with Ghost. He doesn’t know how dangerous or potent his blood is to vampires and thralls, if his blood enhanced your abilities, made you weaker or sent you in a frenzied state that made you high and dazed, so he let’s you feed on him occasionally. 
Rudy - Rudolfo - was the seconds behind Alejandro, he bared witness to you cradled in his colonel’s arms. Shock and confusion were his first reactions, followed by devastation and guilt. Devastated that you’d been forced into the life of a monster, the world-shattering change happening under stress, anxiety, pain and betrayal. Guilt that he hadn’t been there when you were taken, vanishing in the dark before all of this happened, he couldn’t have done anything to stop Graves from turning you. Although he wasn’t one for violence - unnecessary violence that would cause the death of a person in the most painful and violent ways - he felt anger pulse under his skin, threatening to burst from his bulging (in anger like in animes cuz it’s funny to imagine that) veins. Rudy would be there to help you through the transition, being the one who’s closest to being a human, he could pave the way to control yourself. He would let you fed from him, his mostly human constitution would be nourishing and safe for you than the rest of the men on the Task Force. He might dangle this opportunity over their heads, brag about how he’s the lucky one in all of them when you aren’t looking. If he could - and if you’re comfortable enough - he’d take every feeding in public, smiling smugly in the frowning faces of the rest while you fed.
Ghost, all he could see was red the moment you were taken from him. He had to watch you convulse and cry, the little human from his Task Force - under his protection in las Alma’s - tumbling over the edge and flinch every time he tried to touch you. He knew the possibility that Graves would turn you - he’d made it apparent in his jokes when you first joined them - but that didn’t help the waning fear and anger that churned in his soul. He couldn’t do much to soothe you when you whimpered painfully, all he could do was to hold you as you clung to him, whining at how much your body burned and hurt, as if every fibre of your being was being ripped apart and put back in the wrong places. He knew the danger of having Graves’ thrall in his team, but he couldn’t let you waste on your own. Once he made sure Graves was dead (he’s as destructive as he is suicidal, Ghost would’ve bathed Graves under enhanced UV lights that would burn the vampire but he wouldn’t let Graves die. Stuck in a constant loop of burning and healing, having his blood rendered useless and weak to him. If only Soap hadn’t blown him up in a tank, Ghost would’ve had so much fun torturing Graves for the things he did to you.), he would help you control your powers, master them and use it against others; never again would he let you be captured. Wraiths were deadly creatures, hybrids even more so, so he wouldn’t let you drink from him, not until Laswell had some tests ran on his blood’s constitution for your safety.
Soap, in all his life, never felt more angry with himself and Graves. At himself for not reaching you in time, and at Graves for his transgressions. He sympathized with your transformation, the pain and anguish he felt from you. He held you tightly in a comforting embrace on the ride back to Alejandro’s safehouse, whispering sweet words to your trembling figure. The moment he had his hands on Graves, he made sure he died burning in his tank, sending it sky-high in a grandiose explosion. Every thrall would feel the death of their master, including you. So when you cried about feeling empty, he held you, telling you: “Dinnae worry ‘bout it, m’eudail.” while caressing you. Soap’s a cuddler, he’d cuddle you while you slept on his bed for comfort, letting you bite a him if he bites back. He’s mouthy too, he’d make the best of every situation he or people he cared got into. Now werewolf blood, some find it revolting - mostly pig-headed pure blood vampires like Graves and the like - and others drink it as often as human blood, but you feed from him when he bares his neck to you, smile cocky and posture relaxed. He also likes to show the others - both Rudy and him - their marks, two small puncture wounds on their neck and shoulders. Soap loves close-combat training and will fight you, let you run free with your vampiric strength that would break and kill humans. He’d laugh and chuckle when you try to chase after him and tackle him, it’d be like two kids playing rough.
Gaz felt guilty about not being in Las Almas to help you, only seeing you after you were rescued and trying to adjust to your new skills, and like the rest, he’s angry, feeling the agony oozing from your every pores. He regretted not following you that night to Mexico and now, leaving you locked in a cell where Graves’ influence wouldn’t reach you while they went to retake Alejandro’s base. Although he hated not being the one to end Graves, he was grateful that Soap went wild with explosive, truly the demolition expert of the Task Force. Everything he knew was from the four men’s retelling of the events prior and after your rescue, there was little he could help but work through comforting you with his calming and gentle tongue. He’d make use of his wings to wrap you in a soft and warm cocoon when his talons were too much of a risk to place on you. He knew you liked his fuzzy wings, so why not use them for your comfort. He could fight you, but his constitution meant that he had hallow, but sturdy bones, a thrall’s strength would hurt but not break them like Price, Alejandro or Soap. Gaz’s a bit sensitive, he knew that but still wanted you to be able to depend on him when you were hungry, he might whine here and there, but he liked the thought of having a bit of him inside you.
Price took it the hardest, it was his Task Force, his responsibility to take care of his pack - his dragon’s hoard - and you were the most vulnerable one and the baby of the team, so you held more weight in his heart. He was disappointed in himself for not seeing the trickery from Shepherd, the red flag of finding America ballistic missiles on the mission and not connecting it to the General or the USA. He blamed himself for your change and your temporary imprisonment while they went to kill the one who did it to you, who brought you so much suffering. Anger filed his quest and protectiveness made it successful, taking down your torturer so that you could live influence-free of Graves. Price, like a father-figure, protected and cared for his family and he failed. He could trust Gaz, Soap and Rudy to comfort you, to ground you to earth. He could trust Ghost and Alejandro to teach you, to help you protect yourself. And he, all he could bring himself to do without feeling shame, was to urge you to rest. Little acts that would give you more time to rest and less duties, he had experience and restraint, he would help where the others lacked. He’d refrain from letting you drink draconic blood, the power and potency of it would overcharge you for a time. Perhaps he’d let you take from him before an especially difficult and dangerous mission, but outside that, he’s known for his self-restraint.
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vivwritesfics · 6 months
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"He Does Know"
The requested part two to "He Can't Know" It can be read as a follow on or as a stand alone.
I'm, maybe, 10000% sure that my ankle is broken so I've been sat in my bed all day trying to write this (no, my ankle definitely isn't broken. I twisted it when rather drunk last night, but it's an already bad ankle so I am in so much pain :')
Part One
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When Y/N Wolff told her father about her relationship, she fully expected him to go to the Ferrari garage, bat in hand. But he didn't. Y/N was actually frightened about how calm he was.
The next race was Monaco, Charles' home race. The only people who knew about their relationship was them, and Y/N's dad. It was all a question of what to do next.
Whatever that next step was, Monaco was the perfect place to do it.
The Wednesday before the race was when Y/N arrived in Monaco. Her father hadn't booked her a room in a hotel this time. This time around, she was to stay with her boyfriend.
It was weird. When Y/N first arrived in Monaco and Charles had somebody pick her up, it was awkward. When she made her way to his apartment, it was awkward. When Charles let her in, it was awkward.
"I can't believe this is your first time in my apartment," he said as Y/N sat at the kitchen island.
When he handed her a glass of wine, Y/N gratefully accepted it. "It's really nice," she answered him, looking around. "I'm really happy to be here."
She really was, she was just having a hard time expressing it. It was weird, having their relationship so out in the open. It was weird, not hiding away in the empty corridors. It was weird, being with him and not have to hide away.
It took Y/N an hour or two to properly settle in. Charles helped speed that process along. The sat together on the couch, watching a movie that didn't much need their attention. By the end of it Y/N had a tongue down her throat and couldn't tell you what the movie was about.
"Where do we go from here?" She asked when he finally pulled away.
"What do you mean, mon ange?"
"I mean, now that my dad knows, do we announce it to the world? Do we post it on our social media? Do we just tell the grid?" She sat back beside him, laying her head on his shoulder.
Charles went red. "Well, Max already knows," he confessed.
That settled it then, they were going to tell the grid.
***
Y/N and Charles couldn't yet walk around the paddock hand in hand. They weren't yet ready to be seen by the press together. So, Y/N and Charles resorted to telling the grid individually.
As Charles went around to Red Bull and McLaren, he got congratulated and clapped on the pack. As Y/N told Mercedes and Williams, her father watched over her shoulder, glaring as people congratulated her. They couldn't hug her like they did Charles, not if they wanted to survive the wrath of her dad.
When the entire grid knew, it was like a weight had been taken off Y/N's shoulders. Not a huge weight, but it definitely helped. Now, they just had to get up the courage to tell the rest of the world.
It was funny, wasn't it? How life works out sometimes? If Y/N hadn't resented her father so much, she never would have tried to reconcile with him and she never should have met Charles.
It was all she was thinking about during the race. That, and him. It was her first time at the Monaco Grand Prix, the first time in his home country.
Watching the race was quite an experience. Y/N spent the race with her nails between her teeth, biting them out of anxiety. Monaco was maybe the most anxiety-inducing race on the calendar. As Y/N watched Charles moving around the tight corners, she was sweating.
No podium in Monaco for Charles, but that was expected. His curse, if you will. But still, Y/N celebrated. And, as she celebrated his win hidden away in the dark corner of the Mercedes garage, she realised she was ready.
She was ready to go public. She was ready to tell the world about her love for Charles Leclerc. If it only meant she got to celebrate his races with him.
Still, this was something Y/N wanted to go to her father about. Maybe even ring Susie and ask for her advice. And definitely talk to Charles about it.
Later that evening, tucked away in his home in Monaco, Y/N and Charles talked. They were wrapped in a duvet, the windows opened as they laid together, bare skin on bare skin. "You were amazing today," she said as she ran her fingers through his hair, scratching at his scalp with her nails. "I love watching you race."
"I love knowing that you're there watching me. I love that everybody on the track with me knows I have the most stunning girl out there," he replied and kissed the top of her head.
Y/N sat up and Charles sat up with her. "I just wish we could celebrate together."
He looked at her with wide eyes. "You mean, tell the world?"
She nodded.
That evening, Y/N posted to her Instagram story. It was a soft launch, one of the softest launches most F1 fans had ever seen. It was just a picture of his bed, the Ferrari hat on the end of it being a dead giveaway. 
Y/N watched as the fans went feral. It was incredible to watch. The tweets and twitter mentions were non stop, the comments on her latest Instagram post (which had nothing to do with Charles) were going crazy.
Charles was next. He pulled up his Instagram on his phone, which was already going crazy, and moved to post a picture. It was cute, one they’d taken in the hotel room during the Australian Grand Prix. Charles holding Y/N on the couch mid cuddle.
The internet went insane.
They got congratulations from their friends in comments and private messages. Even Susie left a comment on Charles’ picture. And then she sent Y/N a message, asking why she was the last to hear about. Of course Y/N had to send back an apology to her step mother, accompanied by a candid of her and Charles
Now, the world knew. It was freeing. Y/N could express her love without fear. There was no telling what her father would do when she swapped her Mercedes hat for a Ferrari one.
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sunboki · 27 days
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— KEEP IT BUSINESS. a Lee Minho fiction
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Lee Minho x f. reader
TROPE. best friends to lovers, coworkers! au, first kiss? au (hehe), domestic/soft minho, fluff
WARNINGS. cursing, making-out, inexperienced kissing, annoying coworkers
WORD COUNT. 6.9k words
AUG'S NOTES. so glad to have finally completed this!! it’s been rotting in my drafts for weeks and i just had to write a happy ending for these two grandparents 🫶🏼
PLAYLIST.
SYNOPSIS. Life can be a mess, and with you and Minho as the only two singles in your office building, an impertinent Valentine’s day leaves no choice but to make a pact.
or alternatively :
If we’re still single by twenty-five, we date each other.
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Four years.
It’s been four years since you first met Lee Minho, working with him at the same company, becoming the best of friends. And yet, the same dread lay specially reserved for the same season.
The season of love, or, to most people, Valentine’s day.
.
.
.
Alarm set for 6:30AM. Work from 8:30AM to 4PM. Every day of the week, every year.
Initially, the experience was relatively enjoyable. It paid well, wasn’t too harsh on hours, and other coworkers minded their own business (at least in your case) without being a pain.
Then the loneliness set in.
It was subtle at first, a tiny pang in your heart when you returned home to a dark, cold apartment while others would be greeted by a pet, a loved one.
So when Lee Minho, a new member of the company assigned as your apprentice came along, you tend to think meeting him was, in a weird, spontaneous manner, meant to be.
And four years later, when he had grown from that apprentice-ship and became established as an employee, you still hold onto that “meant to be” philosophy.
Busied chatter fills the downstairs cafe, familiar faces alike brimming with conversation, breath coffee-stained.
Peering across the various assortment of tables, you spot him, two identical cups in each hand, wearing that bemused expression as usual.
At this point, Minho has memorized your order by heart, arriving early after his daily stop by the nearby animal shelter (whose manager knew by heart). Most morning’s you’d await a picture of the newest addition to the feline section, a photo he proudly shows off like his own trophy.
You’re genuinely surprised his residence isn’t a constantly growing cat-kingdom.
“Looking forward to it?”
Brows furrowing, you sidle to his right and dish the warm beverage into your grasp.
“Looking forward to wha— wait wait don’t say it. I want to pretend it doesn’t exist.” Hurriedly waving your hands, Minho cracks a grin.
The cursed word in question being: Valentine’s day.
You can’t say you hate it. It never did anything to you, nor did it leave you heartbroken. To put it simply, the office over the first few weeks of February was a close-resembling spinoff to Singles Inferno except, much spicier and way too inappropriate in broad daylight.
Meaning, for the past five years (four joined by Minho), merely mentioning said season of love urges impending dread and deep frowns.
“All I’m gonna say is I would not want to be a doctor over Valentines,” You wince, sipping the warm drink with a squeamish face.
Minho sighs vehemently, propping an elbow against the computer cart behind him.
“I bet you could witness more vibrators in that hospital than in an Adam and Eve,” He grumbles, watchful eyes surveying the daily crowd occupying tables and chairs in the building’s downstairs café.
Slamming a fist to your chest to correct your breathing, your eyes practically bulge from your skull, evidently caught of guard.
Leave it to Minho to make you suffocate before your shift even begins.
8am is prime time for socialization—otherwise before Mrs. Song decides to unleash her wrath on newbies. She has good intentions, sure, but let’s just say most anyone was petrified upon first meeting her.
Luckily, your department with Hyeongmi, Minho, and Felix was secluded on the far side of the building, leaving you out of the woman’s hair, free to work as you please.
Yet, Mrs. Song wasn’t the problem, not when it came down to the month of February.
Your phone’s alarm signaling to start moving momentarily wards off the thought, and either of you begin toward the elevator, flat expressions describing the sinking feeling better than words.
Back at it, again.
Because by your lunch break, you can’t fathom entering the cafeteria, not if it costs you your life.
Everywhere you look someone is making out, confessing their love, or, worst you’ve seen it all day, genuinely fucking in the bathrooms.
Perhaps you’d send Minho a text you’re making an escape by eating in the office, invite him up for some solace.
Except, it seems he had the same idea.
Scrambling through the door, you enter at the same time, heaving sighs of exasperation upon securing much needed privacy.
Making prolonged eye contact, your thoughts come spilling out.
“If I witness another make-out in the stairwell I’m ending it all.”
“Boxes of chocolates are officially ruined for me now.”
Four years and it never gets old. Same old painful memories, same old excitement for the day to come and go. And it’s not like you hate the holiday itself, you two just.. heavily dislike the immense bucketloads of PDA and office hookups that come along with it.
Not-so-gracefully flopping down onto your chairs, you practically shovel food down, gladly accepting the few rolls of gimbap Minho places onto your plate.
Customary sharing. You give him some of your food, he gives you some of his.
In those brief minutes of silence do you get the opportunity to fully comprehend your own thoughts, prior to Minho clearing his throat.
“Drinks at my place?”
Your grown loudly in agreement.
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Minho : Okay, I’m leaving, follow me in thirty minutes
Glancing up, you watch your counterpart lift his brows your way and call out his departure, sifting through the doorway, cross body bag thumping against jeans.
Hyeongmi was downstairs, which, as awful as it sounded, was great not having to endure her nosiness.
This was how you stayed unbothered. He’d leave, and thirty minutes later you would too in order to (for now) avoid Mrs. Song (and Hyeongmi’s) pestering.
It couldn’t have taken the clock longer to reach 4:30PM. So by the time the beloved minute hand struck 4:29 you practically lurched from your seat, almost tasting sweet freedom before a face showed up right before you slipped through the exit.
Hyeongmi’s face.
What she’s talking about you can’t seem to understand, mind trained on escaping and escaping alone.
“C’mon now, you two are the only two in this building without a date. It’s been four years, Y/n! You need to let loose!” Hyeongmi emphasizes, dizzying your head the longer she shakes your shoulders.
“You do realize everyone has the hots for him but that he only hangs out with you, right? I’m telling you, it’s a sign—“
“Sorry Hyeongmi, I really have to go-“
Fastening your bag tigher across your body, you make a mad-dash as far away as possible, pretending to ignore the “use protection!” she shouted before the crisp evening breeze nipped your nose.
Use protection my butt, you grovel, ushering the scarf further above your chin as if to secure as much warmth possible.
She doesn’t know anything, not about how you took him under your wing as your apprentice the first year he joined, not about how much Minho loves cats, or how the keychain on that crossbody bag of his is a keychain you bought for him.
Simply placing it, she’s a person lead by the assumptions of others and adopting them as her own.
It irritates you.
Veering to your right, you thank his decision to house nearby, arriving at the foot of his porch after a mere ten-minute walk.
Delivering a few knocks on the townhome’s doorway, you note the paint chipping, colorful exterior worn from the sun’s rays.
Everything from the few cracks in the sidewalk to the relatively invisible stain of coffee on his doorknob lay memorized by frequency—his property second nature to you.
“Never have I hated being single this much,” You whine, slumping onto his couch after hurling your bag atop a hook in the foyer.
And despite the lack of response, you can tell Minho heard you. The faint, breathy chuckle enough evidence of his presence.
Perched on a chair he’d likely dragged from the kitchen, a feline companion occupies his lap, both comfortably relaxing on the patio, wine glass in hand.
Accordingly arranged on the countertop is another glass (you presume as yours), that you pour the vinegar-tinged substance into.
“I mean.” Slightly struggling to haul a neighboring chair to his side and simultaneously avoid splashing wine everywhere, you eventually find an equilibrium.
“It’s not like I asked to be single, I’m just too busy to consider a relationship, y’know?”
Minho absentmindedly hums, urging you to take a much-needed sip of the orchid-colored liquid.
Finally, you sigh out the last of your evening’s thoughts.
“..Hyeongmi caught me on the way out.”
Nor does this occasion need a reply either, the man’s suppressed giggle suitable enough.
“Mm.. I’ve got an idea.”
Carefully allowing the elongated glass to clink atop a translucent table, you cross and uncross your legs, welcoming the rustle of life around you into your eardrums, easing the cluttered space of your brain.
“Shoot.”
He clicks his tongue, gaze flitting to the emerging moon overhead.
“If we’re still single by twenty-five, we date each other.“
Making a surprised sound to yourself, you break into unadulterated laughter, about to call him hilarious before taking into account this is Minho you’re referring to, and the likelihood he’s joking on any matter is unlikely.
Sure it sounds cliché, but it’s Minho, why not?
…And perhaps that decision was made with a few glasses of wine in play.
“I’m in.” You grin, returning his outstretched hand by bumping your glasses before downing the remaining gulp, cheeks aglow, alcohol ridding your breath a distasteful stench.
Tipsy. Minho is charming normally, but especially when he’s tipsy.
He’s got this way of speaking that could get any unsuspecting girl reaching to unzip his pants in a second, sultry, half-lidded eyes drinking the person in front of him, talking like he has sugar lining his lips.
When Minho is tipsy, he’s tempting. You didn’t need four years to teach you that.
That, and the spare pajama set folded in his top drawer reserved solely for you on nights like this—too gone to go home.
Although, as you rise to your feet and head to the bathroom, pulling said silk pajama shirt over your head, Hyeongmi’s words reverberate again.
You do realize everyone has the hots for him but that he only hangs out with you, right?
Hm. Minho was always a recluse though. And with your history, obviously he’d have some liking for you.
It’s been four years, Y/n! You need to let loose!
Turning to stare at yourself in the mirror, you sulk, head hanging low.
What if you did something tonight? Something risky, something testing the limits this friendship borderlines. You’re both drunk, likely willing.
Then again, does Minho want this too? Did he ever intend to “let loose”?
Anxiety plagues you, hurriedly scurrying your pants over your legs and exiting to find Minho still seated in the same spot, appearing all the more tempting without having to do a thing.
You blame the alcohol.
Stamping forward as if you prepared a speech, you stop just behind his chair, mustering any ounce of liquid courage manageable.
“Minho.”
He grunts.
“You’re really pretty.”
Let loose. This is letting loose when it comes to Minho.
What, you thought you were gonna fuck? Yeah, that’s a funny one.
Winding himself around to see you, his lips wind into a sweet smile, urging you closer with a mere look before he reaches forward and taps your nose, dark eyes roaming your face.
“I’ve always thought you were pretty too.”
And perhaps, caught in a trance from his glittering stare, something did happen those four years you’ve been together after all.
You blame the alcohol.
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The impulsive part about this “date at twenty-five” pact you had forgotten to consider was the fact both of you were twenty-four, meaning in less than a year whatever plan Lee Minho had stirred up after plenty glasses of wine would oil it’s gears into motion.
Thankfully Valentines comes and goes, and Summer creeps dangerously close, the longer hours of daylight and lingering sunshine enough to make every work-day feel extra laborious.
First day of summer, Minho texts you, asking if you want to join him on a walk.
Mind you, it’s 10AM in the morning, an hour you couldn’t fathom waking up at on the first day of summer.
You groan and flop back down, shutting off your phone and slamming the pillow over your head in a pitiful attempt at falling back asleep.
Only for your doorbell to ring twenty minutes later.
Over.
And over.
And over.
The urge to screech compels your barely-awake form, legs wobbling out of bed to feebly reach the doorway in a sleep-ridden haze.
Of course, lo and behold, Minho lies responsible, clad in running shoes, a pair of shorts, and a black nike zip-up.
He’s evidently pleased—whether from how disheveled you appear—or that he actually got you out of bed in the first place by the lingering smile tugging at his lips.
You hate to say it, but he’s annoyingly attractive, there’s no denying.
“Caught you at a bad time, hm?” He tips his head down to make eye-contact, peering through wild hair and lidded eyes at your half-alive self.
All you can manage out is a minuscule grunt, about to close the door before Minho jars his hand in, inviting himself inside much to your dismay.
Like instinct, he heads straight to your closet, surveying the chaos his insistent door-bell ringing caused before fetching a sweatshirt to pull over your head and a pair of socks from your drawer.
Though, as you wake up a tad bit more, you hurriedly keep him from putting your socks on for you as he bends down, shying away with an irritated whine.
“If this is what dating you is like I’m calling off the pact,” You mumble, stomping toward the door with Minho pushing you forwards without chance of escape.
He giggles, seeming to contain utmost glee witnessing your temper tantrum.
“Oh trust me sweetheart, the fun never ends.”
He’s hopeless too, apparently.
Lucky for you, your friend’s visits occurred sporadically, meaning the 10AM wake up calls weren’t a daily routine of headaches.
In contrast, summer passed by in a flash, and you were shoved head-first into a packed schedule for a second time as the autumn leaves shriveled into crisp browns and oranges.
Autumn was always welcomed. It meant the chilling cold was approaching, yes, but it also signified apple cider being added to the downstairs café menu and—on those especially chilly mornings—bundling your neck in the scarf Minho bought you last christmas.
As for him, he frequents pointed shoes and straight-legged pants, his fudge-colored hair perfectly complimented by pumpkin scented fragrances and dusky red backdrops.
Brisk mornings call for thinking. And as you walk, you come to the indefinite conclusion apple cider fits Minho. Sweet, but not saccharine. Warm to the touch, reminiscent with a charming aftertaste. A silhouette that comes and goes as it pleases, leaving soon enough for you to crave it back again.
Regarding summer, he was sort of like a beach day. A vacation in the midst of roaring deadlines, the comfortable lull of waves buzzing your mind into a hazy, salty escapade.
Although as December plucks each oak of its splendor, a call on Sunday morning truly marks the season of winter.
“..Y/n?” Minho murmurs, his voice groggy, hoarse. You make a sound of acknowledgment in response.
“I think I’m sick, can you drop off some meds at the door?”
Pressing your phone close to your ear, you debate on your desire to scold him, remind him each time he gets a winter cold he should dress warmer.
Of course, your lips stay shut (just like they always have for the past few years), and you reply with a “Be there soon, hang tight” before ending the call and gathering your belongings.
At the supermarket you check out seaweed soup, multivitamins, and allergy relief—things of which you hope will alleviate some of his symptoms.
Eternally grateful for the spare key you’d been given a while back, you enter the home, calling his name until an exasperated sign of life was heard (more like coughed) from the bedroom.
Inside lay Minho, a distressing array of tissues scattered in all directions, clustered beyond belief. His nose is soured pink from incessant stuffiness, lips cracked and dry. Dark circles sag beneath tired eyes, worn disposition evidence of his condition.
Quick on your feet, you scour the bathroom for a thermometer, the device’s loud beep signifying a blaring fever as you hover by his bedside.
Watching the bowl of instant soup spin aimless circles in the microwave, Minho’s call knocks you out of your daydream, worriedly padding to where he lays.
“Come here.”
You oblige, arriving to his right, about to ask the matter until his fingers link with your own, bringing the back of your hand to his jaw, resting there.
If you had been warm before, an entirely new definition to sweating has been reached at this point.
“You’re warm,” He whispers, rubbing his face against your hand like a needy cat wanting attention.
How unfair a human can be this round.
Practically bounding from the inside, you use the excuse of the microwave beeping to race off, hurriedly disappearing into the kitchen while remaining ignorant to the way Minho’s gaze follows you.
Returning with a soup platter meticulously carried between your tight grip, you sigh with relief upon sitting the steaming concoction down. Oh so slowly, a frown grows at your face upon noticing the expectant stare boring into your head.
“Yes?”
He juts out his bottom lip like a kicked puppy from your nonplussed tone, nudging the covers over himself till only those calculating eyes peek out.
“I’m not feeding you.”
Minho all but whimpers, and you suppress the urge to smother him with a pillow right then and there, hating how easily he sends goosebumps prickling the back of your neck, heat scalding your ears.
“No.”
“Y/n.”
You quite literally feel like the cruelest person in existence because why is he looking at you with that face, saying your name like that.
Grumbling beneath your breath, you begrudgingly collect a spoonful, bringing the utensil to his already pursed lips.
Spoonful by spoonful do you feed him as if he’s a dependent toddler, his satisfied hums earning a stern glare in return.
Only when he finishes eating do you get up, reprimanding him on taking his meds without much bite to your words.
“And don’t take too many of these, alright? If it gets really bad, call me again. Otherwise, try getting sleep.”
“Yes ma’am.”
And of course he has to be endearing.
Such a pain.
You’ll stop by tomorrow.
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If Minho was the apple cider in autumn and beach days in the summer, he’s the prettiest of snowflakes in the midst of winter.
Memorable, fleeting. Melting in your touch.
The annual Christmas party the company hosts steadily approaches, your coworkers ringing your phone insistently with noticeable anticipation.
Though just like autumns chill, December soars past idly, reigning in a new year and a new digit added to twenty when asked your age.
Your winter premise only heightened the anxiety compiling in your gut, a feeling you hadn’t recognized until the following day—the first day back to work in January—dawned.
January 1st’s introduction means you’re both officially twenty-five, and you’re not sure if it’s the fact Minho hasn’t texted you yet or the valentines pact in itself setting you on edge.
What would it be like to date Minho? Would he kiss you, the same way male leads in K-dramas did? Hold you as you sleep, wish you goodbye with a kiss to your cheek?
The mere thought sends rivets of electricity blazing your fingertips, feeling like an utter fool for imagining such scenarios.
Now you’ve haunted yourself for worse, leaving only dread in tow.
Arriving at the office the first day back, you attempt at making yourself look as collected as possible, definitely not bothered.
Worse, the root of your troubles walks in unbothered as you’ve been trying to do for the past few hours, the room working in deplorable silence before a note wedges itself behind your keyboard, Minho slipping past in its wake.
It takes all your will-power to ignore the crumpled piece of paper as best as possible, your index itching to unravel whatever lay inside.
Noon is when you finally give in, lungs failing to produce air upon reading the contents, practically choking on nothing.
Come over to my place after work.
What is this, his way of declaring your pact officially in action? What if he calls it off, saying it was only a joke glasses of wine granted?
As Hyeongmi said before, everyone has the hots for him, so why don’t you? Why does the thought of him calling it off put you on edge?
Or maybe you do. Maybe you do have feelings for—
Woah. Stop there.
Luckily, your internal chess match went unnoticed, leaving only the buzzing of your ears and the ticking of the clock loud.
A certain fondness sat between either of you from the start, since becoming acquainted you’ve instantly clicked—sly remarks and playful teasing merely one more thing keeping you alive (minus coffee).
So when something crossing the border between friends and lovers arose, a sort of nervousness bubbled in your gut.
Minho was a shoulder to cry on for you, but was it like that?
You could rely and depend on each other whenever, but could those feelings ever turn into love?
Of course they could, and they likely would’ve if it weren’t for either of you being so work-oriented—making you even more worried.
Although, you can’t simply flee. You’re an adult.
..And Minho will find you in a heartbeat if you decide to run.
Never had you been hesitant to leave office until now, and trodding one foot in front of the other causes your legs to turn into jelly.
Minho probably isn’t this nervous. He’s probably in a great mood, treating the occasion like it’s just another casual day.
Never before was it difficult, whether difficult is referred to as placing a key in a doorway or walking inside, everything seems so.. eminent.
Like when you walk through this door, an entirely new side of Minho will show face. A romantic side of Minho.
Yet, there’s no rose petals lining the hallway, nor scented candles scattered here and there.
What is there to expect with dating in your twenties anyway?
Plus, Minho’s well, Minho. If he wanted to, he likely would’ve flat-out asked already.
Something you’re surprised about, however, is the triangular string decor swooping from the ceiling, the party hats by the sink, a single birthday candle placed in the center of a cupcake. Simple, perfect.
Although, the perfect factor came with the man responsible, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, bracing himself on the countertop with a particular glow in his irises—whether it be from the lit candle you aren’t sure—that sets your stomach into a garden of butterflies.
A surprise party. He threw you a surprise birthday party.
And it’s then as enter the kitchen, brain barely recognizing each advance forward, you realize it.
You really, really want to date him.
And you really, really don’t want to screw this up.
Staring at each other, you rise up on your toes to place a careful, feather-light peck on the smooth, flushed skin of his cheek.
Slowly, he turns his head, a conniving smirk revealing the outline of his teeth whilst investigating your breathlessness.
“Someone’s daring,” He mumured, cocking a brow amusedly.
You poke his side, groaning that he shouldn’t look too far into it before he nudges you, your frown returned with a subtle nod—directed at the forgotten cupcake.
“Well you already gave me a kiss, so wish for something else.”
“Choke,” You respond, but there’s still no bite to it. Some things never change.
Minho gently holds your hair back for you, allowing you to lean over and blow out the candle. No bite.
Your wish?
Let Minho and I go well. I like us.
Every bit of it was the truth.
Hopefully this wish of yours can come true.
Maybe.
Seated on the living room floor do you finally relax, your shoulders slumping down after hours of monstrous tension. Seems you’d forgotten he was your best friend before anything else.
“So.. how does this work?”
‘Work’ as in, the dating deadline’s here, what’s next?
He purses his lips—a habit of his—blinking rapidly.
“Like friends? Except we get the kissing and sex pass in between, right?”
You smack his shoulder. He smiles, childishly extending his pinky out to you.
Linking yours, you press the pad of your thumb against his. An unspoken gesture.
“Together?”
Through thick and thin. Your way, as it always was, always had been.
He has stars in his tawny-globes for eyes.
“Together.”
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Minho’s hands are warm in the midst of frigid temperatures.
Spring isn’t too far off, but the bitter winds remain ceaseless and unrelenting, whipping your hair every which way, scattering a plethora of goosebumps along your skin.
Never had you held hands like this with someone before, nonetheless Minho, and yet, a connection lies inside the initial awkwardness. The silent assurance, whether it’s his thumb smoothing your palm or occasional squeezes, telling you he understands, that you’re not alone, or how he patiently waited by the door the entire time you were getting ready, claiming he didn’t want to dirty your place with his shoes.
It’s sort of revitalizing. Curious and inquisitive in his lingering touches, additional notes—reminders on your coffee cup, questions asking whether you want to stay over afterward, if he can give you a kiss on the cheek.
One in particular you recall:
I miss you. Scribbled in bleeding ink.
Your introduction as lovers had been a field day of trials and questions for the two of you, though when it came down to the public’s knowledge, you began debating on the “curiosity killed the cat” theory.
This morning, catching a glimpse of the company’s logo in the distance, you assign yourself as the cat. Too interested, now suffering the consequences.
Granted, you wouldn’t take back moving to relationship status, but it was a lot easier to brush off comments if you were Minho.
Hyeongmi being the main one responsible for said comments.
Morning passed by seamlessly, prioritizing work above all else, too busy typing away to for any interruptions.
..Until a midday conference.
Seated right next to each other, his fingers slowly thread with yours beneath the table, sending the man a perplexed (and slightly nervous) expression in response.
More so, the comforting casualness caused you to barely recognize Mrs. Song reaching below to fetch her fallen pen, a gasp of surprise stilling the conversation at her realization.
“Are you- Are you two holding—?”
Panicked, you smack his hand away, stomach plummeting.
Not expecting him to stubbornly grab your hand again, a miniature frown draws across his perfectly rose lips.
Pouting.
Lee Minho is pouting because you’re not letting him hold your hand.
Unbelievable.
If the situation could escalate further, the she-devil herself (Hyeongmi) throws her head down to spare a glimpse, allowing you to fully accept your demise. A demise that, one way or another, needed to happen.
This was simply an early death.
“You’re kidding! No way you guys are a thing?” The eccentric girl mouths the last words, eyebrows drawn to her hairline.
And just like that, your relationship with Minho ventured out of your pocket and into a brand new wilderness.
“So…what’s it like living everybody’s dream?”
Headed to the bathroom, Hyeongmi stops you, leaned over the mirror, carefully inspecting her plum-colored lipstick.
“What?” You pique, confusedly glancing between her and the empty stall you’re trying to nonchalantly slip into.
“I mean, the entire company’s talking about it. Tell me, are you guys actually official? Or is this all just for the attention? No offense, but-“
“I...”
Want to punch you in the face.
You keep it to yourself.
“I’m gonna go.”
Synonymously, both your bladder and your appetite completely disappeared.
Although, she doesn’t leave you alone.
You’re frantically searching for excuse after excuse, speed-walking and taking the stairs any chance available.
Unfortunately for you, she’s everywhere. At some point you’re certain a tracking device is hidden somewhere on your clothes.
Almost there. From silently pleading help with your eyes to legitimately hiding in your workplace, today couldn’t have been more of a joke.
Or so you thought.
“Y/n?”
“Yes, Hyeongmi?”
“With Minho,” She nervously fiddles with her earrings. “You don’t have to tell me but.. how’s the bedroom?”
Apparently, it can go lower.
Before you can respond to her shamelessness, a grip fastens on your shoulders, cologne distinct enough you can tell exactly who it is.
Your beach day.
“Hyeongmi, you do realize that’s rude, yeah? Let’s not cross boundaries we shouldn’t cross, got it?”
All the while Minho smiles, this cloying, “I dare you” sort of attitude no one can argue with.
Averting her attention, she speedily raises up, humorlessly laughing off the tension while excusing herself from the room.
“You okay?” He whispers, breath ghosting over the shell of your ear, pressing a chaste kiss there.
Yeah, there’s no getting used to this.
“Yep,” You say, though there isn’t much sincerity it.
He knows.
“Wait for me here, let’s walk home together.”
Ah. You want to kiss him.
“Minho.”
He turns on his heel.
Kiss me.
You’re holding his collar now, the option on the tip of your tongue, his lips a hairbreadth from yours.
Close, closer.
No. Not yet.
Either way, what do you know about kissing? What if you screw up?
Not yet.
“..Okay.”
Your gaze flits down to his lips if only for a second. A small, cheeky grin adorning his face as he follows your movements.
It’s hard to focus when he leaves, because all you can think about is the possibilities. What if you had kissed him? Would he have kissed you back?
By the way looked at you, the logical response would be: yes. Most people don’t stare at someone like that without the intent to kiss them, right?
Though somehow, you can’t help but feel unprepared, a complete novice in this battlefield of love.
Where Minho took you afterward was a mystery, merely happy to be away from the confines of your desk—letting his eager hand guide you wherever he pleased.
Shielded beneath the shade of two trees, your destination, Yeouido Park, is a spectacle during the transition period of winter to spring. You’d oftentimes spend hours here, basking in the relief a break grants. A spectacle where you two first truly met.
“Alright, be honest with me.”
He spins you around till you’re face to face, carefully analyzing your facial expression.
“Are you really okay? After Hyeongmi said that, I couldn’t stop thinking..”
Oh. That careful crease in his eyebrows, sympathetic.
He’s breaking your heart.
You realize now why everyone falls in love with him.
“Of me?”
The words come out involuntarily, a step forward in the newness, paving light through the darkened abyss.
“Yeah..” He says, a little winded while doing so.
Minho cares, he always had, yet, it’s your first time hearing it aloud.
“Y/n.”
Blinking yourself back into reality, your face grows warm, not intending to deliberately space out right in front of him.
He leans forward, causing you to shrink back into your skin as a kiss is planted right atop your nose, the man wearing a satisfied grin.
“Hey- You can’t- It’s not Valentines yet—“
“And why would I wait until Valentine’s day?”
Another deeper red burns your cheeks, and you scorn the way he gets under your skin—a way that makes every insult dissolve like powder on your tongue.
He notices, but decides not to prod further, lightly bumping your hip with his own as a signal to follow.
“Tomorrow is the day, y’know,” You mumble, kicking rocks with the tip of your shoe.
“Are we gonna turn into those couples?” He asks, pretentiously puckering his lips, eyes squinted shut.
You burst out laughing.
“I would break up with you first, sorry Minho.” Said puckered lips transform into a playful scowl.
“What? No treat for valentines?”
Blinking babydoll eyes up at you, you wrinkle your nose, coming to recognize what “treat” he was implying.
Earlier you would’ve kissed instantly, but an inkling of stubbornness kept you from giving into him this time.
Sneaking behind you, he ducks down, voice low enough for only your ears to hear.
“Didn’t seem you were too against it earlier.”
And with that, he races off, entirely too happy with himself and not likely to live down your reaction. Because you can’t disagree.
Since when were Lee Minho’s lips so kissable?
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Knock.
Knock.
Your attention strays from the mirror at the sound, wondering if it was simply a figment of your imagination only for the sound to ensue.
Knock. Knock.
Who would be at your door at this hour in the middle of the week?
There’s a name on your tongue, but you don’t contemplate any longer, tiptoeing to the doorway to peer through the peephole.
And the sight before you makes every ounce of suspicion worthwhile.
Minho, holding a bouquet of roses and things unknown behind his back, is reciting.
He’s staring at his shoes, bouncing back and forth on his heels nervously.
Lee Minho is nervous.
Wanting just to stand there and watch him rehearse, you finally give in after a third knock scares you out of your wits—hesitantly opening the door and trying to placate the most surprised expression possible.
His eyes round as saucers, you literally watch the gears in his head turn in real time, extending the flowers out to you.
“Happy valentines. These are uh, for you.”
And his ears are red.
You’re going to implode from how cute this is.
Attempting to stave down the alarming amount of happiness you’re experiencing, you hold the flowers in one hand, awaiting whatever lie behind his back.
Although, as the outline of a box of chocolates appears, so does… a shampoo bottle.
What.
Bathing in a long silence, you can’t help but wonder you’re genuinely hallucinating. Glancing from his face to the literal shampoo in hand, he mirrors you, confused for a reason you’re trying to figure out as well.
“Is that… a shampoo bottle?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you were running low the last time I came here.”
You’ve never received a valentine before, but this automatically took the cake.
Is it possible to fall in love after you’re given a shampoo bottle as a gift on valentines? Apparently so.
Nonetheless, work flashed past, barely able to register a thing between the many congratulations you received and the absence of Hyeongmi (assumed to be due to the brown-haired charmer beside you).
For now, you savor the freedom of the day, finally able to escape the pains of before and wallow in a new kind of excitement. Love.
Love delivered by Minho himself in the form of mini scraps he’s folded into hearts, slipping heart after heart onto your desk at any opportunity to the point you bump his leg beneath the table in warning.
He cheekily smirks in return, stupidly innocent face scheming with malice.
He’s getting an absolute kick out of this, and you hate to admit you enjoy it just as much.
As usual, you wait behind for him to catch up on your daily commute home—an activity you did long before any romantic feelings became involved.
That’s it. Minho’s pinpoint of romance.
Shampoo bottle, walks home, extra coffee, notes.
Minho doesn’t openly express his love, not unless he feels either adventurous or obligated. Instead, he studies. Your habits, the things you enjoy, your actions, preferences. That particular coffee order you liked, how you had ran out of shampoo.
Oh how you love him.
Though, rounding the sidewalk to your place, Minho grabs ahold of your wrist. In response, as soon as you turn your head, you’re mere centimeters from his face, simply standing there, proximity willing either of you not to move.
Initial words dying out, he slightly edges to the side, cocked in a way that has your mind racing.
Nose, cheek, but never lips.
No.
Your hands act before any other part of you, blocking his lips from yours.
“We-“
The look he’s giving you, shock.
You feel a hundred degrees hotter.
“We need to go inside,” You excuse yourself fast, the man tailing behind, grip still loosely attached to your wrist.
Quickly shutting the door behind you, it’s an immediate embarrassment flooding your frame that allows you to speak, words bursting outward in an uncontrollable cacophony.
“Minho I’m so sorry I have no idea what I was doing, I shouldn’t have done that, it was a stupid idea. I didn’t mean to offend you or anything-“
“Hey, slow down. I’m not going anywhere.”
His tone serves as the much needed breeze fanning your face, cooling you down enough to articulate sentences properly.
“I’m sorry, we’ve just never kissed on the lips and I feel like I’m gonna be horrible and kill the mood. This is stupid, I know, just.. bear with me please?”
His eyebrows furrow, forming together the equation piece by piece.
“You’ve.. You’ve never had your first kis—?”
You hush him furiously, slumping onto the couch dejectedly.
Yet, Minho doesn’t laugh nor pick fun regardless of how hilariously idiotic the occasion is. He’s quiet, concerned almost.
You add that to your long list of things you love about him.
Inhaling gradually, your focus flits to the window, collecting yourself, easing the frantic rush-hour traffic rampaging in your skull.
If you were one of those paper hearts he made, he’s pulling apart each careful fold in this very moment. Unraveling the layers till your bare self is exposed in all its anxiousness.
“I hate it. It feels like a part of that teenage youth everyone talks about is something I’ll never get to experience. I was too busy caring about school, and now I feel like I’ve missed out.”
Soaking in a quietness, you jump when he places a hand over yours, softly tracing the skin of your knuckles, glossy as he watches, carving each perfect aspect of you into memory.
“Well you may not be seventeen, but you’re never too old to learn to kiss.”
One hand cupping your jaw to garner your attention, you’re met with a glass-like visage.
Gentle.
“And I can teach you how.”
It’s always been business, you’ve always been business. Which is why, now confronting what feels to be the highest peak in your love life, you’re left a completely blank canvas. No rules, no instructions.
It’s terrifying.
“Min- Minho, I really haven’t done this before.”
You hastily pique, scooting backward in the cushions.
Curse the shakiness of your voice.
“If you don’t want to do this, tell me. We won’t.”
You quickly shake your head.
No, you want this, you’ve wanted this too badly to back out now.
“Then let’s take it slow, okay?”
It’s horrifically awkward at first, a tiny peck, then a bit longer till your arms creep over his shoulders, his fingers once holding your jaw steady now resting on your neck.
Best word to describe it? Messy.
“Breathe through your nose.”
“Minho— I’m suffocating here—“
You sputter back, quite literally heaving for breath.
Yes, it was otherworldly kissing him, and he was an insanely good kisser, but did this really require your lungs to practically burst?
“Are you teaching me how to give a blowjob or kiss?”
His smile transforms mischievously, a sneering laugh slipping past. You already know he’ll make a sly comment.
Minho winks. “We’ll get to that later.”
“I lost my urge to date you. Bye.”
“Noooo Y/n~” He whines profusely, warm hold on your waist beckoning another kiss filled with hushed giggles and incessant jeers from either party—ensuing a halfway unbuttoned shirt and quite possibly the most greedy ten minutes known to man.
Out of breath, he pulls back from your stomach, the ticklish feather-light kisses planted there earning a stifled giggle from you while he blinks upward, seeming to be focused on something.
“Minho?” You question, ignorant to how unbelievably obsessed with you he is, more than ever in this moment.
From your damp, sweaty skin to the few hairs stuck to your forehead. Your swollen lips, the way you laugh, your stomach dipping with the action. He doubts he’ll ever get tired of this.
Reaching forward as if caught in a trance, he tenderly tucks a piece of hair behind your ear, voice barely audible upon pressing his forehead against yours.
And in the seclusion of your living room, tangled up together on the sofa, it’s just the two of you existing in this world.
“I hope you know I really meant it when I said I thought you were pretty too.”
Ah. He remembers. All that time ago.
Of course he does.
Kissing you for a time you can’t remember, you begin to wonder if that birthday wish of yours had came true after all.
Your feelings for Minho had always existed somewhere inside of you. Your head, your heart. A tiny inkling into something more, a could be. Two individuals wishing, waiting to make a move.
It seems the Valentines Pact sealed the deal.
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sunboki, may 2022 ©
FIC TAGLIST. @gimmeurtmi @jisuperboard @porang-poranglinos @palindrome969 @stayceebs97 @inniescandy-01 @idklin0
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groguspicklejar · 4 months
Text
part 6 of medieval ghoap x reader
warnings: angst by the bucketloads, deception, anxiety, brief mentions of Simon's abusive upbringing, reader is fearful, blood, implied murder, themes of forced prostitution, elements of sexual violence and trauma, fluff.
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"let me see.” she gently angles your head so she can take a better look at it under the candlelight. "that's quite a nasty bruise."
the healer’s gaze had focused on the mark on your cheek before her thumb grazed the cut on your lip. you sat stiffly on the king’s bed as the elder woman examined your wounds and tended to them as best as she could.
though you suspect she only handled you with the utmost care because Ghost was hovering nearby, watching her every move or listening to what she says because he doesn’t trust that she would be kind to you. of course, you know this is true because she has tended to some of the men and women in the harem and she wasn’t nearly as gentle as she was with them as she is now. she never failed to voice her dislike for the “common whores” in this castle.
for once, you appreciated Ghost’s presence.
she spares you one last look after she was done, she gives the king and the knight a bow before she leaves. at the very least, you can now breathe easier without feeling like someone might curse you for your existence. well… almost.
you’ll take the healer’s disapproving glare over Ghost’s scowl any hour of the day.
in the meantime, you were kept in the king's chambers. the wounds on your face didn't look too bad anymore. less swollen now. hopefully, there won't be a scar.
you doubt you'd earn a good coin with a marred face. men don't ever like broken little things, even though they often cause the damage.
"it'll heal, bonnie. don't ye worry." the king plucks the small mirror from your grasp and puts it away before he pulls you onto his lap. "right, Si?"
Ghost doesn’t answer him. instead, he walks over to sit down next to you and the king. his dark armour, all sharp edges and hard steel contrasting against the soft sheets. a testament to what he is; a warrior, a conduit of death.
you try not to bristle as he settles so close when you're sitting on his beloved. it's not usually out of his own volition too, so that is yet another thing you're conscious of. you hate how it churns your stomach, the thought of instigating his rage by being anywhere near the king while he watches.
“is there anything you need, love?” he asks.
and for a moment, you are momentarily stunned that he even cares enough to inquire.
yes, you do need a lot of things, actually. safe passage back to your aunt’s manor, for one. though you’re not certain that the king would even agree to that. let alone allow not one, but two of her best saddles to leave.
you’ll continue working on that as time goes on.
“Madam Victoria has something of mine.” the king rubs your back, trying to soothe you. “a letter.”
"a letter." Ghost muses, tilting his head. "from who?"
you still feel the sting on your cheek. too often, you've faced Victoria's wrath. it comes back to haunt you in this quiet moment, making it exceedingly difficult not to squirm on the king's lap.
"my aunt." you quietly said, gaze casting off to the side. "she lives far from here, but... she's the only family i have left."
you miss her. dearly. you haven't seen her in so long but you still remember the warmth of her voice. it was the same as your mother's.
you don't try to shift away when the king holds you a little tighter. "the letter she sent had arrived two days ago and..."
and you have yet to read it, to hold it in your hands. you miss the scent of her perfume. of a home long lost to you. a home you're trying to return to.
"was Victoria the one who hurt you?" it's the king who asks.
your eyes shift to him, blinking rapidly to try and simmer back the tears.
"no, it was her guard and—" you nearly choke when you remember the sting, but you take a breath and continue. "well, i'd like to have my letter, please... if that's not too much to ask."
you want to crawl into a dark hole and stay there for all eternity when the silence falls on their end. when they look at you like... like... you don't know.
you hate it. you don't want to be looked at anymore.
"alright." Ghost concedes, nodding softly. "alright, i'll speak to that old hag."
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you were alone in the tub of steaming water, contemplating the events that had led you here.
Victoria had ordered you to come to her study, where she had cornered you and confronted you about your aunt's letters. you weren't surprised that she read them. she reads everyone's letters. no respect for privacy and whatnot but you had grown used to it and you had nothing to hide.
but she was furious that you were planning to leave. why?
"you have the king's favour." she hissed. "you can't leave."
frankly, you wouldn't call it favour. a fleeting interest, more like. soon, he'll tire of you and discard you like the rest. the only reason he's kept you around this long is because Ghost wouldn't let him have you, which only deepened his desire for what was denied of him.
it's nothing more than that. and you don't doubt that desire won't fizzle out like water under the weight of the sun on a hot summer's day. it is simply a matter of time. you were only trying to secure the only future you could once that came to pass.
unfortunately, Victoria didn't care. she was far too concerned with making more of a profit out of your labour.
you didn't much appreciate that. and you did voice you objections to that. she didn't take it well. neither did her guards. he backhanded you for standing up to Victoria like that, for speaking out of turn. the metal on his knuckles hurt and cut your lip. you had fell down from the impact.
"are ye sure the water's not too hot?" the king asks, eyes brimming with concern. he can barely dip his fingers in the water's without wincing.
"it's fine." you rest your chin on your knees, ignoring the sore bruise on the left one. you hugged your legs, eyes drifting away from him. "i like it this way."
it usually helps to scrub off the disgusting feeling of men's touch on your skin. you felt better after a hot bath. not as clean as you'd like to be after fulfilling your duties with some entitled lord, but the scorching water leaving your skin raw made you feel less filthy.
you cling to that feeling now more than ever. Victoria tends to have that effect. she was just as vile as the men she catered to. which is why you cannot stay here for much longer.
since the king picked you, you never had to sleep with another man. the incident with Graves had granted you some protection and your responsibilities only shifted to the king and his knight only.
once the king's vested interest in you wanes, you'll be forced to going back to serving the other lords again. and you can't have that. you're too exhausted, too weak to go back to that life again. it'll break you this time. you can't go back to that again.
you won't. you won't—
"bonnie." your eyes fluttered open, blurry gaze shifting to him.
you hadn't realized the prickle in the corners of your eyes. the king had knelt next to the tub, his hand grasping the back of your neck.
"what's wrong?" it's a plea. "tell me."
the storm in his blue eyes calls to your heart. you want it to whisk you away, far from here. far from this castle, this madness.
but he's a man. he's always had a choice, a freedom he'll always take for granted. a freedom you might never reach, even with the tips of your fingers. he wouldn't understand.
you don't have the words, nor the energy to make him understand the agony of the things you've been forced to do. so you do what you only been taught to do.
feign a smile, despite how frail, despite the tightness in your chest, and say, "it's nothing, your majesty."
you don't know what he finds when he takes a moment to look at you. though it feels more like he's looking through you. it's easier not to ask.
but there's something in his gaze, something in the way he frowns and the way his shoulders drop slightly. something akin to disappointment, almost a quiet... grief.
what could he possibly be grieving?
instead of pushing for your honesty, he relents and gives you his own smile. just as artificial, though softer. "how about a cup of tea to soothe yer nerves?"
you don't say no to that.
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Simon sat opposite from Madam Victoria with her desk being the only thing separating the two. her study was quite large. books lined the walls and a low flame burned in the fireplace opposite them.
the pointed ends of his metallic claws lazily tapped on the wooden table from pinkie to index, slowly taunting her with the noise echoing through the deafening silence of her chambers. she watched his gauntlet move with a vested interest in staying away from it.
her two guards stand sentinel behind her, silver armour polished and shiny, limbs tense and poised for an attack. good. the weight of Ghost's presence had better crush them for what they did.
although her appearance seemed neat, she struggled to hide her terror. Ghost glimpses the sweat lining her forehead, the wrinkles around her wicked eyes straining. she looks paler than usual.
good.
"where's the letter, Victoria?"
Ghost nearly smiles when she jerks at his words. it's a small comfort, a small retribution for the way you often flinch around him and Johnny. he thinks of your fear, barely restrained behind tight smiles, curtsies, clasped hands and a lowered gaze, he thinks of how you shy away from Johnny's touch when he seeks it out, how your voice has remained quiet ever since they met you.
how afraid you were when you were faced with his ire, so ready to remove yourself from Johnny's side if only to be spared of any consequences.
all thanks to this wretched hag sitting in front of him.
the horrors you must've endured under her 'care'... Ghost's fist clenched before he could even think about it.
"so she sent you to retrieve it..." she says as she pulls an envelope from the drawer in her desk. "i thought you didn't like her."
"what i like is none of your concern." he snatches the letter from her, relishing the way her hands quickly retract from his metal claw as if it'll snatch them instead.
if she's not careful with her words, he just might. the guards shift, only slightly, cautious of his movements. he wants to laugh at them.
the envelope has already been opened, its red seal broken. his metal claws scratch the paper, testing the texture of it. "and was this worth slapping her across the face?"
"i didn't do that." she quickly spoke before her expression shifted to that similar to disdain. "and she's planning to leave." he stiffens. his eyes heated and dark quickly shifting to meet her gaze. "she and another one of those filthy whores."
leave?
something in his chest seizes uncomfortably. the words in his throat lodge there. his eyes lock on the letter. he suddenly wants to read it. to see if it's true.
no—
he shouldn't want that. he can't be selfish. it's only warranted your fear. your privacy has been violated enough. it wouldn't be right. but...
the thought of you leaving...
believe me, if i h—had a choice in the matter, i—i wouldn't be here.
had you actually meant what you said that day? and if so, how far away would you be? just how far? so far neither he nor Johnny could reach you?
how far, sweet girl? how far would you be?
"no one would want them." Victoria hisses, drawing his attention away from the paper, her face marred with a rage that tinted her cheeks red. "they're better off here than anywhere else."
fucking bitch—
he pictures her limp body hanging in the courtyard for all to see. along with the men who hurt you, who used you like you were nothing more than a toy at their disposal. sooner or later, all of them are going to rot.
Ghost vows that he will make sure of it.
"i won't kill you." he waits for the relief to bleed into her eyes before yanking it away. "for now."
her ease crumbles, just as he expected and he lapped up her despair. oh, he's going to enjoy tormenting her. toying with her the way a pack of wolves play with their food, giving her a little sense of illusion, of freedom, before taking it away.
just like she took away yours.
"but i do have to ask..." his head tilts. "which one of these fuckers laid their filthy hands on her?"
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when Simon returns to the king's chambers with his cloak stained red, he senses something is wrong.
first off, you were all alone in the enormous room. and you didn't look any bit comfortable as you should've been. you had scrambled off the bed as soon as the door opened for him.
his heart breaks at your immediate fear of him. is this how his mother felt around his father? the thought makes him want to throw himself from the highest tower in the castle.
"where's Johnny?" he takes careful strides towards you and stands a good distance away, conscious of the way your hands clasp tightly at your front, of how you keep your gaze at his boots.
please look up. please, look at me—
your head shifts as you gesture to the door. "he stepped outside to speak with one of the nobles."
there's a tremble in your voice that he doesn't quite like. your eyes were red and swollen. you've been crying. here, alone. when you were sure that no one was looking.
something in his being screams for more blood. that of the guard that hit you wasn't enough. Ghost wants to bathe in the blood of every person who so much as looked at you the wrong way—
"did you... did you speak to her?" you ask, eyes shifting upward. he waits for your gaze to meet his, but it never does. it only fixes on his chest. "does she still have it?"
Simon restrains the urge to reach for you, to hold you. but he doesn't want to startle you. you're already uncomfortable under his gaze, he doesn't want to make it worse.
but it is worse. for him. his throat constricts painfully. the envelope burns in his pocket.
secondly... he doesn't think he wants to give you the letter just yet. not until he's sure if Victoria was telling the truth. that you... that you want to leave.
he wants to prevent that if he can. he wants— he hopes he can change your mind, make you want to stay here. with him and Johnny.
"no." he grits out. "i didn't find it."
he feels sick as soon as he says it. even more so when the frail hope in your eyes melts away.
"oh..." you utter solemnly, and it follows a nod and a sad smile. "well, thank you for the effort anyway, sir."
you offer a quick bow and move past him, light on your feet and hurrying to the door. he half turns, looking at you. "where are you going, love?"
in an instant, you stopped, startled by his inquiry. wide eyes glanced at him. "to my— to my chambers—"
"no." it's sharper than intended because you shrink at his tone. he's softer when he adds, "you can't go back there."
"i..." your gaze lowers as you take a step back, confused. "i—i'm n—not sure what you mean. i don't know where else to go."
he's silent. how can he make you understand that you're meant to be here? that you're not unwelcome here?
"he's yours, i understand that. i always have. and i swear to the gods that i'm not trying to come between you two." you tell him with as much truth you can muster from your heart. "i'll try my best to not draw the king's attention. i'll stay away—"
"that is not what we both want." he takes a step closer and for once, you stand your ground, your expression hardening.
"since when?" it's quiet. it's a challenge. "he might want me here, but you don't. you said so yourself."
Simon holds your gaze as the words hang like daggers pointed at him. but very quickly, your soft glare melts and your eyes fill with dread.
"sir..." you utter, your expression churning his stomach, morphing into horror at what you'd just done, hands clasped over your mouth. "i—i apologize, i spoke out of turn. i meant no disrespect, please forgive me—"
there's nothing to forgive. he couldn't care less that you spoke out of turn. you were well within your right to say whatever you want to him.
"you're not supposed to go anywhere." he softly commands. "when we say you stay here, you stay."
your mouth seals shut, gaze fixed downward, muttering one last quiet "yes, sir."
it's an agonizing sight. watching how you would rather be anywhere but here, anywhere near him. he thinks this is how he and his mother were around his pathetic excuse of a father. he detests it. he hates this sickening pit in his stomach, this fear he induces in you. it doesn't sit right with him.
he doesn't want you to look at him like that. like he's a much worse version of his father, of the men who hurt you.
he wants— no, craves that dazed look in your eyes when you're flooded with pleasure. he craves the joy in your eyes. he craves your curiosity. hell, he'll even take your anger. anything but fear.
quite the irony, considering he doesn't mind anyone else (except for Johnny) being afraid of him.
if he can give you fewer reasons to be frightened and more reasons to be comfortable, then he might be able to breathe easier.
he offers his hand instead. "you may call me Simon."
as he expected, you bristle at the name. he wonders why. you seem to avoid first names, even when you've been given the liberty to use them. that little fact didn't escape him and it didn't bother him much because he was too blinded by jealousy.
until now, that is.
"y—you have blood on your—" your eyes widen, you take a step back. "on your..."
his gaze shifts to where yours are fixated. his gauntlet. shit, he forgot about that. he takes it off and drops it to the floor, reaching for you.
"come here." the yelp escaping your throat when his hand touches yours, pulling him toward him, guts him. "no need to be frightened, sweet girl—"
he's not proud of the way you flinched when he took a step closer.
"s'alright, love. you're alright. you're safe." he wraps his arms around your frame, holding you close. "no one's gonna hurt you."
you didn't deserve his ire. nor his indifference. Johnny was right all along about you.
even when he embraced you, you remained as stiff as a cold branch with the leaves trembling in the wind. he feels the unsteady flutter of your heart under his palm, feels your petrified bones shaking in his grasp. terrified. of him.
it pains him that he cannot even fault you for that. he's given you plenty of reasons to be afraid. and he hates that did.
from there, Simon promised himself that he would never direct his rage towards you. never again.
his hand cups the back of your head, arm tightening around your waist as he whispers, "i will never hurt you again, sweet girl. i promise."
but even so, why does it feel like he's already broken that vow?
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[part 7]
i was choking back the tears as i wrote this. please accept my humble offering. i know it's a bit salty, but it'll do for now. banners by @saradika and @cafekitsune offer a coin to the picklejar
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