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blingblong55 · 6 months

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Now that we don't talk- Simon 'Ghost' Riley

A/N: funny enough...these two drivers are no longer with the girls in these pictures. also, this is not me telling you how reader looks like

--- F!Reader, angst, established!relationship, F1 au, F1 driver!Simon, cheating ---

A/N: watched the Las Vagas shit show of a race and then got inspired....so here's this shit mess of a fic

He was the guy every girl wanted, from the teens to the older women, yet he held your hand on the red carpet at that award show. He kissed you in yachts and danced with you in galas and ballrooms. Paraded your name when he won races. You were everywhere, from tea pages, to fan-made edits and now you're here, stuck in a hotel room, waiting for him. For the past seven months, he's kept you hidden, like you were some kind of repunzel. Never to be let out of the tower unless it was by him. He had what every driver and fan wanted in their lives, fame, wealth, social status, a gorgeous and supportive girlfriend and the way he was the best at his job.

They always say to look for the smallest of clues, that's why, all the tabloids talked about how he 'had it all'. Now, he took out the girlfriend part and added Playboy to the list.

Three months before you and him announced your split, he sat down with you. Told you all the truths he kept from you. Your tears well up in that pretty face of yours. "I started to see other women, that was nine months ago, in Spain, that's why I told you to stay at the hotel," his eyes too teared up. It took a lot to not slap him, scream and yell at him for being such a man slut, but you needed to hear it, needed to know the truth before the internet did. He took a deep breath, "I...there's been at least ten different women, I've slept with more but...only those ten did I take to race weekends instead of you." His eyes, full of regret look at you. "When did you stop loving me?" Your question caught him off guard. "I...I think it was a year ago but I thought it was me being anxious over that whole contract thing and having to move and...I'm sorry, I shouldn't make excuses for my actions," he looks down.

You nod, not daring to look at him anymore. "I'm sorry, R/N," his voice small. "No, I'm sorry," you respond and he looks at you confused. "What do you mean by that?" He questions you. "I'm sorry for falling in love, for being a fool and seeing myself with you for the rest of my life. I'm sorry for trusting you were sleeping alone when I wasn't there...I'm sorry I wasn't enough to make you stay...or to be patient enough and end it like a real man would," you play with your phone's edge. You look at him, finally. "Why did you keep me hidden?" He shakes his head at that question. "The times you were there, the other women were there too," he confesses and your heart stops. "...oh," your voice is small, so soft and filled with so much woe.

"I...I guess I should go," You stand up. "I'm sorry I wasn't what you deserved, I hope you find a man who treats you like you are the universe to him, I hope he kisses you in public and I wish you happiness, I'm sorry." He stands up too and walks you to the door.

A month later, you and him confirmed the rumour. "Formula 1 driver Simon Riley and long-time girlfriend [R/N], have announced their split on a joint social media statement." The article read. Your phone is on silent as you reread the message you put out to the world. "To the fans, it is time we confirm that we are no longer together. We have grown apart and it's time we grow up and move on to new parts of our lives. We will always love each other, together or not but our relationship has run its course. All our gratitude for the six years of acceptance, Simon and [R/N]." Your eyes glistened with sorrow as you shook your head.

For days, you stayed indoors. Cried, looked through memories, private ones the world never saw. What did he do? He was photographed in clubs, hand on a woman's waist, drunk kisses, alcohol, tight dresses and that new title, "F1's playboy." He kept winning, getting more fame and having his name all over the world. Meanwhile, you walk the streets alone. You were there for when he was accepted in F3 and when he moved to F2, even were the shoulder he leaned on all the years he waited to become an F1 driver.

His bed was never the same, neither was his flat. It was no longer cosy, no longer comforting after a bad or long day. His bed missed the warmth of it. His lips missed the consistent pecks after he gave you a pouty lip when you denied staying up late on race day. What did he miss the most? You, all of you and that was soon to be shown. That Playboy facade was for show, inside, all he wanted was to stop being seen with so many women. He wanted one and quickly, his team noticed. He stopped showing up at parties, and clubs and stopped talking to all the women who weren't there for official business or if they weren't a fan who asked for an autograph or picture.

That mask only stayed on for eight months, thirteen days and four hours. He stopped showing off his wealth, dressed in only team attire, comfy clothes, or in suits and ties. His bed was empty most nights, his right cheek was no longer stained with the red lipstick you left at every little accomplishment he made. He fixed his image and unfollowed any woman who wasn't important in his career, except one, you.

And as he did this, all you saw were the old tabloids. Him all over women. You dated off the light the media gave you, you kept your nights away from sight, fixed and resolved all your problems and then, by some cruel mistake, you saw him. Jogging by your place. For some twisted way, your heartbeat fastened. It brought you back to when you'd time him before the season started. That's where the kiss on the right cheek came from. A towel-dried that side of his face, just so you could kiss it. This happened all through your relationship. And, on some Wednesday, a friend invited you to attend the last race of the season.

You attended, not just because of the invite but because it was a promise. "When I win most if not all races I want you to go, be waiting for me, look up to the podium because my love, that entire season will be yours," he, one night whispered to you. And there you were, in that garage, wearing a hat, his number on it as you watched the qualification. The cameras awaited to capture you and him kissing, but none of that happened, not even a glance from you to him.

"Riley takes pole, all eyes on him to see if he breaks yet another record," the commentator said. And as he sat there, he thought of you. The good luck kiss, the pat on his helmet before any race. And holding hands when walking to the paddock. It was a ritual, something he held holy to him. If only he could prove he is the man you now deserve if he could get out of his car, run to you and confess a speech he memorised. The one that said all the truth, the one in which he tells you that just in your first year being together, he had a ring picked out, the same one he kept in every coat for when the time was right. And there was that mistake, one fatal one that cost him his Mrs. Riley. Every single second was the right time, every stare, every kiss, every laugh, the whispers, the running from the cameras, it was always you, it was always the right time when with you.

Simon Riley, world champion, world record breaker, the man every driver wants to be this year, now claiming every single race of that season as he walked to that podium. And, in a crowd of friends, teammates, fans and cameras, he looked for you. National anthems played and as he was about to lose hope, he saw you there, the spot he told you to stand in for when the day came. You look up, and the cameras pan to you and him. That stare, oh that stare that spoke the romance no other book or poet could explain. His smile widened, gaze softened when he noticed you cried. Proud of the man who made his dreams come true.

Maybe you weren't there for all the days he drove but that engagement ring, that symbolised you, was there for all of them. You give him a nod and his smile widens.

"I'll do it, I swear one day, I'll be added to the list of legends who came before me and when I do, I need you there, my love," he kissed you. "And when I do, you nod at me, that's how I'll know you are proud of me," he whispered.

As the night came to an end, the photos, flashes, and signatures, all rushed to come and find you. He needed his right cheek kissed and maybe this time it wouldn't be his lips but to just feel you next to him, that fed him enough. He spotted you and as he ran to you, he stopped in his tracks.

One month, two days and three hours. That is how late he was to you. His gaze was now filled with tears as he saw you hold another hand. A woman, looking for nothing but sex approached him and he declined. "Why not?" She questioned him. "I have a fiancé," he said coldly and moved away from her. He looked down, at a paper, written by his poetic hand, a small box, made by him with the help of some carpenter, all gripped as he swore he would not give up. Not ever, especially when he knows that in this life, he was meant for one woman. Maybe he did fuck up, maybe he will be forever alone but to know that for one second he held you in his arms, that was enough.

He nodded and sighed, "Is it over now?" he thought. "No," your heart would've responded for you. As he turns and walks away, you look back and you notice that box. Your heart...oh that tingle that makes you feel alive. Maybe it was all in his head, maybe he wasn't late...maybe. "Simon!" you called out, the crowd too loud for him to hear you. Your friend lets go of your hand. "Simon!" you move through the crowds. "Simon, stop!" You push and run. Adrenaline, maybe not like the one he has after every race but it's still something. He walks away, getting into a car and looking at that piece of paper.

No one heard of him for months. No one heard of you for months.

My love, my R/N, I made a mistake. Not cheating but one that is worse, pretending I didn't call you my wife to everyone else. A vow I made in my head, a wedding night I planned one night as we made love. Truth is, no, I didn't cheat. No, I didn't sleep with anyone when I was with you. What happened was, I noticed it. I noticed how you paused your life for mine, how you took care of me, how you made sure I ate healthy, slept enough, and got used to different time zones, all whilst giving your life no attention. I was 17 when we first met, you and I, an accidental 'Hi' one that gave me the privilege of falling in love with the woman who knows me better than anyone else. I've known you for a decade now, loved you for nine of those years, and made you my girlfriend for five of them. I wore that title with pride. By the way, didn't you ever question why everyone called you my wife or Mrs. Riley? Funny how you didn't even ask me about it. I admit, I was only at those clubs looking for you, I didn't drink but pretended to, I kissed their cheeks, made it look like I kissed their lips. In my head, I was married. I am married. Called you my little wife when you patted my helmet to the mechanics, they laughed. I did sleep with other women, I confess to that but I didn't kiss them, didn't care for their pleasure, not when I promised it was your pleasure...just yours that mattered to me. Did you keep my locket? I hope you did, if not...it's fine, we'll find a new one and start fresh. I know you are wondering, why I can't let you talk as I give this speech and I know you are crying, your lips quiver as I confess. It's a reason why I haven't looked up from this piece of paper. I can't see you cry, you know that. I am begging, begging as an imbecile, to have you again. To prove that I never cheated, I lied about doing it but never did. You'd think I'd be crazy to cheat on a crazy girl like you? Baby, that was a joke, although...you are a little crazy but I still love you. I love you...yeah...yeah, I do. I know you are asking, when will this stupid man stop talking and it's now. Well, wait...just let me say this. Marry me, marry me so I don't have to pretend anymore. So...please, be kind to my bastard heart and marry me.

A/N: you know well a Kasper fic isn't a Kasper angst fic if it doesn't end in a 'but are they together? did he die? did she die?' way

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squishycheekanon · 19 days

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Limerence | Seven

C H A P T E R S E V E N

limerence / lim-ê-rêns / (noun)

“Obsessive romantic attraction towards another person”

Summary: In which the owners of Jujutsu Incorporated, the Ôgami brothers, are suddenly interested in you.

Pairing: Alpha!Sukuna x reader, Alpha!Itadori x reader, Alpha!Gojo x reader, Alpha!Geto x reader, Alpha!Nanami x reader, Alpha!Kenjaku x reader

Status: Ongoing.

Genre: werewolf au, soulmate, polyamory relationship, angst, fluff, omegaverse, a/b/o dynamics.

Warnings: smut, violence, mentions of knotting, heats, ruts, insecurities, some descriptions of reader’s body, mention of possible ED, omegaspace, domdrop, swearing, blood, depression, suicidal thoughts, possessiveness, obsessive thoughts, Alpha tendencies.

Chapter Warnings: nudity, panic attack, talks about scar, negative thoughts, first heat, smuttyness, scent talk. Writing this late so let me know if there is more I need to tag.

Masterlist | Chapter Six | Chapter Eight

Taglist: @better-imagination-9 @tiredjuniper @jjkz @honeybeeboobaa @cherryblossomdelusion @dependsonthedream @alluresenses @qardasngan @imcamboaf @ondragonhonour @misscaller06 @itsberrydreemurstuff @queen-luna-007 @thepeachesclub @xxemmarldxx @elleflying07 @heartless-tate @victoria1676 @dremerys @openup-yourmind @catobsessedlady @topmeyelena @your-favourite-god @neptunieesworld

Taglist is open.

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Previously on Limerence:

“She has anxiety?” Yuji asked more to himself.

“Don’t we all?” Suguru joked making his brother give him a ‘shut the fuck up’ look. He raised his hands up in a show of surrender, smirk still on his face.

“I just mean, I didn’t know she had it to the extent of having to take meds for it.” Yuji explained his thoughts glancing down at you.

“Neither did I. None of us do. I guess I realised that when I was at her place too. None of us know her yet, we don’t know anything about her, her life, her family. None of it. We’ve known her for a day, not even a full day either.” Suguru sighed, he couldn’t wait to learn more about you.

“We will soon. I’m excited for the days I know all there is to know. I will feel like I’m complete as her mate.” Yuji laughed with joy on his face only for Suguru to wipe it away.

“Something tells me there will always be something new to learn with our gorgeous mate.”

Kento had talked it out with Sukuna and Satoru, both brothers had made sure that Kento was in the correct headspace before coming to find you. He found you wiping the sleep from your eyes fighting to stay awake while Yuji ran his fingers through your hair gently.

“Why don’t we get you a fresh set of clothes, get you out of those ripped ones hmm?” Suguru offered and smiled like a lovesick puppy when you nodded sleepily, he patted Kento on the back as he left to grab you some clothes.

“Sweetheart?” Kento’s hands had began to shake, he knew that even if it wasn’t all his fault, it was partly his doing. How stupid he was to have let Jade stay in that room. He should have ushered her out before taking the call. He shouldn’t have been so trusting with a stranger around his mate, what a fool he was.

You looked up at Kento and felt conflicted. You yourself understood he wasn’t at fault, yet your dormant omega who had suddenly become alive, she was apprehensive. She felt betrayed in some way that had you feeling waves of the same feeling even if you didn’t want to.

“I’m sorry.” Is all he says, almost like he doesn’t know what else to say, or maybe he knows it doesn’t matter what he says, you won’t forgive that easily. That’s why your omega relaxes slightly, she can clearly see the promise to make it up to you, to grovel and graft sparkling in his eyes.

You just nod, but it’s all your omega is allowing you to do. Thankfully Suguru has perfect timing as he comes back into the room with a small pile of clothing for you. With a sweet smile he holds them out to you, offering him a smile of your own you take the pile from his hands. Slipping off of Yuji’s lap, he inhales sharply making you turn around with a frown, then you hear the same thing from the two other men in the room.

“What?” You frown turning back to your other two mates.

“Angel h-how…” you turn back to the pink haired man, his eyes brimming with tears.

“What?” You blink confused, then you feel it. A slight breeze blowing over your bare back, tickling the damaged skin and suddenly your lungs feel like sandpaper as your breathe in and out, suddenly Yuji’s proximity as he stands suffocates you. Something burning starts to unfurl in your stomach like you’d be retching soon, a coil tightening, curling and swirling until a shiver of terror racks its way through your body and your running.

Pushing past Kento who tries to catch you but your faster, slipping out of what little grip he had on you and running right into a confused looking Sukuna, bumping his shoulder and once again pushing. You needed to get away, needed to breathe. All you knew was that you were drowning and the longer you went without air, the further down you were being pulled. Your eyes began to blacken at the edges just as you reached what you hoped was the front door and as if God was on your side for once, it was.

The sky was pitch black, the only light coming from the street lamps. A golden hue shining over you as you descended deeper into your frazzled state of anxiety. Then as though the sky cracked open with a noise only rivalled by a sonic boom, Kento roared. It was automatic the way your feet stopped,

Even through your fuzzy brain and lightheadedness you still managed to hear the growled command, “Omega. Breathe.” You did. You took in deep breath, after deep breath until you were almost hyperventilating, almost exactly the same as you did this morning when you met them. Fuck it hadn’t even been a full day of knowing them and already you’d had what? Two? Three? Mental break downs.

“Omega.” Sukuna rushes to you, falling on his knees too. His arms surrounding your figure, pulling away quickly when you hiss and cry out as his skin meets yours where your shirt had been ripped at the back.

“Kuna.” Oh. His eyes are glued to you, fuck he hadn’t heard anyone call him that ever. He wishes it wasn’t laced with the sadness and pain clear as day in your voice. He wishes to hear it only in your happiest times.

“I’m here pup, just breathe omega. My beautiful omega, breathe for me,” you nod doing your best to take the breaths he’s asking you to, “that’s it, good girl. Good girl keep doing that, in and out slowly like me. Watch me.” He says cupping your cheek with his hand and turning your head until your eyes are on him, and as he asks you watch him, slowly falling into a steady rhythm of copying him. Air fills your lungs the way it desperately needs.

You allow Sukuna to coax you back inside and into the living room, it seems like everything is moving in slow motion as he leads you to sit on the sofa, kneeling in front of you. He frowns, face pinched with pain as he watches the tears fall down your cheeks, “Please pup, tell Alpha what he can do to make it better.”

You shake your head, “You can’t fix this, you can’t fix me. I can’t be fixed. I’ve tried, I’m still trying. Nothing works.” You say so strong and a matter of fact that Sukuna feels like he’s being challenged, he hears his wolf whine for the first time in its entire existence, “If you knew…” you start only to sigh and bury your face in your hands.

Sukuna goes to push for an answer when a hand places itself on his shoulder, he looks up to find Kenjaku staring down at him shaking his head. No room for arguments, Sukuna moves away from you so Kenjaku can pick you up. You squeal and after a slight panic you realise it’s just Kenny. With a small huff you ask to be put down to which he simply responds “No.”

Kenjaku carries you through the blue hallway, up the stairs and third door on the right. It’s, dark and a little cold, you feel yourself being placed on a cold surface then a flick of a switch and the white light fills the space around you. A modern style bathroom that you guess would look big if the enormous gorgeous beast wasn’t stood in it.

You take notice of the black marble countertop you’ve been placed on, it contrasts perfectly with the white tiled walls, and the white sink, next to which is the pile of clothes Suguru had given you earlier. How long had Kenjaku been back and how the hell did he manage to refold and place the clothes in a neat heap on the side?

“Arms up.” His voice is the softest it’s ever been, he hopes his face isn’t too harsh either as he watches you carefully. You go to say no, your mind begs you to only to be shushed by your omega with a softly whispered, alpha’s talking.

You hold your arms up in the air and the way the corner of his lip twitches up makes your chest swell with happiness, he looks proud of you and that has you almost preening under his gaze. He moves forward slowly, rough fingers grazing the soft skin of your hips as he grabs the hem of your ruined top and pulls it off of you dropping it on the floor.

He goes in again hooking his fingers in the sides of your trousers, “Lift.” He orders and you do, putting your body weight on the strength of your arms to push your bum off the counter enough for Kenjaku to pull your trousers down. He drops those on the floor too before grabbing the trousers in the pile and slipping them on.

He grabs the sweater, brown sharp eyes that are desperately trying to be softer, glare at your bra in offense. Before you can even protest Kenjaku is pinging the clasp of your bra open, he doesn’t even bother to look away respectfully as your breast spill out. He simply pulls away the bra, dropping it on the pile on the floor and pulls the tops onto your head, helping you put your arms in the correct holes.

You’re once again fully clothed, covered from the shoulders down in soft comforting cotton. Though your cheeks are warmer, your body feels a little achy and you have this throbbing feeling in your lower abdomen.

“Better?” He tilts his head waiting for an answer, the sight makes you crack a smile and nod.

“Thanks Kenny.” You see him freeze, a wrinkle in time, a pause in his world but not in yours. What he does next surprises you, his arms wrap around your body as he begins to nudge your legs apart so he can step in between them and hold you tightly. His thin lips drag over the skin on your forehead, leaving the sweetest of kisses there.

“You’re welcome princess.” His deep voice, the way his sturdy body was pressed against yours, how held you tender yet tight. And his scent, fuck, his scent the sweetest cinnamon hot chocolate and something musky like a manly cologne sprayed on himself to minimise the sweetness of his scent.

You realise that all of your mates have sweet bakery scents, sweet treats or drinks. Each of them attractive to you, each smelling like something you’d get from the bakery across the road from Jujutsu Kaisen Headquarters. It simply makes you bury your face further into his neck and inhale deeper.

Your nose pressed up against his scent gland was something else entirely, you breathed in deeply and unconsciously rolled your hips against the marble counter top. You’d not noticed too busy getting high on your vicious mate’s sweet smell but Kenjaku…oh he’d noticed. He reckons he could sniff out your arousal from down the street with how strong it was. His brothers would definitely notice too if that thought was anything to go by.

“Princess?” Kenjaku was unsure what to do to in this situation, to his knowledge you hadn’t had a heat ever. Was this one coming on or were you just horny? He couldn’t make heads or tails of it but what he did know was that you were clinging onto to him tighter, breathing heavily while your hips hesitantly rolled stuttering slightly each time.

“Yes Kenny?” You sounded so innocent like you genuinely didn’t know what you were doing. It had him closing his eyes tightly to get himself to calm down before he spoke.

“Are you okay?” Not wanting to scare you off by pointing out your unconscious actions, he’d let you lead this conversation. If you chose not to say anything about it, he would happily stay like this until you were ready to pull away.

“I’m not sure. I’m really hot all of a sudden.” And it was all of a sudden, like a flick of a switch, a wave of painful heat shot through your body lingering the most in your lower stomach where you’d get your period cramps. If felt similar to that but hot and more painful. It had you hunching over, hands scrambling to grab onto anything that would anchor you as the pain pulsed through your body, wave after wave.

“Omega?” He questioned, bending with you only to be hit with a strong surge of your phenomenons, they were pungent and smelled so fucking good. The way your body pushed them out more and more with each wave of pain you experienced, you were calling for an Alpha to aid you, help you.

“Alpha.” You gasped sharply, throwing your head back with a pleasure expression when Kenjaku’s hand gripped your thigh, his touch sent sparks all over you. Tingles of exquisite pleasure coming from the simple pressure of his fingertips on your leg.

“Ken.” Kenjaku was quick to snap his head towards his brother who stood in the doorway, his blonde hair messy and his clothes ruffled. He looked as disgruntled as earlier in the day right after the Jade incident occurred. He looked his way expecting an answer of what was happening to you.

“I think she’s going into her first heat.” Kento’s eyes widened with shock at his black haired brother’s words.

“But that’s..” he wanted to say impossible but would it be? You were finally surrounded by all your mates, you’d had an extremely stressful day which had pushed your once dormant omega out of hiding. It was entirely possible that your first heat, long overdue, would come now.

You moaned arching your back when Kenjaku’s hand had slid up your thigh even higher, his pinky brushing against the front of your clothed cunt. His eyes raking over your figure, he couldn’t help the groan that slipped out when he noticed the wet patch that had began to grow there. You were slicking up ready to be knotted.

“Fuck what do we do?” Kenjaku asks not taking his eyes off of you as you began to breathe raggedly and buck your hips in search of the friction you needed.

“She’s going to need us.” Sukuna’s voice had joined the conversation, making his presence known.

“She’s not…she won’t be ready for that mentally or emotionally even if she is physically.” Kento said shaking his head. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to go. You were supposed to get to know them and them know you. You were supposed to exchange ‘I love you’s’ first. Have the ultimate trust in them first.

Not even a day and your body was already in tune with them and your omega had slotted herself back into your life, coming back just as easily as she had left it.

“Kuna.” You whimpered, a sheer contrast to how you’d cried it earlier voice so full of sadness. Now it was needy and wanting, filled with desperation.

“Yeah baby I’m here, what’d you need bunny?” He pushes past Kento to come to your aid, his usual teasing expression completely gone and replaced with pure seriousness.

“We should move her to a bed, get her comfortable for what’s coming.” Kento suggested, talking lowly to Kenjaku as you reached forward clinging to Sukuna grabbing at his hand roughly to bring it to your aching pussy.

“Omega, be patient.” He intoned you, the first time you’d ever experienced it. The automatic response to do exactly as you’d just been told was maddening.

“Which room?” Sukuna asked his brothers.

“What’s going on?” Satoru had come seeking out you and the glorious smell that had began to fill the house. His white hair all tussled in a stressful way just like Kento’s.

“Sweetheart which room do you want to be in?” Kento asked you watching your face carefully.

“Kenny’s.” You whined despite how tightly you clung to Sukuna. Almost as if an order had been given Sukuna wrapped his arms around your body and began marching through the hallway and straight into Kenjaku’s room. He placed you on the big dark blue covered bed gently, leaning back and watching the way your back arched off the bed. He had to try his hardest to resist when you made grabby hands in his direction.

All six Alphas in one room now, all watching as you writhed in a waves of pain and begged for pleasure to be given to you. Only one question needed to be asked.

“What do we do?”

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niqhtlord01 · 2 months

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Humans are weird: What use is honor in war?

( Please come see me on my new patreon and support me for early access to stories and personal story requests :D https://www.patreon.com/NiqhtLord Every bit helps)

*Clouds of ash part to reveal burnt out husks of barracks complexes, shatter communication towers, and looming over all of it was the crumbling structure of the once proud command center itself.*

*Setting down in front of the command building a small squad of human soldiers approach and form a cordon to either side of the lowering boarding ramp.*

*General Marius Fimble slowly walks down the ramp flanked by a pair of black clad honor guard. His robotic left foot slamming against the ramp with a resounding cannon like echo until he reaches the bottom*

Colonel: *Salutes* General.

Marius: *Returns salute lazily while scanning surroundings* Colonel.

Colonel: You can relax sir; we’ve cleared the area of all resistance.

Marius: Complacency breeds overconfidence; never forget that.

Colonel: Sir!

Marius: Do you have him?

Colonel: We are keeping him in the main building to prevent escape.

Marius: *Confused* Have they made attempts?

Colonel: First one he killed three and injured twelve.

Marius: First?

Colonel: Second he killed seven and injured six, then again three hours later with eight injured.

Marius: He’s tried escaping three times already?

Colonel: Oh no.

Colonel: Those were all within the first seven hours of capture; we’re on twenty seven attempts by now.

Marius: *Grunts*

Marius: Let’s get this over with then before he kills any more of my men.

*Colonel escorts the general and his guards inside the command center. Descending three flights of stairs the group comes to an armored door guarded by twenty soldiers and an auto turret pointed at the doorframe*

Marius: Open it.

*The armored door slowly creeks open as all twenty guards take aim at the opening. The auto turret slowly begins spinning its turrets in preparation to fire as the general walks by.*

Marius: *Waves his bodyguards* Wait here.

Colonel: I would not recommend that, sir.

Marius: *Walks past Colonel and into the room* Noted.

*The door slams behind Marius as he takes in the surroundings. A single light hangs from the ceiling illuminating a lone figure secured firmly to the ground my numerous heavy chains*

Marius: Commandant Fring, we meet at last.

Fring: *Spits out glob of purple blood at Marius’s feet*

Marius: *Steps over it without acknowledging it*

Marius: I had heard tales of the great Grung military back in my academy days and I must say after fighting you, I am deeply underwhelmed.

Fring: *Low growl*

Marius: *Circling the room* Over a thousand years of military prowess and I took you apart in less than a day.

Fring: YOU STRUCK WITHOUT HONOR!

*Fring lunges at Marius who doesn’t flinch. The chains straining under the sudden pressure with Fring just out of reach of Marius’s throat*

*Marius watches in silence as Fring continues for several minutes before relenting*

Marius: I never understood that.

Fring: What?

Marius: Honor.

Fring: You do not understand it because you have never held it.

Fring: You preach of taking down our military when you attacked like cowards and thieves in the dead of night! Slaughtering my warriors while they slept rather than dying by their hands on the field of battle!

Marius: The purpose of war is to win.

Marius: Everything else takes a back seat to that one concept; because if you don’t win nothing you were fighting for matters.

Fring: And yet it is the manner of how you fight that defines who you are.

Fring: And you are a coward!

Marius: So you justify your incompetence by claiming I am a coward?

Fring: You dare!?!

Marius: You were unprepared for an attack despite declaring war on my people. They should have been mustering for war and already onboard troop ships heading out of system; instead they were…how did you put it? Ah yes, they were sleeping.

Marius: *Leans in close to Fring who lunges again only to be grabbed by the general’s hand*

*The general’s grip is iron and Fring claws at it as he gasps for air. There is no emotion behind the eyes of the human leader as he watches his foe*

Marius: Honor, is a novelty for those who can afford it. A justification to fight in a manner of combat they prefer regardless of how many souls die by the outdated ideal that is “Honor”. I fight to win wars, and though my victories seem beneath you I ensure that my men, my soldiers, will return home safe and sound because I fought using my head and not my heart.

*Marius let’s go of Fring who collapses to the ground*

Marius: *Looks down at Fring* You fought with your heart and you lost five field army’s worth of soldiers in a single night.

Fring: Do you keep me alive just to mock me? End me then, for I will hear none of this.

Marius: *Chuckles* I’m sure I had a reason for keeping you alive, but seeing you now I can’t for the life of me wonder why I thought it was worth the effort.

Marius: *bangs on door and the door opens*

Marius: *motions to the soldiers* kill him.

#humans are insane #humans are weird #humans are space oddities #humans are space orcs #scifi #story #writing #original writing #niqhtlord01

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esamastation · 7 months

Text

Part thirty-four of Shizuroth, aka, the SOLDIER General's Self Saving Shizun.

Ao3 link.

Previous parts: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three

Sephiroth feels a little better after an evening of meditation and a full night of sleep. Things look a little better in the light of day, and though the question of what the fuck he'd going to do about the war is still there, it has been put off. In favour of monster hunting!

"You seem… excited?" Angeal comments as they prepare to go.

He is! "Mn," Sephiroth answers, and carefully doesn't bounce with eagerness.

Even if the monsters of Final Fantasy can't hold a candle to the convoluted, messy and lazily put together nature of the monsters in PIDW, they're still interesting! Especially since he isn't sure what they actually are and how they work. Advent Children and Crisis Core really make it so unclear, because, like, everything turned into energy sparkles when it died? And he thinks in the movie one of the Sephiroth copies - weird to think about them now - summoned some monsters with magic? And then there was Zack in Crisis Core. Who turned into sparkles when he died!

Not everything can just disappear into energy, right, you need living things dying and rotting and composting to make up soil and stuff! If plants just disappear when they die, what do people eat, what were all these buildings made from? Plus he distinctly remembers coal being a thing in this setting, there was a whole town that got shafted because of it and everything, so fossil fuels exist, therefore stuff must leave behind physical remains! Except when it doesn't?

So! Is death like instant ascending here? Or like it descending, since all energy returns to the Planet? Sephiroth is pretty sure that Aerith left behind a body, and there were definitely corpses in the original game - but again, in the prequel it was really unclear. Enemies in combat disappeared, but cutscene death left a body. Except when it didn't!

Ah, the limitations of technology.

Still, he's interested in seeing how the creatures would look and feel and compare them to those he knows from PIDW. Final Fantasy VII had some really weird monsters, and he has a bet going with himself about how much they resemble awakened beasts or yaoguai.

Angeal looks at him and then smiles, hoisting the Buster Sword to his back. "Ready to go, then?"

"Ready," Sephiroth agrees.

"We're going to have to talk to the Colonel first, but don't worry - I'll handle the talking," Angeal says. "He's an… old-fashioned soldier."

Sephiroth arches a brow. It sounds like a warning. "Which means…?"

"He doesn't like SOLDIER, he thinks we're stuck up and get our abilities handed to us, we don't deserve our reputation, the usual stuff," Angeal shrugs. "Just ignore it and let me handle it."

"... If you say so."

They head outside together, and Sephiroth takes a moment to look around and try to be an objective observer. This place isn't really anything like the towns back home, in PIDW - the aesthetics are mixed, and though they're more like home than Midgar was, it's as if the place was squeezed through a funhouse mirror. It's just a little off.

And of course, there are no locals anywhere to be seen for a full comparison - just Shinra troops, infantry men and SOLDIERs. Who, the moment they notice him and Angeal, stop to stare and point and whisper.

Has the… incident in Midgar already spread this far, or is this really what it's like being Sephiroth all the time?

Depressing.

"Here," Angeal says and leads him to another house, apparently being used by the Colonel. "Remember, let me do the talking. You just stand there and look imposing, okay?"

Sephiroth snorts. "I think I can manage that."

The Colonel didn't look happy to see them, but then, he doesn't look like a man that's ever really happy. He sizes Sephiroth up and then scoffs. "It's about time. I don't know what kind of discipline you SOLDIER Firsts enjoy in Midgar, but this is a war front, sir, there are rules here."

Does that mean Sephiroth isn't a General then?

"Right, you're right, of course, sir," Angeal says placatingly. "Well, we're here now, and we already have missions lined up, so -"

The Colonel ignores him and comes around his desk and to Sephiroth's face. "You've been in and out of Wutai for most of this war, isn't that correct, SOLDIER?"

Sephiroth blinks at the man, slowly. "I suppose so." Behind the Colonel Angeal looks panicked.

"What was that?" The Colonel asks dangerously, narrowing his eyes. "You suppose so?"

Sephiroth narrows his eyes back.

The Colonel continues. "When talking to an officer of superior rank, you answer yes sir, or no sir. You do not suppose! Now, do you have experience in the war or not, SOLDIER?!"

Oh, someone is feeling very insecure in their boots, aren't they?

Now, Sephiroth could handle this with all the tact and delicacy of Shen Qingqiu… but even Shen Qingqiu wouldn't have swallowed that kind of spiel without biting. The original definitely wouldn't have! And Sephiroth is supposed to be a villain… well.

Sephiroth smiles - the Colonel recoils.

Last night he'd reread everything there was on his phone about Wutai, going through all his missions again, trying to get as much intelligence as he could. Funny, the things the tutorial left out.

"I'm sorry," Sephiroth says sweetly. "Who are you?"

The Colonel goes a little red. "Excuse me, SOLDIER?"

"You're barking at me as though at a private, expecting me to go yes sir and no sir," Sephiroth says mockingly. "And yet I have no clue as to who you even are."

Behind the Colonel Angeal gapes and then lifts a pleading look to the ceiling.

The Colonel sputters. "You, you - How dare -"

Ah, you gotta love zero IQ bullies.

"I was given a whole slew of missions and orders," Sephiroth says softly. "All are very vital and high priority. I'm to slay monsters that have killed your men, I'm to hunt down spies you've clearly failed to find, I'm to clear a guard station you haven't been able to get near, I'm to weaken a fortress you cannot even touch, and ten other things besides. All my mission files are very clear. And you know what they all have in common?"

He leans a little closer to the Colonel - right in his purple face. "Not a single one of them mentions you."

Then, before the Colonel can recover, Sephiroth turns on his heel with an imaginary mike drop and saunters out, feeling a whole lot better about everything. The sun is shining, the troopers are scattering at the mere sight of him, and the air is fresh and sweet with natural Qi.

Already this day is looking up.

Angeal, clearly deciding that evasion was the better part of valour, hurries after him. "We're going to pay for that later, you know," he says, sounding defeated.

Of that Sephiroth doesn't have any doubts. What good is a one-time bully? There'd either be a horrifying scene of comeuppance to bring home the realities of war, or a heartfelt discovery and understanding about how they're not so different after all, or whatever else.

"We'll burn that bridge when we get to it," Sephiroth says cheerfully. "Now. I was promised monsters."

Angeal sighs, glancing back at the house commandeered by the Colonel. "... I guess we better clear out anyway. Alright," he motions. "Right this way to the monsters."

Sephiroth grins at his bitchy tone, and together they head out.

SY can have a petty bully scene, as a treat.

#Fanfiction #ffvii #ff7 #svsss #shen qingqiu #shen yuan #sephiroth #angeal hewley

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killa-trav · 2 months

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Oliver Bearman: No lunch, hug from Lewis and a bad back - my F1 Debut

Ferrari's 18-year-old might not have realised his dream had his parents decided on a carpet for Christmas over buying their eldest child a go-kart when he was six

The first grand prix video game that Oliver Bearman played on his Xbox in his Chelmsford home was F1 2012, for which the advertisers’ tagline read: “Be the Driver. Live the Life. Go Compete”. When he was choosing which driver to adopt as his in-game persona, Bearman would alternate. “I used to always pick Jenson Button or Lewis Hamilton,” he says. “They were the home heroes.”

Last weekend on the helter-skelter street circuit in Jeddah, he was given a more three-dimensional experience of Hamilton’s racing. As one of Ferrari’s reserve drivers, the 18-year-old was catapulted from the F2 meeting in which he had secured pole position to compete in his first Formula 1 race, with Carlos Sainz struck down by an appendicitis. He became the youngest British driver to race in a grand prix and the third youngest of any nationality.

In the closing stages, he found himself pursued by Hamilton and Lando Norris, both on fresher tyres and expected to gain ground quickly on Bearman’s Ferrari. Remarkably, the teenager held them off, finishing in seventh place, and the first person to greet him as he strode unsteadily out of his car was Hamilton, the seven-times world champion.

“I can’t really remember what he said,” Bearman says. “He shook my hand, gave me a hug, which was a great moment. I’ve grown up watching these guys and to have shared a track with them was just an honour. To have recognition from Lewis, one of the greatest in our sport, was a very proud moment.”

What Bearman had just done would have seemed, to most teenagers, like stepping directly through the screen and into one of those video games. Be the driver? Tick. Go compete? Tick. Live the life? Well, he did for one weekend, even if he was back that night, after the race, in the budget Ibis hotel where all the F2 drivers had been billeted.

This week he returned to a dose of relative normality at his flat in Modena, from where he spoke to The Times. He is based at the Ferrari Driver Academy and walking into the company factory on Tuesday, he glanced at the big screens around the building that are usually showing footage of Sainz and Charles Leclerc in action. Bearman had to pause momentarily when he looked up to see his own image.

Over the past couple of days he has been testing near Venice with his F2 team, Prema, beginning preparations for his next race in Australia, for which he flies out on Saturday. As Sainz is expected to have recovered, Bearman should be back in his F2 car in Melbourne, but last weekend demonstrated the need to be ready for anything and Bearman, with composure beyond his years, showed that he was more than equal to the task.

May the G-force be with you

When he eventually made it back to his hotel room, the first thing he did, naturally, was to watch the entire race back. “The race finished about 10pm, you have about 1½ hours of media and then you’re into a debrief with the team,” he says. “By the time I got back to the hotel, it was 1am, and by the time I got to sleep it was half two, because I had to watch the race. We had a flight at 11am, so I slept for five hours, which didn’t help because I needed some recovery. But I had to watch the race. I’ve watched it maybe five times now.”

How did it feel watching it back? “The first time I was like, ‘Ah, I missed a bit of lap time there, I should have overtaken there,’ ” he says. “But now I’m really happy with what I achieved. I don’t think I could have asked much more of myself, considering the circumstances.”

The next morning he had breakfast with his F2 team and realised how gingerly he was walking, having experienced the G-force — up to about 5G — of an F1 car for the first time, in a race almost twice the length of his usual outings, with over 50 laps and about 1hr 40min of time on the track. His seat had been swiftly installed in Sainz’s car and the indentations in his headrest gave an indication of how he had been jolted around.

“Most of the pain was from my lower back,” he says. “The neck is a given, but Jeddah is one of the most difficult tracks. Even the straights, they twist quite a bit, which doesn’t look much, but when you repeat it 50 times, there’s no rest. With my back, I’m quite tall [6ft 2in], F1 cars are very tight and not built for comfort. Everything was very last minute. When I made the seat, I didn’t think I’d be having to use it.”

Bearman was struck by the physical differences from F2. “We don’t have as much downforce or G-force in F2, so the strain is much less,” he says. “But we don’t have power steering in F2, so the steering work is super-heavy. When I’ve finished an F2 race, my arms are usually tired, but apart from that I’m fine. In F1, the steering is very light, but it’s everything else. You’re just getting thrown around. Muscles you don’t feel like you’re engaging, they’re aching the next day.

“And it’s exhausting; you lose a lot of water, I couldn’t believe how sweaty I was. The race is so long. Every time you cross the finish line, the dash pops up with how many laps [there are] to go. I could have sworn that number stayed frozen for a couple of laps. When I got to 25 laps, I was like, ‘Wow, we’re only halfway!’ It was a big challenge. But I really enjoyed it.”

'I realised this is really happening'

Ever since he sat behind the wheel of his first go-kart, a Christmas present at the age of six, Bearman has displayed a relish for the challenges of racing, with an exceptional ability to learn quickly. It is only 3½ years since he moved from karting to racing cars and his progress has been swift. His prowess in karting led to a Formula 4 opportunity in 2021 with the same Van Amersfoort Racing team with whom Max Verstappen had driven, and his results were spectacular. The next season he drove in Formula 3, the next in Formula 2, finishing sixth last year in the drivers’ standings.

But the step he was being asked to take on Friday, shortly after ordering chicken and rice for lunch in his Jeddah hotel, was something else altogether. After securing pole position for the F2 race, he had enjoyed a relaxing morning and was ready to eat alongside his father, David, his manager, Chris Harfield, Jamie Smith, his former kart mechanic, and other members of his team.

“I was feeling really chilled, I’d been in the gym and we didn’t have to be on the track until 3pm,” he says. “And then I got the call.” That came from Frédéric Vasseur, the Ferrari team principal. “I could guess what was about to be said,” Bearman says. “Something just clicked and I was, like, ‘Right, this is it.’ They said we had to be at the track in half an hour. My food didn’t even come out. I skipped lunch completely and went straight to the track.”

Within three hours he would be in the final practice session, with qualifying to come that evening. “When I got to the track, the news hadn’t been announced, so no one was taking any notice of me,” he says. “By the time I was walking to the car, everyone knew, and I was shocked at the amount of people gathering. That was very nerve-racking; I’m not used to that attention. And I got nervous when I saw some of the big stars. But that all made me realise: this is really happening.”

From kart track to street circuit

On the fastest street circuit in the F1 calendar, despite less than an hour of practising in the car, Bearman drove admirably in qualifying, coming 11th and only missing out on the final ten-car session by finishing 0.036sec behind Hamilton. For the first few laps of the race the next day, he achieved the aim of keeping out of trouble before the chance to exhibit his native racing instincts presented itself.

On the 11th lap, shortly after a safety car interlude, Bearman found himself behind the RB-Honda of Yuki Tsunoda. He dummied to pass on the right, prompting Tsunoda to cover his tracks, only to duck inside and pass on the left.

“It was a nice overtake, I was happy with that one, I’ve watched it back quite a few times,” Bearman says. “A lot of your racecraft comes from karting; I remember from eight, nine years old, racing bumper to bumper for the entire race. Those dummy moves are perfect, especially in karting without wing mirrors. It still works if you time it well.”

From an early age, Bearman had developed a passion for cars, inherited from his father. David had raced at club level and Bearman would go along to the track whenever possible. He developed a knack for identifying the makes and models of cars. “I’d have been able to name every single car on the road,” he says. “I was a bit of a nerd with that. At home, I had a bunch of model cars. A lot of kids have their thing, mine was model cars. I had a Bentley, a Ferrari, a jeep. I had my own little world there. Once I’d got my first kart, I just couldn’t wait to go racing.”

Perfect Christmas present for a boy racer

That first kart, bought in Christmas 2011, might not have come his way if his parents — David and his mum, Terri — had opted instead to buy the new carpet that was sorely needed at the family home. “We had some old lino that I absolutely hated,” David says. “We were either getting the carpet for Christmas or the go-kart. We scraped together the £1,500 for the go-kart and knew it was worth it the first time he jumped in; he just had a beaming smile all over his face.”

Once Bearman had given some early glimpses of his talent, at the age of eight he was entered into the British Championships, which meant long weekends on the road up and down the country for father and son. Bearman was often the youngest in his race, experiences that would prove formative. “One race, at Buckmore Park, I was up against some 12-year-olds and they just looked huge compared to me,” he says. “I remember the nerves. It was a rolling start and I got spun round before the race even started. They saw I was a novice and said, ‘Let’s get rid of this guy.’ But I loved those weekends and I learnt a lot.”

The problem was that the better Bearman became, the greater the cost involved in financing the hobby. His father knew from his own attempts to compete in motorsport how prohibitive the costs could be and realised he needed to be prepared. He had started an insurance broking firm in east London with his sister and brother and realised that the business needed to bring in more money if he was going to be able to support his son’s hobby, with two other children as well, Thomas, now 14, another budding racer, and Amalie, now 12.

In Ollie’s early teens, the next competitive step would have been to start travelling around Europe to compete in the FIA Karting Championship, but that was not a viable option. “You get the best karters in Europe, but the problem for us was twofold,” David says. “One, it’s very expensive, and we couldn’t afford it. Two, you’re taking the kids out of education, some of them at ten or 11. Yes, we were supporting him in sport but we didn’t know it was potentially a career. There are no guarantees in life and his education was really important.”

The insurance business, Aventum, has grown considerably, is now housed in smart offices in the City and has been one of Ollie’s primary sponsors. “We’ve had to keep upping our game and attracting more sponsors,” David says. “If you look at Ollie’s F2 car, every little bit is covered in sponsorship. I don’t own our business, we’re all shareholders; we can’t blow money just because it’s Ollie, there has to be a genuine return.

“But people look at this sport and think it’s for the elite only. Anyone can do it if you work hard enough and have the right mindset. Ollie is the proof of that.”

Passed GCSEs and a failed driving test

It was when Ollie’s success in F4 attracted the attention of Ferrari that the possibility of a career in the sport became tangible. He had just completed his GCSEs, with glowing results, at King Edward’s, a grammar school in Chelmsford, and a place at the Ferrari Driver Academy was an exciting prospect, but he had only just turned 16 and the idea of moving abroad without his family was daunting. “At the start, I missed my family and I tried to get home as much as possible to see them, it was tough and I was lonely,” Ollie says. “Now I still miss them, but I’ve got lots of friends here and I’ve grown up a bit.”

Learning the language was another challenge into which Bearman threw himself. A little more than two years later, he has picked up Italian to the extent that even his spoken English now comes with something of a lilt. “My friends do make fun of me for sounding a bit international,” he says. “Latin was compulsory at my school and I remember thinking, ‘I’m never going to need this,’ but it’s come in handy.”

On his returns to Essex, he now has the luxury of being able to drive on English roads, having passed his driving test 18 months ago. While he had already been identified by Ferrari as a future world champion, it was not something that impressed his driving examiner. “I failed my test the first time, which was really embarrassing. I asked [the examiner] if he liked F1, he said he hated it, and he failed me because he reckoned I didn’t stop at a stop sign. It was so difficult for me, things like how they want you to feed the [steering] wheel, it’s counterintuitive for me. I had to put a lot of thinking into that. I only took one lesson, I thought it would be easy. I found out the hard way that it wasn’t.”

He spends three or four days per month in England now and every time he returns home he hopes that he is still recognised by his dogs, Freddie, an English bull terrier, and Ruby, a Boston terrier. “I can’t Facetime them like I can my family,” he says. “But they always seem excited to see me.”

He still misses his family, but he knows that he is in the right place to continue his exhilarating progress towards one of those coveted regular seats in F1. “I’ve been making sacrifices all my life,” he says. “When I was younger, it was little things like birthday parties when I was away karting on weekends. My schoolmates would laugh when I said in year three that I wanted to be an F1 driver. Now I miss out on seeing family and friends. But I’d do it again in a heartbeat and I’ll keep doing it to make my dream a reality.”

BY JOHN WESTERBY FOR THE TIMES

#this is really long and really worth the read #will make u cry #hes literally my son n im so proud of him #ollie bearman

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callsigns-haze · 4 months

Text

Pretty like a crime

Chapter 7

Pairing: Agent Jake 'Hangman' Seresin x Singlemom! Agent Y/n 'Cobra' Y/l/n

Summary: Cobra is finally back on the agency and is finally back in the job. With Kai at home she has to jumble being a mother and a agent. She's sent to her first U.C mission but never thought that she would meet a blonde, green eyed Texan...

Warning: Mentions of gun use, ptsd, mentions of death, mentions of shooting, flirting, mentions of abuse, description of dead body, death, blood, undercover work, alcohol use, smut, kissing

Prologue/ Part 1/ Part 2/Part 3/ Part 4/ Part 5/ Part 6

----------SIX MONTHS LATER-----------

Mornings were the most enjoyable portion of the day in your home. It was calm and tranquil, which was unusual for the couple given the chaos of raising Kai.

You and Jake enjoyed the morning since your new schedules meant you didn't have to worry about work or Kai, whom you loved deeply. Those few hours you may spend together and enjoy a tranquil time in each other's arms

It was early in the morning, with sunlight streaming through the windows, when you felt Jake's massive arms weight on your waist and his nose nuzzling against the nape of your neck.

"Good morning, love," he whispered in his scratchy morning voice, drawing you against his bare chest.

“Good morning… ooh I see our big friend is also joining us this morning” your lips curled into the famous Seresin smirk that Jake thought you while feeling his hard cock against your panty covered ass.

“Can't stop it when I'm sleeping next to a goddess ” he slid his hand under your night gown tugging against the rim of your panties to get access to your slick folds.

“Jakey, what are you doing?” you giggled as he slowly lowered you panties.

“Giving my goddess the affection her needy ass needs. It’s been a while since our last trip downtown ” he says in his morning rasp as he leaves butterfly kisses down the side of your neck.

"It's only seven a.m., and he won't be up until nine, I can tell you that," he pulls you in closer, pressing his hardon into your ass.

"But.." you protested, but your body had already given in to him, allowing him to take control.

He silenced you before sliding his fingers inside your moist and massaging your clit in a circular manner. You moaned as he placed light kisses on the nape of your neck. "Does that feel good, mama?" he teases against your ear, his fingers moist with your sticky as he takes his time pleasing you.

"Mmmhmm," you murmured gently, your body lighting up at his touch. He slips two fingers into your heat and draws circles on your swelling bud with his thumb. Your hand returned to run your fingers through his hair, taking a grip of it as you pulled your hips back as he continued to pump his fingers in and out of you at a regular rhythm, which felt nice but wasn't enough for you.

"Please, Jake, fuck…." you said in a frantic whisper. He had won you over, but he was destroying you.

"What do you need baby?" You can hear the sneer in his mocking tone. "I need you, I want you inside me," you said, as Jake quickly pushed you onto your back and removed your pants.

"Don't worry, sweetheart, I'll take care of you," he says, raising your nightdress above your head.

He bends down to savour your lips, gasping as your tongue swirls with his. He kisses your breast and swirls your peaks around his tongue. Your hand reaches down and pushes his boxers to release his member.

He continues to suck on your tits as you wrap your fingers around his thick shaft, giving him a few strokes before lining him up with your entrance. He slips in smoothly, sighing quietly as his long, thick length fills your tightness.

"Fuck, darling" Jake murmured quietly into your ear, moving his hips into yours slowly and forcefully, making you tremble. His body was wonderfully moulded to yours. You tightened your legs around his hips, bringing him closer as he drove further into you.

"Fuck, Jakey, so close, oh!" you groaned, falling back as you achieved your peak. Jake was near as well, increasing up his tempo as your walls pulsated with the sensation of your high, making him chuckle at how you squirmed beneath him. You were both so caught up in each other's delight that you didn't notice your bedroom door was open.

"Mommy, Jakey?" Your son's tiny voice appears from thin air as you and Jake quickly pull up the covers for a bit of cleavage. Your little son is standing in your door frame, leaning a bit forward as Jake asks him what's up.

"I'm hungry…" Him and Jake have been getting along amazingly for the past few months but yet you still can't get over how shy your son manages to get at times. Jake knows how shy and antisocial Kai can truly get and says.

"Hey bud, give me a minute and I'll be down in the kitchen okay?" Kai to that, full of energy nods his head and runs off down the halls as you where about to get up but Jake quickly pushes you down and gets on top of you, kissing down your neck.

"I'll go take care off him, you rest, I bet I tired you out." He plants one more kiss on your lips and gets up grabbing some underwear and sweatpants beside the bed. "Jake you don't hav-" you've said that line already and many times before, and stops you in your tracks as he grabs a t-shirt and leaves the bedroom to take care of your son.

You lie down on the sofa mattress while staring up at the ceiling, wondering how you got so lucky. You've fallen for an agent that cares for you and your son and protects you no matter what. He cares for your son and how the young boy is doing. Overall he's just a gentleman.

You slowly rise out of bed, picking up your cleavage and pyjamas at the side. You slip on the top and bottom, swiftly walking over to the table where your phone starts to vibrate. You don't hesitate to pick up the phone even though it's an unknown number.

"Hello?"

"Hello Madame Chevalier."

Current taglist:

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lynzishell · 5 months

Text

Prev // Next

Transcript:

Phoenix arrives home exhausted after a long day. He can’t wait to slide into bed next to Dawn. It seems impossible to sync up their schedules lately, and he’s missing her a lot.

When he walks into the living room, he’s surprised to find her asleep on the couch.

He crouches down and strokes her hair, feeling almost guilty for waking her.

Phoenix: Hi. Dawn: You’re home. Phoenix: Yep. You must’ve been tired, you’re still in your work clothes. Dawn: So tired.

He stands to help her up, but she doesn’t move, doesn’t even open her eyes. Phoenix: Do you want to come to bed? Dawn: Mhm. I’ll be there in… in just a minute. Phoenix: [unconvinced] Right.

---

The two of them wake up the next morning on the couch, still in their clothes from the day before, and wrapped in each other’s arms. Their alarm is beeping faintly from the bedroom down the hall.

Phoenix squeezes Dawn tight before forcing himself to sit up.

Phoenix: Good morning. Dawn: G’morning. When did you get home? Phoenix: Around eleven. I tried to wake you. Dawn: I know. I was so tired, I couldn’t move. Thanks for staying with me. Phoenix: Of course. It feels like sleeping is the only thing we do together these days. I wasn’t going to miss it.

Dawn: Ough, I know, we need a vacation. Phoenix: We do. Where should we go? Dawn: Hmm, somewhere tropical. I want to drink cocktails on the beach and swim with dolphins. Phoenix: Oh, that’s different. Dawn: I know. I know you prefer the snow, but— Phoenix: No, let’s do it.

Dawn: Really? Phoenix: Yes, really. It’ll be fun to go somewhere new. And if you have to walk around in your bikini the whole time, then so be it. Dawn: I see. You have ulterior motives. Phoenix: Definitely.

Phoenix kisses her then, softly but in a way that makes it clear just what those motives are.

Unfortunately, the alarm is still beeping in the other room, reminding them that there’s another busy day ahead of them. They both sigh and look at each other, wishing they could soak in this rare moment together a little longer… maybe they can.

Dawn: I’ll go shut off the alarm. Will you put on a pot of coffee? Phoenix: Yep. When do you have to leave? Dawn: About an hour. How quick do you think we can get ready? Phoenix: Thirty minutes? Dawn: Ooh, ambitious.

---

Phoenix: So, when should we do it? Dawn: Do what? Phoenix: Take a vacation.

Dawn: You tell me. You have that look. Phoenix: What look? Dawn: That I’m-asking-a-question-so-I-can-give-you-the-answer look. Phoenix: I don’t do that. Dawn: So, you haven’t already come up with a plan?

Phoenix: Okay, maybe I do that. Dawn: Mhm. So, when should we do it? Phoenix: How about August? It’s far enough in advance to plan, and it’s the last chance I’ll have before things get crazy in the fall.

Dawn: And just in time for our anniversary. Phoenix: [feigning surprise] Is it? Dawn: That sounds perfect. I have to get going though, so we’ll have to figure out the rest later.

Phoenix: What time will you be home tonight? Dawn: Six. Seven, at the latest. Will you be here? Phoenix: I’ll try to be. Dawn: Okay. I love you. Phoenix: I love you too.

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two-white-butterflies · 1 year

Text

coaxed you into paradise - c. 24

Description: The life of Saera Targaryen told in four acts. She was her father's forgotten daughter, cast aside as she looked nothing like her mother. Her younger days were spent beside her uncle. Years following her marriage with Ser Harwin Strong, she catches him in an affair with her older sister. She returns to seek solace in the arms of her uncle, that she's loved all her life.

(Coaxed You Into Paradise and High Infidelity Rewrite.)

masterlist for this series

Chapter Twenty-Four: The Dance

(Six Years Timeskip)

“Larys remains firm on having you supplanted as Daegon’s regent,” he explained, entering the room with a letter on his hand. She scoffs - continuing to rock her second son, Daelon, to sleep. Larys was an idiot who tried to scheme behind her back - but she had eyes everywhere. There were rumors about Saera - that she burnt her husband to death. “It does not matter, no one believes him.” she dismisses, earning a groan from her husband.

She was quick to underestimate the firefly, but Daemon knew that Larys’ treachery ran cold and deep. “Mysaria tells me that he is Alicent’s closest confidant.” he reasoned, a prompt sigh escaped her mouth.

She was under the impression that there would be freedom after her marriage to Daemon - but after Harwin’s death, chaos followed. “I do not wish to return to the Capital. We’re fine here, Daemon.” she sighed. He takes a callous stop towards her, pressing a soft kiss on the top of her head - he looks down on his son, smiling.

“There are vipers upon your father’s throne - prowling and sucking the blood off our dynasty. Alyssa tells me that our tapestries of Valyria have been replaced with those of the Seven Gods.” Daemon elaborates, wanting to return home and make a massacre of the Hightowers. “I know - we must defend our home.” she groaned, biting the inner corner of her lips.

“We’ll return to Kingslanding.” she breathed - longing for the embrace of her daughter.

—

She could hardly recognize the red keep. Its walls held pictures of the Seven Gods - bloody symbols that reminded her of Maegor’s war with the faith. “Muña,” Alyssa smiled - running to embrace her mother.

Saera’s daughter has grown into a beautiful lady - with silver curls and dark violet eyes. “Alyssa,” she smiled - pressing a kiss on her cheek. “I saw the carriages from my room, then our sigil.” she beamed, glancing at Viserra and Daelon who were wrapped around the arms of their father.

“Is this them?” she laughed, running to carry Daelon. “He looks like your mother,” Daemon notes, adjusting Viserra on his hips. Alyssa nods, staring at her little brother’s face. “He has the same nose,” she added, her brother steps down from his horse. “Alyssa,” he greets - eyes searching for Helaena in the crowd.

She wasn’t there.

“Daegon,” his sister smiles, leading them towards the warmth of the castle.

—

Daemon shoves the curtains of his brother’s bed away from his face, his eyes ever softly peeking on the body laying down. His brother was writing in pain and agony - a mere shadow of his old self. “Kepa,” Saera beckoned, sitting on the bed. There wasn’t a great love between them, for he favored Rhaenyra the most - but for Viserys’ grandchildren, he adored all of them equally.

“Alicent?” he asked weakly, eyes narrowing to see the figure in front of him better. His eyes were milky, his face showed signs of sickness. “Tis’ Saera, kepa.” she corrects with a soft voice - and he hums. The cause of his headaches. “Ahh, I see.” he hums, staring at his brother’s face - who hasn’t aged a day since marrying his daughter.

“Brother,” he greets - a shadow of a smile on his face. Viserys looks at the children in front of him. “And who are they?” he smiled, showing his teeth that were half black. “Viserra and Daelon. She is five, and Daelon is a year old.” she introduced, placing a hand on her daughter’s head - showing her father that they were strong - and of true Targaryen blood. “We named her after you, brother.” Daemon added, hoping that Viserys was sane enough to appreciate it. Saera looks behind her - motioning for her oldest son to come closer.

“This is Daegon, kepa - he is Lord of Harrenhal now.” Saera nods, combing through her son’s thick hair. A chuckle escapes the king’s mouth - “No longer the little boy that used to sit on my lap,” he continues chuckling until his body bucks due to the pain that he was feeling.

A hurtful groan escapes his mouth, one of the maesters attempts to take a step closer. “Give me my tea,” he demanded - a servant hands him a goblet of white watery liquid. Before Daemon could stop him, he was already guzzling down the substance, emptying it - and not sparing a drop.

Saera and Daemon share a confused glance. Daemon takes it from his brother’s hand, bringing the goblet closer to his nose - smelling the contents. “Milk of poppy,” he whispers - watching as his brother falls into unconsciousness.

—

Alicent lowered her eyes under questioning. She began to curse the day that they arrived, for their line was hard to fool and not easily sent away - unlike Rhaenyra.

“He was not like that when we left him.” Saera’s lips thinned, Alicent began to scowl. The Princess has been gone for six years, change was far due.

“His health has declined, and on the advice of the maesters-”

“The same maesters who have kept him addled on milk of poppy, so you and your father could warm my brother’s throne.” Daemon interrupts, sitting coolly on the gothic chair. He stares at his nails, finding them more interesting than the sight in front of him. “If you think it unnecessary, then you should see him without it. He’s always in pain - the poppy allows him to drowse into comfortable sleep.” she reasons, Daemon rolls his eyes.

It was clear where the Hightower’s loyalty was, not to the realm or House Targaryen but to their own. “You cannot convince me that your decisions are for the realm, when Alyssa tells me that you plan on giving Driftmark to Lord Vaemond - stripping Prince Lucerys of his titles as heir - and by extension, my sister’s claim to the throne.” Saera accused.

A bitter chuckle escapes the Queen’s mouth. “My decisions are for our family, my princess. Who is it that has taken care of your daughter during your absence? None but me.” she reasoned, pretending that she was given a tedious task. “Alyssa has done well on her own, not because of your guidance.” Daemon clears his throat, beginning to stand up and walk towards the ladies.

Alicent’s eyes widened - realizing that she wasn’t getting away from what she’s done. “As a matter of face, I proposed an engagement for Princess Alyssa years ago to the King.” she brought up - the couple raises their eyebrows. “A marriage between her and my son, the king tells me that he would provide them a castle if the marriage pulls through.” she endorsed.

Daemon clenches his fists at the thought of his little girl married off without a choice. “You may leave, Alicent.” he enunciates her name, showing her that there was no respect for traitors that attempt to commit treason.

next chapter>>

taglist: @watercolorskyy @sweetybuzz25 @newtsniffles @loveandlewis-reads @lovecleastrange @julkaamazing @schniiipsel @mirandastuckinthe80s @areaderinlove @i-yam-awesome @ladystardvsts @gracielikegrapes @sweethoneyblossom1 @issybee0611 @tato0od @delaynew @thisbihreadstoomuch @plutoscosmoss @immyowndefender @marvelescvpe @batmans-love @luanasrta @tesha-i-guess @valeridarkness

#daemon x reader #daemon targaryen x oc #daemon targaryen #daemon targaryen x reader #prince daemon targaryen #daemon targaryen headcanon #daemon targaryen fic #daemon targaryen smut #daemon targaryen imagine #daemon targaryen fanfic #daemon targaryen fluff #house targaryen #house of the dragon #daemon headcanons #daemon prince #daemonism #hotd daemon

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dcmeme · 7 months

Text

Batfam Covid series part 1

I figured out how to turn off autocorrect so it types ‘Selina’ and not ‘Selena’ woohoo! Progress! Multiple parts, all longer than usual.

Damian: Why is it everyone has to be within the same household?

Dick: Because it’s quarantine. Meaning you isolate with people you’ve been in contact with already that could have the disease.

Jason: I mean, I’ve gotta agree, this seems a bit blown out of proportion. The symptoms aren’t reading.

Tim: I think it’s more of the spread that’s of concern and those with preexisting health conditions being affected more than anything else-

Bruce: *throws tiny robots on the ground that latches to everyone’s ankles* There.

Jason: HEY! You said I wouldn’t be under house arrest again if I didn’t blow shit up (on purpose) or cause a full body cast for at least 3 weeks!

Bruce: This isn’t house arrest, this is insurance that none of you try to leave and put others at risk of infection.

Damian: That is absurd!

Dick: I gotta say, this feels a little extreme, Bruce.

Tim: Yeah, no. *takes it off*

Jason: How the f*ck?!

Tim: I’m gonna go stay at my boyfriend’s.

Bruce: The last thing you are doing is leaving this house, Tim. Like you said- it’s a major concern for those of preexisting health conditions.

Selina: I helped Alfred switch your and Damian’s old bedrooms so you are a bit more isolated-

Damian: Excuse me?! I don’t want to sleep near Helena’s room. She continues to make sounds.

Bruce: You don’t have a choice. In fact, none of you do. Not until everyone is tested- including anyone you’ve been around the last 12 days.

Dick: So no Kori?

Bruce: Has she been tested?

Dick: I mean she’s been on another planet with Mari for, like, 6 months soooo

Bruce: they’re fine to stay.

Damian: Can John come over?

Bruce: I don’t even let him over when there isn’t a pandemic.

Jason: Can’t I just be under house arrest at a safe house? I don’t care to self isolate- just let me grab a few books and I’m good for dayyys.

Bruce: Absolutely not.

Tim: Ok than let Bernard come over?

Bruce: No.

Tim: But what if he tests.

Bruce: I don’t like that boy being in my house.

Tim: Oh come on. He only broke,like, two or three things in the cave.

Jason: Didn’t that somehow include the giant penny?

Damian: and the window to the Batmobile.

Dick: *sighs* The chair to the batcomputer has squeaked ever since he left that night.

Bruce: My cape.

Alfred: He was rather harsh on the grappling hooks as well, Master Drake-

Tim: I said I loved a man, not a smart one-

Bruce: No Bernard.

Tim: oh come on! Dick gets to bring Kori!

Dick: and my kid.

Tim: Oh come on you barely see her but three times a year.

Dick: I’ve known her seven months and she’s been gone six for some Tamaranian ritual or something humans can’t be at!

Selina: Will all of you stop shouting. If my baby wakes up, I will find a way to make all of you pay.

Bruce: The only person with a second option on where they’re staying is Damian-

Jason: Bull shit!-

Bruce: Talia has asked he go back to the league’s temple since COVID hasn’t likely breeched them yet.

Damian: Can I bring my children?

Bruce: Only the dog.

Damian: than no.

Bruce: you’ll have to take that up with your mother.

Damian: I’ll make this much clear- I would sacrifice each of you individually for the sake of my children-

Tim: you mean your pets?

Damian: they are family in this house, Drake. I can’t say the same for you.

Tim: You really don’t expect me to live next to this brat for literal months, right? He’ll kill me by the end of the week! I’m much safer at my place.

Bruce: As of right now this is all of our place. Stop bickering and get used to the idea of being under the same roof for a while.

Cassandra: It could be fun! We can even have a family dinner after we’re all tested.

Damian: oh joy. Sharing food with the nuisance Drake and the pig that is Todd. Fantastic.

Jason: Don’t you have a mommy to call?

Damian: Don’t you have a casket to sleep in!

Jason: Oh f*ck you!

Bruce: now boys-

Tim: Is this seriously how you expect me to live?!

Cassandra: we can make breakfast for dinner and by then maybe the weather will be nice enough to open windows and set up candles-

Jason: you think you have it bad?! I’m surrounded by the same people who-

Damian: I better not have to sit at that dinner by Drake, Cain, or so help me god-

Bruce: enough!

Tim: For my own safety please god do not do that cass-

Jason: I don’t see why you’re complaining when I’m the one who has to-

Bruce: *louder* enough

Tim: I have a right to feel however I want!

Damian: If that is the case, I feel you should all be disowned-

Dick: why are we all arguing again?!

Damian/Tim/Jason/Bruce: SHUT UP, DICK/GRAYSON

Dick:… what did I do? 🥺

Helena: *screaming from upstairs*

Selina:…

Bruce:…

Everyone:…

Bruce:…we’ll take this outside.

Selina: That would be great, thank you.

#batfamily #batman #batfam #dc comics #dc universe #bruce wayne #dc robin #damian wayne #richard grayson #tim drake #selina kyle #bruce x selina #helena wayne

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sillyguy99 · 3 months

Text

* don't look now, but i lost my shoe.

(Undertale Sans x Reader)

Chapter One: * what's with these homies, dissin' my girl?

[Index | Next]

Notice:

(This story is nearly 5 years old, and though it doesn't show my best work, I decided to post it, just because I stopped it at chapter 18, when there were only 2 more chapters left to finish it. So... I'm gonna give it another shot – making minor edits to make the plot less dramatic and angsty, lol.)

(***Also, since Tumblr has a more limited format: italic texts are from you, the reader, and bold texts are from others.)

• • • • •

You've changed.

The best thing your boss did was to give you that warning.

You shouldn't keep working for the law if you're just gonna be a traitor.

How am I a traitor?

You work 9 to 5, sometimes 8 to 6, for the benefit of monsters.

Now, all of a sudden, our sex life goes down the drain.

I haven't slept with you since you got that promotion, and that was two whole months ago.

I'm supposed to be your husband, but you've left me in the dry.

I'm tired.

And I refuse to sleep with someone who won't support me in my new job.

Or should I remind you said I wasn't a real detective?

That my degree's 'worth shit', simply because of the field I'm working in these days?

The rest is an ongoing, fruitless conversation you can't bother yourself with.

Through reading those texts for what has to be the twentieth time today, you sigh, hiccup, and close your eyes tight, lifting your face slightly to avoid letting tears fall.

Barely two hours are left until he comes home to drop off your child, and the mere thought that you have to sleep with him five hours after that makes your stomach twist and churn. You don't want to imagine him naked: panting, heavy, and on top of you again, doing whatever he pleases with little regards to your own limits. Nausea takes over – violent, making you open your eyes and suppress a gag.

You really, really don't want anything to do with him anymore.

Yet, he insists you should remain married until your child reaches their eighteenth birthday.

“At least wait until they're grown up,” he said. “Cuz what's six more years? Be honest with me.” Then, he chuckled. “As ugly as you frown when you see me, I doubt you hate me that much.”

That had been a year ago.

Would you really have to wait five more years until your freedom?

The thought sends chills down your spine.

While he was a good father, that adjective didn't really fit next to husband.

At the beginning of your marriage, yes – he was the best spouse you could ask for.

Now?

You'd rather eat drywall than have to spend a single second near him – without your child around, of course.

With your newest agreement, it felt more as if your husband were a client, his payment being not making your life hell, and your service what he claimed was something a wife should be willing to give twenty-four seven.

You shake your head and search for a distraction amongst the people surrounding the bar, aware you can only end up worse if you continue to dwell on the subject. The air presses down on you hot and heavy, a feeling that only increases the more time you stay seated without doing anything for your growing aches. Your sole companion is your mind when you realize you're too overcome with emotions to talk to someone without scaring them off. Chatter drowns out coherent thinking and sensory overload begins to show by how difficult breathing becomes. Seeking an escape route, you hold the bartender back with a raised hand and an 'excuse me'. Then, you ask him for some bottled water – the only kind he could touch willingly. Small embers flutter around the air as he turns around, leaving you alone with burning cheeks and a pounding headache.

Groaning, you pinch the bridge of your nose and blink through your blurry vision. Then, you adjust your glasses – despite knowing the excess shots have pretty much screwed you over already. The hour marked on your phone surfaces a sigh. How fast time seems to be going makes you notice you currently only have around an hour left before your husband arrives with your child. They would be staying with you while he went off to work, and the least you wanted was to look washed up for his arrival.

"need somethin' else, pal?"

You jolt at the new voice, deep and hearty.

Reluctantly, you cast your gaze up to see a skeleton monster standing behind the counter, now glossy with polish. His face is tough to make out with the blurriness, yet you can tell he's looking at you. From the way he stands behind the counter and the stuffy look his suit gives off with its pristine and exaggerated formality, you figure he's a new employee. His newbie appearance doesn't erase the warm and welcoming aura most bartenders appear to carry by default, however. Instead, it makes his smile and words more genuine in his approach.

It takes you a while to respond aside from shaking your head – mind hazy and disoriented. You thank him and sweep the water bottle off the counter, then turn the lid open, breathe in deep, and take a series of long, greedy gulps. Finally, you set it back down, more than half of it already gone.

One more screw up, and you were out of your job at the law department for good.

It doesn't help that you're currently hanging out at a place strictly and utterly forbidden by your boss: a hole-in-the-wall bar and grill establishment open to all, kept family-friendly during the day and becoming more daring during the night. It has been long since you ever drank alcohol of any sort, and it's beginning to show. You can hardly sit without tumbling pitifully to the side.

“hey.”

You're snapped back toward reality through the feeling of someone resting their arms over the counter, facing you and waiting for your return.

You frown and look up from the water bottle to see the same skeleton – his previous stuffy appearance appearing more natural now that he's taken off his tie and left two of the shirt's buttons unfastened.

"i’m no expert on humans, but you look like you could use someone to talk to."

You feel hazy again.

And whether due to the drinks or the heat, you're not too certain of.

But – right now – you're positive about one thing.

“U- Um…”

As you wipe a tear off your cheek and burst out half a sob and half a laugh, you realize you really could use someone to talk to.

“Thank you.”

#sans x reader #reader insert #undertale fanfiction #ao3 fanfic #weezer reference #female reader #chubby reader #detective reader #long fic #weekly updates #undertale x reader #sans undertale #classic sans #angst and fluff #slow burn

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moonshine-nightlight · 1 year

Text

Nothing's Wrong with Dale: Part Eighteen

It’s been a week, but you’re fairly certain your fiancé accidentally got himself replaced by an eldritch being from the Depths. Deciding that he’s certainly not worse than your original fiancé, you endeavor to keep the engagement and his new non-human state to yourself.

However, this might prove harder than you originally thought.

Fantasy, arranged marriage, malemonsterxfemalereader, M/F

AO3: Nothing's Wrong with Dale - Chapter 18 - MoonshineNightlight - Original Work [Archive of Our Own]

[Part One] [Part Two] [Part Three] [Part Four] [Part Five] [Part Six] [Part Seven] [Part Seven.5] [Part Eight] [Part Nine] [Part Ten] [Part Eleven] [Part Twelve] [Part Thirteen] [Part Fourteen] [Part Fifteen] [Part Sixteen] [Part Seventeen] Part Eighteen [Part Nineteen] [Part Twenty] [Part Twenty-One] [Part Twenty-Two] [Part Twenty-Three] [Part Twenty-Four] [Part Twenty-Five] [Part Twenty-Six] [Part Twenty-Seven] [Part Twenty-Eight] [Part Twenty-Nine] [Part Thirty] [Part Thirty-One] [Part Thirty-Two] [Part Thirty-Three] [Part Thirty-Four]

You have to remind yourself not to go through the mead too quickly, but you can't help wishing for any escape from this conversation.

You can tolerate some degree of martial talk on any given day, but it has been over an hour.

What had begun as a general training discussion among Grandfather, Dale, the Captain of Connton’s city guard, and a few knights, some who had performed in the tournament over a week ago, had moved from there. The various benefits of polearms had at least come with some visual information, as the Governor who was hosting this particular betrothal gala had a large display on the wall of such pieces.

However, the conversation has only continued to grow more in depth. Between personal preferences and a number of, likely embellished, stories to best champion said preferences, you’ve long grown bored with nothing to contribute and every sip of drink is both something to do and a reason not to say anything. The discussion has devolved to the minutiae that differentiate different—near identical from what you can tell—swords from one another.

“Lords and ladies,” a demure voice catches your attention and you see a footman gesture to a table freshly set with hors d’oeuvres. “Please, help yourselves.”

A small chorus of absentminded gratitudes comes from the group at large, with the majority continuing to carry on their conversation, but you, Manuel—the cousin who traveled with Dale for part of his abroad trip, you remind yourself—and two of the knights from the tournament, head for the table with the nibbles.

Usually you’re too nervous at these sorts of parties to be particularly hungry during them. This often results in needing to ask your maid to fetch leftovers from the kitchens afterward, but you’re bored enough that your nerves aren’t suppressing your appetite. You busy yourself with a small plate, taking one each of the toasted breads offered—all with a different sort of topping.

You’ve keep an ear tuned to the conversation between those who came with you. You’re looking for an opportunity to contribute something innocuous to the changing conversation of the food so they don’t think you a complete dullard. The rest of you is still paying attention to Dale, monitoring him for any sign of inhmanity as is your habit these nights. Without even thinking, you’ve positioned yourself to keep him in view.

Honestly, Dale’s been in fine control these last few days—and if he’s not kept so out of your sight, then no one’s noticed enough to raise a fuss, let alone call for a purge. You’ve all been tied up in making arrangements. Since your arrival, you’ve barely had time to settle into the Northridge city home between the meetings and introductions with city officials. It feels like all you do in your rooms is sleep, dress, and then head out.

Connton’s position at the crossroads where Northridge, Eastmont, and Centria meet leaves it in a relatively uncommon position of having both its own authority and also having to balance three overlords. Northridge has the closest main estate to the city and provided more of the land and funding, leaving it with more influence than the other fiefs, but it is also more important and vital to Northridge as only one city within its borders is comparable—and Fallridge is on the other side of the fief.

Seeing an opening, you tune back into the conversation to chime in, “I agree, Lady Catherine—this ricotta is by far the superior spread.” She grins in triumph at the other two and you feel relieved to have contributed something since you’ve done nothing but make agreeable or interested hums for the past half hour.

The closest call by far had been with that sanctif on one of the first nights in town. However, not only is Sanctif Ellon doing alright after his reaction, but Grandfather has backed off in nearly every way. He still seems particularly attentive to both yourself and Dale—especially when he first rejoined you that night, but he far more easily loses that wary edge. Even though initial wariness before he settles is still enough to make you tense, it’s also relieving to see him let go of his suspicion faster each night.

Slowly, you’ve felt some of those fears surrounding Grandfather and Dale and demons be replaced with worries over keeping straight all the officials you met, making good impressions, and future plans. It’s exhausting and nerve-wracking, for all you are aware no one expects you to memorize or be able to perfectly recall the mountain of information you’re receiving. Grandmother has even gone out of her way to reassure you of such, but it feels like failure not to do your best.

Every night, after long hours of meetings and socializing, you try to write down everything you can—sometimes in a neater hand than others. Then in the morning, you painstakingly copy what you’d jotted down the previous night and flesh out the details—trying to keep the facts all straight. The only good thing about entering week two of these events is that the rush of new people is slowing and you’re starting to get to know some of the more important players better.

You’re hopeful in the next day or two you’ll be able to have a strategizing session with Dale and his grandparents. Then you and Dale can focus on scheduling meetings with those you want to meet with rather than introductory meetings with everyone. Not that you’ll have too much time for that because eventually even more people will arrive for the wedding proper and then it will be time to return to the Northridge estate with those guests in tow.

You’re pulled from your thoughts by the sound of your name. You can’t help but jump a little as you turn to see Lady Breighton looking directly at you. You blink at her in surprise before you straighten. Of all of Grandmother’s children that you’ve met so far, she is the one who most seems like her personal heir, most similar to what she must have been like in her prime in the capital. You can’t help but feel scrutinized whenever Breighton so much as glances your way.

“Lady Breighton,” you greet her with a nod. She seems to have come over looking for you and you’re not sure what that might mean. “How are you?”

“I am well,” she replies with a polite nod. “Yourself?”

“Myself as well,” you say, taking notice of how much more comfortable she appears the few times you’ve seen her in Connton—she’s clearly used to the city lifestyle. There had been a hint of discomfort with the more rural estate, with the tighter way she held herself, that you hadn’t noticed until it was gone. Her stylish suits, her ease in the various government buildings you visit, her competent navigation of the maze of streets all speak to that comfort. She’s accompanied you, Dale, and the grandparents to a number of meetings and clearly was familiar with most of those officials for all she lives up in Verlind. “Is there something I can do for you?” You can tell she’s sought you out for a reason and she’s the type of woman to prefer the direct approach.

“Yes,” she says, her eyes intent enough to make you somewhat retroactively relieved that Grandmother’s eyesight is not as good as it once was. Her blue eyes are piercing, making you feel as if she can read every thought in your head—reminding you strangely of Dale, the newer one. You doubt it is her intention to single you out though. They certainly appear to be as sharp on everyone else as they are on you. “I would like to introduce you to someone, if you can be parted from your present company.”

The others are quick to murmur politely about rejoining the previous weapons discussion you all have taken a momentary reprieve from with the food. You smile and bid them farewell, eyes following them back to the group where Dale and Grandfather still are embroiled in debate. Dale and one of the knights who had also traveled with him abroad are describing some particular foreign style of blade workmanship and you see no evidence that Dale has any memory lapse with this particular story. Grandfather seems engaged enough with the conversation, no hint of suspicion in his expression or body language.

You do catch Dale’s eye and they meet yours with a straightforward question in them. Then you can see them flicker to Breighton and you tilt your head in that direction to indicate you’ll be heading off with her. Dale gives a minuscule nod to show his understanding. You turn back to Breighton to see she has a faint smirk on her face, as if she’d watched your little silent conversation with Dale with amusement. You feel some heat fill your face at the thought and try not to sound flustered as you say, “Of course, please show the way.”

Breighton offers you her arm, which you take, letting her steer and allowing you to use your other hand to lift your skirts enough to ease your movement. “My interests are particularly scientific, as you may have heard. I primarily study geography with an interest in seismic activity and study. My travels, while not frequent, have let me have personal experience with most mountain ranges on our continent and even some of the southern and eastern ranges.”

You had heard some of this before, with Grandmother and Grandfather proud of her accomplishments—her books are proudly displayed in a specific section of the library back on the estate.

“Regardless,” she waves her free hand, “I have interest in all manner of academic subjects. Given your interest in medicine, I thought you might enjoy meeting a colleague of mine.”

“Oh,” you blink in surprise, not having expected her to have either taken notice of your interest or to have thought of you much outside the various meetings and Northridge itself. “I would be honored to meet such a scholar, although I hope you understand my interest and study are primarily amateur.” You feel the need to verify that Breighton has not gotten an inflated view of your own knowledge—nor passed this impression on to an accomplished professional.

She glances over at you, that same sensation that she is weighing your words and your worth present once more. “You’ve had no formal education in either the medical or botanical areas of study at all?”

“Well,” you hedge and her eyes brighten. “I attended South Ardere Academy and they provide a certain amount of basic heath in their curriculum.” She nods as if to say ‘go on’. “They also offered a degree of flexibility to the lessons available, as one aged, which included the ability to go further in depth in some select areas. I was interested in health and medicine so I took a few more classes in those areas than was required. Not enough for any sort of certification—let alone a degree,” you try to stress, before allowing only, “but enough to grant me perhaps more knowledge than the average layman.”

“I see,” she says, effortlessly weaving through the crowd with you. “What prompted this interest, if you do not mind my asking?”

“I was sick as a child,” you reply without thought, before hurrying to add, “Nothing catching and nothing which greatly impacts my health presently.” You don’t want her to think you would pass on poor traits or sickness to your own children, Northridge’s heirs. She didn’t need to see the full physical report Grandmother and Grandfather had received—far more detailed than the report your own parents had required of Dale since he had no history of physical complications. A typical requirement for noble marriages, primarily revolving around ensuring the couple could produce children since when it came down to it—continuing the family line is the most fundamental reason for noble marriages.

Breighton doesn’t seem troubled by your admittance and so you continue with less urgency, “It was enough to make such matters ever present in my young mind and therefore of great interest when I grew older and more able to truly understand what had afflicted me.”

“Do you have any interest in pursuing additional scholarly studies or even becoming a physician yourself?” she asks, the most interested you believe she has ever appeared to be in your words.

Your first instinct is a vehement denial, not wanting her to think you would prefer to neglect your duties to Northridge. To reassure her that you do know how much work and effort being a Lady entails. That you are dedicated to your role going forward, dedicated to Northridge. But you stop yourself before those automatic words come tumbling out. Thinking over what you know of her, you don’t think that is a major concern to her. While it may not be her place in the family, she has not married and has dedicated herself as a scholar so you doubt she would think too negatively of such things.

“I considered it,” you say slowly, still choosing your words carefully, but making sure to be truthful too. “And I enjoyed those lessons. However, I ultimately prefer to learn those topics as a personal interest, rather than a profession. The day-to-day life, the experimentation, the care for patients—I find books or papers or case studies of such fascinating, but I have no desire to conduct them personally.”

Hoping you had not read her wrong, you look back up to see her nodding with understanding. “Yes, I know many who feel similarly. I personally greatly admire sculpture, yet I’ve no interest or talent in creating such works myself.”

You smile. “Yes, precisely. All I would say is that I do believe perhaps the general curriculum could be expanded—some of what I learned seems like it would be useful for all to know.”

Breighton grins at that. “Yes, many who find themselves with specialized knowledge believe their area should get more prominence with the general educational curriculum.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean—”

“Not a comment on you specifically, dear, I assure you,” Breighton says with a wave of her hand. “We’ve all thought so—for why would we study something we don’t see as valuable?”

There’s a knot of people below one of the musician’s balconies—the dancing and music having taken a break over an hour ago—that you seem to be headed for. When one catches Breighton’s eye, you're sure these are the ones you’re coming to meet.

“Some of these went to the same university that I attended, others I met at various scholarly conferences,” Breighton explains. “As interesting as city officials are, I admit that academia is where my interest lies. Not that governments cannot be instrumental in acting on and spreading learned information. And business is necessary to make these discoveries actionable and relevant to people’s everyday lives. But a good debate between scholars is what I enjoy most, much in the way Mother used to in the senate.”

“There you are, Breighton,” a short woman closer in age to you than Breighton says. “We were beginning to think you’d gotten lost.”

“And did you manage to catch the mouse you sought?” an older man with an impressive mustache asks, clearly teasing as he peers around Breighton to look at you.

What exactly did Breighton tell these colleagues about you?

“Yes, you lout,” Breighton replies with a roll of her eyes as she knocks her shoulder into the man who asked. “Do try to remember to act as if you are in the presence of lady while we attempt to entertain her.”

“Are you not also a lady?” a woman in a green dress asks with a purposely sweet grin. “Have we not already been on our best behavior?”

“By the light, I hope not,” Breighton replies dryly. “This is my nephew’s fiance.” She gives your full name, including your family name, which you hadn’t been aware she even knew—already Grandmother was introducing you with Dale as the future lady of Northridge at meetings. The six others all introduce themselves and you frantically try to keep up with all the new names.

“Now, as lovely as you all are,” Breighton says, scanning the group. “I was hoping to introduce her to Louisa. Did someone else pull her away?”

The woman in the green dress—Teresa of Goldam—shakes her head, her curled hair bouncing with the movement. “She went to ask after the study rooms as she never likes how noisy these grand halls can get. In fact, here she returns.”

Teresa nods at a woman in a bold red brocade gown, her sleeves long despite the time of year, and her skirts fuller than your own, separating her from the others around her by just that additional amount. Her brown hair is pulled up in a tight circular braid pinned to the top of her head and the locks framing her face are straight, rather than curled.

As she gets closer, she says, “They’re clearing out the Governor’s personal study for us. My voice is already tired from trying to be heard above this noise.” The others thank her for securing such a room for them before her eyes land on Breighton and you.

Breighton moves in smoothly to introduce the other woman, “In return, please allow me to introduce you to Doctor Louisa of the Viska Isles.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” the other woman says. Despite the similarity in your heights, she gives the impression of looking down on you.

“And you as well,” you reply, although you’re not certain it is. Louisa seems particularly smug, something very self-satisfied with her general countenance. It rubs you the wrong way, reminds you of similar students back at school: Gareth of Hilsbury and Nadine of Timodul. Both had condescension down to an art form. Louisa seems cut of the same cloth.

“Dr. Louisa has a Physician’s degree from Silverkeep University, with a concentration in chemistry and an additional philosophy masters in Demonology, with a concentration in botany, from Oroburum University.”

You feel your stomach drop. Oh, crap.

[Part Nineteen]

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darkwolf989 · 16 days

Text

Outside The Office Part Thirty Three

Hi All,

I hope this chapter clarifies some questions! Shoot me any more that might pop up <3

I knelt over the toilet as the last bit of my breakfast came up. Every part of me ached, had ached for the last two days and I felt both overheated and freezing cold. I had tried ginger ale, crackers, apple juice, and everything else just short of calling Valentino and begging him to come home.

I laid half on the cool tile of the floor, half on the towel I had tossed down at the start of all this and closed my eyes. Three weeks. It had been three weeks since the day Valentino bit into my shoulder, leaving me completely and utterly ravenous for him. His best guess was that part of the control he had over his ability to procreate- after all, he had never bitten someone in his Overlord form. And he figured as long as the saliva he produced in that form stayed out of his partners bloodstream, he could fuck them all he wanted with zero consequences.

But he assumed, based on my reaction to the bite, that as soon as that red poison slipped into my bloodstream, all bets were off. The fertility test I had taken the next day showed that I was more than able to get pregnant. But the six pregnancy tests I took after reassured us both that I wasn't.

With that confirmation, Valentino and I fell into our morning routine- working out, fucking, breakfast, showering, work, in that order. Work was where we usually parted- me to go and start to sort through the mass of souls that had the potential to be useful.

To say that hell had a military was an absolute joke in every sense of the word. I was quickly learning that, in as much power my Uncle Lucifer had, he had little to no sense of organization when it came to this type of thing. The day I passed my physical assessment in Lucifer’s mind, I realized just how messed up, overrated, underrated and disorganized his sense of brutality was.

“Lucifer, I took down seventeen enemies the size of my father,” I had panted in the middle of the training floor. “What goal are you looking for?”

He stared at me in confusion. “Goal? I wanted you to kill them all.”

“That isn’t humanly possible,” I panted as I gulped down water. “Shit, Uncle Lucifer, that's why we have troops. Come on, give me the files.”

“Fine, fine, but only because we’re running out of time,” he relented.

He led me into what was formally Valentino’s second studio. There was no trace of what remained before, instead, the floor was divided into sections, and subsections. Lucifer had spared no expense in ensuring that every bit of technology was up to date- and worked with Vox to be sure everything was the most secure it could be. Unlike the others, when you stepped off the elevator you needed a retinal scan simply to walk through the next door. From there, retinal scans popped up throughout, ensuring at random that those going through were where they needed to be.

The first few days were spent in the middle of an empty office, pounding away on my laptop as I rushed to sort through files. Categorizing souls was no small feat, considering the amount of them- Lucifer’s seven billion plus to my seven hundred or so. A daunting task to say the least, but thankfully, Vox jumped in and together we came up with an algorithm that would sort these souls into one of the three categories- yes, fuck no, and only if desperate.

With the constant late nights and busy days, it didn’t phase me too much when Valentino kissed the top of my head and told me he was going to have to leave me for a few days. I was too deep in my work to say anything other than yes, and without him as a consistent check in, Vox stepped in to pry me away from the office and forced me to go to sleep at night. If nothing else, I was grateful the club scene paused while Valentino was gone- it was one less thing to do outside of work.

Yesterday morning was the first day something didn’t feel quite right. A twinge in my belly, and nausea that flooded me. When Vox came to grab me for dinner, I told him I didn’t feel well. He immediately checked my temperature and put me to bed.

“You’re working too hard,” he said gently. “You need to slow down.”

That wasn’t an option. We had weeks before the angels were due to come and I had a plan that needed to be implemented six months ago. My idea was simple. The angels came into us, and I led the invasion back to heaven, right through the portal they entered. Smack them where it hurts, get revenge for my father and end this nonsense once and for all. But I had yet to figure out how exactly I was going to manage that. As an angel, I could enter heaven. And I suspected Lucifer could as well, but I would need someone powerful on the ground. Based on the abilities of the souls I had to work with, this entire thing would be a tough ask.

So I pushed myself, like I always did, until I physically couldn’t anymore, nibbling on crackers and working from my bedroom until finally everything I put into my body came up. I felt sicker than I ever had before, and I needed to call Val, I knew I did. I just couldn’t do this by myself. I needed my person.

I picked up the phone and to his credit, he picked up on the first ring.

“Princessa, is everything okay?” He asked.

“Val, can you come home? I’m sick. I need you.” I dropped the phone as another wave of nausea flooded me. Bile. Ugh.

“Sorry, Val I’m…”

“I’ll be home in an hour. And I’m calling Lucifer and Vox now,” he said sharply.

“No, Val. Just you. Please please don’t make a big deal out of this I just, I don’t want to do this alone,” I pleaded.

Silence on the other end.

“I’ll be home in a half hour, cariño. Sit tight until then.”

True to his word, the door to the bathroom pushed open no more than thirty minutes later.

“Mi amore, what’s wrong?” He asked as he gathered my hair and pulled it back into a loose ponytail. “Tell me what hurts, bebita.”

“My stomach, Val. I can’t keep anything down. I’m behind where I wanted to be in organizing interviews, and I just…”

“Alright, calm down,” he replied as he sat down next to me on the bathroom floor. “I’m here, I’ve got you.”

I laid my head on his lap and tried to breath through the cramping in my gut. “It hurts, Val.”

He was quiet for a moment as he stroked my hair. “You got your period yesterday, right?”

I shook my head. “No, Val, I’m late, not that it matters, but…”

I felt the pain wash through me and I leaned back over the toilet as the bitter liquid came up. I felt his hands gently braid my hair, ensuring it was kept out of the way. “Ugh, I hate throwing up,” I muttered as I accepted the tissue he handed me.

“I’m concerned that this may not be the stomach bug,” he said slowly. “It’s been three weeks since we…”

“Val, you didn’t come in me after you bit me. And yeah, we fucked later but you again pulled out. My mouth took the brute of it. And my stomach. And my thighs…”

He didn’t look convinced. “Let me run a blood test, muñeca. Just to make sure. And I’ll check for other things too, like…like an elevated white blood cell count. Rule out an infection. If it all comes out clean, then we’ll know it's just the stomach flu.”

My head ached, both from dehydration and this conversation. “There are a thousand reasons my period could be late, Val. Stress? Remember the whole invasion of hell thing? I just…”

I doubled over again and Valentino again ensured my hair stayed out of the way. When I finally finished, I leaned back against him as I began to realize the gravity of his suggestion. “I can’t be pregnant, Val. This has to be the stomach flu.”

“We don’t know that, mi amore. And we won’t know that until I run a blood test. Please, princessa.”

If I wasn’t mistaken, there was a plea in his voice I hadn’t heard from him.

“What happens if I am, Val?” I whispered as I curled up on the floor. “What happens then?”

“Then we handle it as it comes, mi amore.” His hand fell to my stomach. “I love you. And I will love anything that we create.”

I would have loved to kiss him at that moment. To tell him how much I loved him in return, how he, for the first time, made me feel like I wasn’t alone in the world. How he made me feel safe and cared for and protected.

Instead, I doubled over again.

“When was the last time you kept liquid down?” He asked with concern. “I have to put a catheter in for blood regardless, might as well get fluids in you. Show me, where in your belly does it hurt?”

“All of it. My entire abdomen hurts. But that’s probably from being so sick. I don’t think, I don’t think it's anything more.”

“Lay on your back for just a moment, cariño. Humor me,” he instructed.

Too tired and in too much pain to fight, I laid down on the towel I had tossed down earlier. His hands lifted my shirt up and I felt him press on my tummy.

“Does any of this hurt?” He asked with concern.

I felt my stomach grumble and I was sure he did too. I felt my cheeks turn pink.

“No, it's just…”

“Upset. I understand. Just making sure there is nothing majorly wrong,” he replied. His hand lingered over my belly button for just a moment before he pulled my shirt back down. “Let me see your arms.”

I tried to breath through another round of cramps but in seconds I knelt back over the toilet.

“Val, if you put a line in can you give me something to stop this?” I begged. “I’m so tired of being sick.”

He looked pained. “No, princessa. I mean, I could. But if it’s truly the stomach bug it has to run its course. Better to let it out than hold those germs in your belly.” He stood up and put his hand on my forehead. “I’m going to go downstairs and get the things I need, will you be okay for a moment?”

I groaned in response as I laid back down. “Val, I’m hot and cold at the same time. How is that even possible?”

“You’re running a fever, muñeca. I can give you something to bring it back down, but if I can convince you to get into a cool shower when I get back, that may make you feel even better.”

The thought alone made me more nauseous. I heard the door close behind him and I curled myself up into a ball. Pregnant? The thought hadn’t occurred to me until he said it, but I supposed it was possible. Hopefully not, but also…

Well, I wouldn’t mind being pregnant with his child. I thought back to his fantasy, my tummy round with his babies.

My thoughts on the subject subsided as I heaved again. And again. After what felt like forever, the bathroom door opened and Valentino walked back in carrying a black backpack. He knelt down next to me and laid his hand on the back of my neck.

“Do you want me to try to take blood now, or do you want to try a cool shower first?” He asked as I leaned my head on his shoulder. “You’re burning up, bebita.”

“I don’t care,” I muttered. “I just don’t feel good.”

I heard the shower turn on and felt his hands on my body. I let myself go limp against him.

“Alright then sweetheart, let’s get these clothes off,” he replied as he tugged the shirt off over my head.

“What if I get sick again?” I asked as he lifted me to my feet.

“Then you throw up, it isn’t a big deal, princessa.” He guided me into the shower. “You should know well enough by now that I’ve seen it all in my line of work.”

That I didn’t doubt. But getting sick in front of him wasn’t on my list of desires. He guided me under the cool water and I leaned my bodyweight into him as the water hit my back.

“Valentino, it burns,” I hissed as he held me under the stream.

“No, honey, it doesn’t. Your body is just that warm,” he replied. “I checked your vitals on my phone. Your temps at a hundred and four, bebita. We have to get it down, and quickly.” He tilted my head back so my entire body was under the cold water and held me as I winced. “Val, I’m going to throw up, let me go.”

He released me and I bolted out of the shower, barely making it to the toilet.

“Fuck,” I coughed. “That hurts.”

“I meant in the shower,” he said with slight amusement in his voice as he pulled my soaking wet hair back with a towel.

“I refuse,” I shuddered. “That is a boundary I will not cross.”

He let out a low laugh. “Oh my princessa. Let’s get you dried off and taken care of.” He carefully tugged a fresh tee shirt over my head and combed my hair as quickly as he could, taking careful care to put it back in braids, pausing whenever I doubled over.

“Alright, muñeca, let me see your arms,” he knelt next to me.

Waves of nausea flooded through me. “Val, I can’t. I need to lay down.”

“You can, mi amore. Lay down if you must,” he replied, “that’s a good girl. Close your eyes.”

I heard him mutter in a mix of Spanish and English as he pressed on my skin gently.

“Don’t move, bebita,” he ordered softly. “That’s it. Little pinch.”

“I’m going to throw up again, Val,” I warned. “I need to sit up.”

“Then sit up, the needle is out.” He slipped his hand behind my back and I panted. Nothing came out.

“Dry heaves are the worst,” he replied sympathetically. “The nurse sent something for the nausea, something to make you a little more comfortable, and something for the fever. I’m going to take blood and then I’ll connect the line, okay mi amore?”

“I couldn’t fight you if I wanted to,” I replied as I laid back down on the floor.

“That’s not the point, cariño,” he said as he worked over me with a practiced hand. He held up a vial of blood and set it off to the side. “Let’s get you set and then I’ll run the test.”

“Doesn’t the lab have to do it?” I asked. “Ow, ow Val!”

He ignored my question. “I’m sorry, princessa,” he apologized as he finished the line. “I know it doesn’t feel good. Just a few more seconds and the pain should start to disperse.” He paused and gently laid a hand on my stomach, “you must be in pain if you’re letting me give you something for it. Are you sure it doesn’t hurt when I press here?”

I gritted my teeth. “Every muscle hurts, Valent….oh, relief,” I closed my eyes as the cramping in my belly stopped. Or maybe I didn’t feel it anymore. Either way, I didn’t care.

“My princessa,” he muttered with concern. “Lie still for a few moments, while I run the test and I’ll help you to bed.”

I closed my eyes and took the first deep breath since I got sick. A few moments later, I felt a tug on my arm and Valentino lifted me up.

“What did the test say?” I asked worriedly. “Val, am I…”

“No, princessa. You are not pregnant.” He replied quietly as he settled me in our bed. “It truly is just the stomach bug, you must have picked it up from somewhere.” He pressed his lips to my forehead and smoothed back my hair.

“I can’t…I can't decide if I’m sad or relieved.” I said softly.

“I am both, bebita,” he sat down next to me and laid a hand on my stomach for the third time that day. This time, he didn’t press down, he simply held it there, lost in thought. “But now we have the chance to do this the way you desire, mi amore. With the pretty ring on your finger first.” He gave me a smile and laid down next to me.

His words didn’t quite connect in my brain as I curled into him. “Wait, Val, can’t I get you sick?” I asked.

“Technically, yes. And it would suck. But I wouldn’t die from it,” he replied lightly. “And if I get sick from taking care of you, it will be worth it.” He kept one hand on my belly and gently pulled me to his chest. “Now close your eyes, cariño.”

#the vees #hazbin fluff #valentino x reader #valentino x you #vox x reader #the vees x reader #valentino #valentino x wife #hazbin hotel #valentino hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel valentino #valentino smut #velvette #vees #polyvees

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pixies-and-poets · 4 months

Text

Music of the Night - Chapter Seven (Final Chapter!)

Wow! I made it to the end!

WARNING!!!! All the body horror I've been hinting at this whole time REALLY CULMINATES HERE! This is NOT a pleasant ending, physically or emotionally! I know I normally write cute fluffy things but I am not kidding about this one! It's intense!!

There will be some thanks for certain inspiration/ideas at the end of the chapter, but I won't put them here at the beginning so as not to spoil things.

Chapter One - In Sleep He Sang to Me

Chapter Two - Do I Dream Again?

Chapter Three - Our Strange Duet

Chapter Four - To Glance Behind

Chapter Five - Those Who Have Seen Your Face

Chapter Six - Where Night is Blind

Close your eyes, For your eyes will only tell the truth And the truth isn't what you want to see. In the dark it is easy to pretend That the truth is what it ought to be. Softly, deftly, music shall caress you Hear it, feel it, secretly possess you Open up your mind, Let your fantasies unwind In this darkness which you know you cannot fight, The darkness of the music of the night.

Chapter Seven - Angel of Music

The Beast lumbered forward, huffing out great snorts of air, until his hairy face was only a few feet from Woodrow’s.

“TRESPASSER,” came a deep and distorted growl, through which was only slightly recognizable the old familiar voice of the woodsman. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING AT MY HOUSE.”

“Well,” said the poet, with the type of unflappable bravery only brought on by complete exhaustion of both body and soul, “You weren’t using it. In fact, I don’t believe you can even fit in the door anymore. Besides, you always let me stay over, in bygone days.”

“I WAS A FOOL THEN,” came the snarling voice. “A PUSHOVER. YOU… YOU ALWAYS THINK YOU GET WHAT YOU WANT… EVER SINCE YOU BECAME WARDEN.”

“Now, that’s not true at all-” protested Woodrow, but the Beast continued.

“PATHETIC… POET… YOU DON’T EVEN WORK WITH ANYTHING REAL. JUST YOUR FANCY LITTLE WORDS… I SHOULD HAVE BEEN IN CHARGE…”

Woodrow swallowed, trying not to take it personally. He didn’t really think this, he told himself. Sweetlopek always respected you… he never WANTED to be warden… it’s the darkmess talking, it’s Cursa, it’s not HIM. Still, with those words, it was as though the creature had shoved a claw deep into the poet’s chest.

“YOU THINK YOU RULE THIS PLANET… YOU AND THAT BRATTY LITTLE FAIRY…”

“Sweets!” cried the warden in dismay. “Come now- speak of me how you like, but don’t talk of Dryad that way. You- she loves you. And you love her. Don’t… don’t you remember?”

“I CHOOSE NOT TO,” the lumberjack said. “AN EMBARRASSING TIME. I FELL UNDER HER SPELL. I SERVE A BETTER MASTER NOW. I’VE BEEN HUNTING THAT LOATHSOME…LITTLE…PIXIE… AND WHEN I CATCH HER… I’LL RIP HER APART.”

Now the warden’s expression changed into one that was rare for him- one of deep fury. “Don’t you DARE say that,” he hissed, pushing himself away from the door and stepping forward. “You fool, Sweetlopek! Keep Dryad’s name out of your mouth until you come to your senses.”

“I’LL HAVE MORE THAN HER NAME IN MY MOUTH, WHEN I GNAW ON HER BONES-”

“MONSTER!!” cried the warden, losing control of himself. He lunged forward, grabbing the Beast with both paws by the beard, and glared into his yellow eyes. “You snap out of it right this instant, you-”

And then the giant woodsman wrapped a paw around the entirety of Woodrow’s slender body, picked him up, and flung him across the glade.

The warden skidded along the ground until he slammed into a tree. Dizzy, he staggered to his feet just in time to see the Beast thumping towards him on all fours.

“Sweet- my friend-” he wheezed, “Stop-”

But the woodsman picked up the warden and threw him again, this time directly into another tree. He slammed into the trunk with his back, and then slid down onto the leaves below, bark flaking off and splinters becoming embedded in his coat. During all this, Jinx rushed in a panic to keep up with him.

The monster galloped over to him again, seeming to make a game out of this and to be greatly enjoying it, like a dog playing fetch with himself. Woodrow, somehow both defiant and resigned, stared at the grinning, fanged face that was approaching.

“Kill me then!” he shouted. “O, kill me then! Let me die at the hands of my dearest friend!”

But just before the Beast could reach Woodrow to menace him anew, a black-and-white blur, almost as big as the creature itself, shot out of the woods and tackled the threat to the ground.

After losing speed, the blur resolved itself in Woodrow’s vision, and he gasped. It was… Phantom. He looked much the same as Woodrow had left him - pale and dripping with darkmess - only now he seemed to be filled with a wild energy, his hair flowing in a supernatural wind. The biggest change, however, were the two magnificent, globby wings of darkmess that shot out of his back. They raised up behind him majestically as he pinned the struggling Sweetlopek to the ground, like a painting in some grand chapel of an angel fighting a demon.

“T…Tom-” stammered the poet.

The ghost looked over at Woodrow. “Stay there,” he commanded- his voice was not only back, but clear and resonant. Woodrow nodded, and in fact crawled around the side of the tree, where he was partially hidden, but could peer out at the scene. His entire body ached, but - resilient creature that he was - he seemed to be intact, with no broken bones.

Despite his ferocity, the Beast was being held down by Phantom’s rotund body, weighty with darkmess. “WHO…ARE…YOU?!” snarled the woodsman as he glowered up at his aggressor.

Phantom gave a manic smile. “What, don’t you know? I’m a damned galactic treasure, and I’m here to save the man who saved me.”

With no patience for Phantom’s grandeur, the Beast snarled and made an effort to throw him off, tumbling over so that he was now on top and pinning Phantom to the bed of leaves and dirt below. But just as quickly, the ghost extended a wing, and used it to gain leverage and push himself back over, so that he was on top once more. “Ha!” he exclaimed.

Then suddenly, the Beast froze. He raised his head up as much as he could, staring, and sniffing at the newcomer.

“IS THAT… MY… SHIRT…”

Phantom’s unmasked eye widened in confusion. “Er-”

And in that moment, Sweetlopek roared, freed one of his arms, and slashed his claws across Phantom’s chest.

Leaves fell from nearby trees as the singer gave a scream of pain, three jagged claw marks having rent the shirt and the ectoplasm underneath, with streams of darkmess slowly leaking out from each gash, down the singer’s chest and torso and belly. The Beast lashed out with his other arm, and ripped the shirt clean off of him, tossing it to the side in his rage.

Phantom looked down at himself only briefly before staring back at Sweetlopek in white-hot fury; then he opened his mouth once more, and blasted out a note that to Woodrow seemed to contain the entire universe: deep and full, divine and demonic, echoing with beautiful terror.

The fragment of breath and song hit the accursed lumberjack, who flew backwards, crashing into one of the woodcarvings that decorated the glade and knocking it over.

Phantom fluttered over to the dazed creature and pinned him down yet again, his eyes ablaze, his hair flowing, and put his hands at the woodcutter's throat under his beard-

“Tom, NO!” shrieked Woodrow. “Stop- he’s my friend-”

Phantom looked back towards Woodrow, who was still hiding behind the tree. “But Tristan- he-”

Taking advantage of the distraction, the Beast rose again, knocked Phantom over, and towered above him. He drew his axe from the strap of darkmess on his back and raised it high in his clawed hands, his mouth full of hungry fangs, the beaver on his head squealing in terror, and-

Yet another giant blur shout out from the nearby woods, this one much more colorful. It jumped straight for the axe, grabbing it in its massive jaws, landed with a thud, and spat out the weapon several feet away. Then quick as a flash it leapt back again, knocked the Beast over, and they both rolled around on the ground for a moment, like fighting wolves.

Phantom looked on in confusion, while Woodrow quickly understood- the new beast was Dryad, in the form she sometimes took to protect the forest, a giant quadruped with a fierce maw and a fiery mane of foliage.

“YOU!!!” cried Sweetlopek, and it was impossible to tell if anger or delight dominated his distorted voice. “FINALLY…”

“I knew it would come to this, Sweetie,” said the other, and there was no mistake that her own voice, while strong and firm, was as sorrowful as dead brown leaves.

During this exchange, Woodrow had crawled from behind the tree, and reached Phantom, who was sitting there gasping and clutching at his chest.

As Dryad kept down the man she loved, so warped in both spirit and form, she turned her fierce head to the others. “Phantom!” she yelled. “Get Woody away from here. Far away.”

The ghost nodded. “But Dryad! Sweetlopek!” cried out the warden in dismay. “What will happen to-”

Just then, the Beast freed himself from the forest guardian’s grasp, and lunged again at the poet- who, for all his abnormal size, was so small and fragile compared to everyone else here; by far the easiest target. Before he could be harmed, however, Phantom quickly snatched him to his leaking chest, and flew upwards, out of the glade, and high over the forest.

As he flew, Woodrow looked back down as the two lovers recommenced their fighting, until the trees hid them from view. And he burst into agonized sobs, burying his face into Phantom’s neck. No matter who won, there was nothing but sorrow and pain and agony in whatever future he, and this planet, had left.

“...He was your friend, my dear?” said Phantom, as he kept flying at top speed, clutching Woodrow to his chest.

The warden did not answer, so powerful was his grief. Phantom did not press further, and after a few minutes, he found a small clearing. He gently drifted down to it, and set himself upon the grass. He opened his arms, and Woodrow attempted to peel himself off - only to find that his coat had become hopelessly stuck to the darkmess that leaked from his beloved’s wound. Without words, and with sobs that were gradually subsiding, he took off his coat, and then wrapped and stretched and tied the long sleeves around Phantom’s naked chest and back - it served as a bandage to stop the gushing.

Now Woodrow nestled back into Phantom’s arms, as the two of them sat there holding each other in silence, recovering from their mutual shock.

After a moment, Woodrow spoke up. “Thank you, Tom. Thank you for saving me. You look beautiful, now. But… what did you mean, I had saved you? Clearly, I haven’t. You are still afflicted, you still bear the poison of Cursa…”

The ghost smiled down at him, and raised the poet's chin so that they met each other’s eyes. “Tristan Woodrow,” he said, “When you found me, days ago, in this forest… I was soon to die. I know I would have, perhaps that very day. I am still dying, but now my last thoughts shall be happiness and peace, not confusion and regret and sorrow. My love, I have lived a new lifetime with you in these past few days.”

“But Tom,” said the other, gripping a handful of his darling’s hair in anguish, “You can’t die!! We didn’t- we didn’t ACTUALLY live a lifetime together- there’s so much we have to do- the walks alongside the river, in the cool breeze of our long autumn… our visit to the moon… your singing competitions with the birds… you promised…”

Phantom smiled, and a single line of darkmess began to emerge from behind his mask, like a tear. “You are a poet, mon cheri, as am I. Ask yourself: are not words real? We spoke it, and we imagined it, and so it happened, in every way that matters. When we talked about such things, I felt as if I was there. That is the best that either of us could hope for, in these days. On a stage, the play is reality. And that cabin was our stage.”

Woodrow had no tears left, but instead gazed up at the other defiantly. “But what about me?!” he demanded. “You can’t leave me. You may die in peace and contentment, but you leave me here- with what?”

Phantom stroked his companion’s cheek. “Lo siento, my love. What am I to do? I can’t help it. I shall leave you with everything you had before, and then some-”

“I have nothing!” cried the warden, his voice cracking. He stood up and spread his naked arms to the forest. “Look around us. My planet is dying too, and I cannot stop it. The creature you fought - he was a man once, a rabbid, my best friend, and Dryad’s beloved. I could not save him, nor could she. Now who knows what will happen between them - if Dryad dies, the forest will be without hope, and if Sweetlopek dies- why, both me and Dryad will be without hope and the forest will be devastated regardless. I could not save him, I could not save you, I could not save Palette Prime, so tell me, WHAT DO I HAVE?!”

Phantom’s blue eye was wide and sorrowful with empathy, as he rose himself up to hold his beloved, who was shaking with anger and grief.

“Tristan,” he said, “I am sure you have done your best. Nothing but your best. There are some battles that cannot be won, but… we must keep fighting.”

“Then YOU keep fighting!” choked the other. “Don’t you give up, don’t die, don’t- don’t leave me, Tom, please, I- I love you, I need you, my soulmate… I will be nothing without you, nothing… just dirt and mud and crumbled leaves-”

Phantom picked up the poet’s whole body into a bridal carry, and sat back down with the trembling bundle of emotion. “Dear Tristan, portafortuna,” he said in a singsong. “How lucky we are! How kind of the universe, to show me my soulmate before I died, even if so briefly…”

“It isn’t lucky at all!!” cried the other, grasping madly at the ghost’s arm. “It’s-it’s perfectly unlucky, as befits my destiny! My whole life! Don’t you see?! To come to know you, the person whose soul fits with mine like a lock and key, only to have him ripped away so cruelly, so quickly- it’s the worst thing the Fates have ever done to me.”

“Sweet poet, my darling,” sang the other. “Perhaps in another world we are together, in brighter days, without Cursa...”

“But I don’t live in that world, Tom… and neither do you…”

“For a moment, we can,” said Phantom.

And he began to sing, softly. A lullaby in some language Woodrow did not know. The poet let himself be held and sang to- finally, the voice he had yearned so desperately to hear was his to enjoy, all his, accompanied by the crickets and the rustle of leaves in the gathering night. How could he do anything but remain silent, and try to enjoy every note to the fullest? His ears perked up and tilted towards his darling’s face, and he nestled into his chest, kissing him tenderly on the neck and down his chest above his wound. Between verses, Phantom too bent over to plant a kiss on his beloved’s cheek or forehead.

And so it lasted, through several verses, until Phantom gradually seemed to struggle with keeping himself upward- suddenly his entire body jolted, as if trying to keep himself awake from a doze.

“Tom- Tom, are you-”

Phantom said nothing, and trickles of darkmess began to run from his mouth- then he suddenly collapsed backwards, with Woodrow on top of him.

“TOM!!”

The singer blinked, and shook his head, and looked up at Woodrow.

“Tristan-” he said quietly, “It’s time. Now’s the time. You must take my mask off.”

“But, but why- that may kill you, indeed- I cannot hurt you like that, not again…”

“I am dying regardless. Please, Tristan. You must take it off… I do not wish to die with her mark upon me. I wish to die with my own face.”

The poet swallowed back his tears. “Tom, my... my dearest, my darling love… I… there is no face back there. I’m so sorry. Your face, it’s been eaten away behind that mask… I should have told you, but-”

“I know,” said the other, with a weak wave of his paw. “I… guessed as much. But I do not care. Half of a face is still better than a mask. Just, please, take it off of me…”

Woodrow nodded, and positioned himself on top of Phantom as before. Digging his paws under the edge of the mask again, the warden pulled. He pulled, and pulled, giving no heed to the screams that resounded throughout the woods, for he knew what must be done- he tried to ignore all his senses, and his own pain and sorrow, and then before he knew it, the last strands of darkmess had snapped, and the mask was severed. He tossed it away towards the trees.

As before, the thick and oily sludge bubbled up out of the hole in Phantom’s head, with nothing to stop it.

“Thank you, my love-” murmured Phantom, looking up at the face above him, as the substance began to spread over his own face like lava from an erupting volcano. “I will die free. You have-”

Then Woodrow pressed his lips down onto Phantom’s.

“Mm-Trstn-” moaned the ghost in protest from behind their locked mouths, and with all his strength, forced the poet up. “You can’t- you must leave me now- this will kill you, you’ll-”

“I am already dead,” said the poet, and met his lips again. This time the ghost relented, and they kissed each other hungrily, passionately, like starving men who were eating for the first time in ages. Their hands were on each other’s faces, bodies, and hair, until they were both quite covered in darkmess, and Woodrow felt a tingling and burning on his flesh, and a rancid nauseating taste as plenty got into his mouth, but none of this mattered, none of it stopped him-

Then suddenly Phantom gave a sharp cry of pain, and his passion stopped short. Woodrow stopped as well. “Tom, what’s-”

The ghost cried out again, his half-face distorted in agony, and he pointed down towards his belly. Woodrow looked backwards, and then slid off of his lover to the side. Phantom’s body, with the loss of so much of its fluids, had become somewhat deflated - and now, for the very first time since their meeting, Woodrow could see that within Phantom’s stomach were two masses, two clumps of darkmess that stood out solidly amongst the remaining liquid. One was smaller, and had the distinctive shape of the gramophone - which indeed seemed likely to have been the source of the trouble this whole time, as even now, a small river of fresh sludge was pouring from its horn. And the other was some kind of rounder mass, indistinguishable, and very large…

Phantom continued to moan, and Woodrow lifted his head onto his own lap, in helpless fear, not knowing how to ease his pain. “Tom, how can I-”

And then, with a quiet pop, Phantom’s belly burst, like a water balloon, spilling its contents out over the forest floor. Out poured the darkmess, and the gramophone, which began to shed its coating of goop, and the other lump, which - as excess darkmess dripped from it, began to seem… almost… fuzzy…

Woodrow gasped in horror, feeling far more nauseous at this sight than at the darkmess he had swallowed. His mind was still reeling from Phantom bursting, when, from the rounded clump of darkmess, sprang up two tiny insectoid wings. They were bent and corroded, but still recognizable… just as the whole form itself, despite being largely stained black, and eaten away, was becoming more recognizable… ears, paws, a face...

“Holy stars. Mother of Rosalina,” swore Woodrow in terror. “Oh stars. Oh stars-”

Phantom groaned, and looked down weakly at the mess before him. “Oh, Tristan…” he moaned. “I… I remember now, I-”

The poet’s hands were over his mouth, trying not to throw up, and the last of his tears were streaming from his eyes. He could not look Phantom in the face.

“I could not remember until this moment," Phantom began, fighting hard for each word, "but… before I came here… I went. To Terra Flora. Looking for a cure… when I first became able to fight Cursa off, it’s... the first place I tried, because… I thought… Bea, I thought she-” he coughed up a burst of darkmess - “I thought she could help. And- and she did. She tried, despite everything I had done to her. She took pity on me- but… but Cursa overpowered me again, and- and we overpowered her… and I, we… we absorbed her…”

Woodrow looked down at Phantom again, his eyes wild and red with tears, then glanced up at the ruined and darkmess-riddled body that had once been Bea, then back down at Phantom. “She- she’s been here the whole time- she’s been INSIDE YOU-”

“I did not know,” said Phantom, and every broken word was agony. “And yet, somehow- I could still sense, I- I knew that I was a danger to you- I suppose I remembered, vaguely… that something had happened…”

“And then you came here next, to get me?!” said Woodrow, his voice thin and jumpy with horror and revulsion. “Working your way down the warden line? Well, you succeeded!”

“Perhaps Cursa brought me here for that reason, I do not know. I have… no memory… of how I came here. Even still. But it was I who fell in love, Tristan. It’s only ever been me. Since the moment I awoke… in that cabin… with you by my side. Since the moment… I heard you humming in my dreams. It’s only ever…been me… it’s only ever been… you…”

He reached up to touch Woodrow’s face, and the warden let himself be caressed; then he kissed Tom’s paw. “I believe you, Tom,” he said, crying softly. “I’m sorry, it’s just- it’s all so horrible-”

“I know,” said Phantom. “And that is why I have to die. There is no happy ending for me.”

“Take me with you,” said Woodrow softly. He took off his glasses, and smiled down at Phantom with his gentle green eyes, red around their rims from crying, his thundering raincloud forming a halo. “Let us go together into the night. There is nothing left for me in this world.”

“No, Tristan, mon cœur, ma vie… You deserve far better. I cannot rest in peace, knowing I had killed two people, two that I had loved… leave me, and run far away…”

“You didn’t kill me,” said the warden. “Let’s say my own poems did.”

He caressed the cheek of his lover, who now only had half a face, and half a body, and had already spilled out darkmess all over the ground and onto Woodrow, and said,

“I’ve been working on something for you. It’s deeply ironic now, but… listen.

You came to me a stranger In a time much stranger yet, And you carried me from danger, Aye, the danger of regret.

Your soul was made of fire, Kept me warm throughout the night, Lit my path throughout the mire, Taught me how to seek the light.

You were made so wondrous, That you sing without a word, Your voice is loud and thund’rous Even when you are not heard.

Your presence is itself a song And tho' your mouth be sealed, Your melody has greeted me And left me whole and healed.

Indeed one day you shall break free, The darkness cannot claim you, And your defiant melody Shall break the bonds that tame you.

Oh, my darling! What a joy it's been To know you as I do, The darkness shan't destroy, my friend, The light that lives in you.”

As Woodrow spoke, caressing Phantom’s hair, Jinx had started to rain upon them both. It washed away the darkmess from their faces for a time, and delayed the inevitable. But ultimately it was no use, this time. The darkmess was too strong, and too thick, and too plentiful. As the poem went on, they grew ever more covered in it. It dripped out of Phantom’s face, and by the final verse, his visage was completely hidden- save for his eye that peered out, and the vague form of a smile that could be seen as Woodrow recited his work. And so too were the warden’s paws, and his lap and his knees and legs, overtaken by the ever-growing puddle.

There wasn’t much left in Phantom’s deflated body, but from a few feet away, the gramophone had continued to spill out a new surge as well. It poured like a sluggish waterfall, forming a puddle that connected the lifeless body of Bea to the two lovers nearby, all united by the same ominous pool.

Woodrow looked down at his beloved and finished his poem, heedless of the darkmess that had begun to encase his legs from above and below.

“It was beautiful, my dear,” Phantom said, his voice barely audible and distorted as the darkmess ate away at what was left of his face. “I’m glad I got to hear it.”

“And I’m glad I got to say it,” said the poet. With something of a struggle, he pulled himself free of the puddle amassing around him- just enough to lay his body down next to Phantom, on the ground, intimately connected in that moment to both the planet and the person he loved above all things. He pulled what remained of Phantom towards him, and fought through the sludge to kiss his lips. The darkmess surged into his mouth, down his throat, and he felt searing pain from within and without.

But the pain, to him, was a divine blessing. He was dissolving, he knew, into the same undistinguished mass that Phantom and Bea would become. A venn diagram of poetry and song with Phantom at its center. It’s better like this.

Phantom’s wings, which had laid still and become part of the puddle, fluttered again, just enough to wrap around Woodrow and pull him ever closer into the dark embrace.

The last words uttered in the glade that night, softly under the bubbling and roiling sound of the terrible sludge at work, were "I love you," and "I love you too. Forever."

And so it was that the poetry went silent, and Woodrow’s last work was never heard by another soul - no one, except a certain cloud which, having rained itself out in one last act of grief, allowed itself- for the first time in decades- to fully dissipate, back into the air of the planet from which it had been formed.

THE END

[So! Here are my thanks-

Dryad's beast form comes from @minnesotamedic186 !

The general direction of the ending, and Bea being involved, comes from @hostess-of-horror's distressing concept for Phantom in Sparks of Despair. I've been working towards a conclusion that honors her vision this whole time, so here we are!

Thanks to YOU for reading this, even though it might have broken your heart as it did mine. The terror of this story, the monster at the end of this book, lived in the back of my mind for over a year, and as hard as it was to finally write down, now I can finally put it to rest.]

#mario plus rabbids #mario + rabbids #phandrow #sparks of despair #ts woodrow #woodrow #the phantom of the bwahpera

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darklydeliciousdesires · 4 months

Text

Immortal Beloved - Chapter Eleven.

Previous chapters - Prologue One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten

Tag list - In the comments

Words - 3,414

Warnings - 18+ only. Adult themes + vampire content throughout. Minors DNI!

With her love sleeping soundly, Bryn began to feel restless in the hour she had left before the dawn broke, pulling on her long, deep blue silk nightgown and matching floral robe, exiting the bedroom. Touring the corridors of Arrow House as she made her way to the stairs, she smiled to see the traces of herself there within the home. Her flourishing friendship with her soon-to-be sister-in-law meant that Grace consulted her at every turn where furnishing the property with art and antiquities was concerned.

The softly spoken Irish beauty had excellent taste, Bryn only needing to advise her here and there over certain pieces, all of which she had received a very nice little discount for purchasing. The Johan Baptist Reiter painting that hung to the left as she descended the bottom of the staircase looked particularly lovely in its placement. Just like Bryn herself, Grace had a fondness for Biedermeier.

Sensing a presence in the sitting room, she gravitated in that direction, pushing the slightly ajar door open to see Tommy sitting by the fire, a cigarette in one hand and a whiskey in the other.

“Tired our John out, have you?”

She laughed softly through her nose, Tommy rising from his seat, gesturing to the whiskey bottle.

“Please,” she spoke, sitting down. “And yes, for now.”

“I didn’t mean to be coarse, but the sound travels well in this house,” he commented, pouring the whiskey into a tumbler and passing it to her.

“The high ceilings often bode well for good acoustics. I apologise if my wailing awoke you. Your brother is nothing short of a very gifted lover.”

Tommy shook his head, returning to his seat. “Wasn’t that.” A shadow crept across his features, one he did well to hide from any other person. Bryn was a different matter entirely, though.

“The German guns still haunt you.”

Her assertion earned her a fixed stare, his cool eyes softening a touch as he slowly brought the cigarette to his lips, the tobacco embers crackling. “Didn’t think I was that obvious.”

“You aren’t,” she smiled, “but nothing gets past me. I know the look of a man haunted by his past, by the horrors that still dance a cruel waltz within his mind at everything he saw and should not have had to.” She paused, trailing the rim of the glass with her fingernail. “I tire of witnessing the harm that befalls young men, sent off to fight in the wars concocted by those who never leave their seats of power to fight alongside them. I never sent anyone into a battle that I did not join them in myself, too.”

“John mentioned that you were quite the tactician back in your human days. A warlord, I believe he coined it.”

She nodded, sipping her drink. “Correct, yes.”

“Then it puzzles me why, with that kind of experience, you have fled your enemies for so very long,” he spoke. “Surely your brilliance dictates you could thwart them all, especially taking your strength into consideration.”

A prickle of annoyance skipped over her chest, but Bryn remained calm. “You should know better than anyone, Tommy, that strength is found in numbers where war is concerned. My kind has been hunted to near eradication within England. I have no allies left, and I shall die before I bring my children into this. I am, however, currently in a phase of contemplation. Something happened tonight, something that meant I intend to put down roots in Birmingham. I can hide no longer, so therefore I must begin to strike back against those who have hunted me.”

He cocked his head, watching how the diamonds upon her finger glittered in the firelight, smiling softly. “It fits, then? He was having a right old panic over whether it would.” Watching a small frown settle between her eyebrows as her mouth twisted into a curious smile, he elaborated. “I got dragged to the Jewellery Quarter to help him pick it. Never seen our John in that much of a bloody flap over anything.”

His words touched her, Bryn imagining her sweet love losing his cool over which ring to choose. “Now that I am to be married, you see why I no longer wish to flit from place to place, to keep them guessing with guards upon the doors of my various residences across the globe. In order to do that, though, I must begin in making strikes against them.”

His next question was only natural, Tommy leaning forward in his seat. “And how do you propose to do that?”

Bryn smirked, mirroring his lean. “Setting the kind of trap they shan’t be able to refuse falling into, Tommy.”

It took many more moving pieces in the first phase to begin dismantling the Rasmusen’s infrastructure than just Bryn herself, five large vans en route to her London residence the day after Boxing Day. Predictably, they had a tail, which was exactly what John wanted as he sat in the passenger seat, Johnny Dogs driving.

“It’s a good job they weren’t convinced over the serving girl’s statement that Brynhild wasn’t there?” he stated, negotiating the bends that led them down over the main route into the capital.

John sniffed, taking a swig of whiskey from his hip flask. “I said to Pol she likely weren’t the only one they sent to spy our movements, and yeah, Dogs. I’m glad of it.” Looking in the wing mirror, the car that followed them appeared as a deep maroon dot in the distance, John lifting his chin as he swallowed hard. He just hoped that a few of the men within were notable within the family, for their strike to have the desired effect.

Once they had arrived at 14 Holland Park Road, John jumped out and headed to the front door, Bryn’s neatly pencilled list withing his grasp of the items they were to take from the property and transport back to Birmingham. He nodded at the two men under the employment of Alfie Solomons upon the door, pushing in the key into the lock and opening it up.

“Right, lads,” he began, standing outside of the large sitting room as he perused the list. “All the paintings from the ground, first and second floors, the baby grand, every vase and ornament and leave the rest. Get the packing cases in and hop to it.”

He had personally been tasked with bringing a few items of her clothing and all of her jewellery, Bryn not wanting anyone but her future husband rifling through her personal items, heading up to her bedroom to begin collecting those very belongings.

“Nice bed,” he muttered upon entrance, looking over as he strode to the wardrobe, “shame I won’t get to bounce her around on it for a few hours.” Once the designer pieces she’d listed had been pulled out, her furs as well, he went to the safe and removed all of her jewels, placing each into the heavy hessian sack he carried, picking up the clothing and exiting swiftly. Not before leaving a few items around before he did.

The house was emptied of everything she’d requested within two hours, the team heading back up to Birmingham minus their tail, who stayed parked up at the end of the road.

“Ay, what aren’t we following ‘em, Pat?”

Watching the vans driven by the Peaky Blinders pass them by, Patrick Rasmussen turned to Stanley, nodding back at the house. “Guards are still on the doors, lad. Since they only came back this morning, it means she’s still in there. I think it’s safe to assume she’s on the move, though, what with the contents of her house being cleared out by the Peaky lads. Go down to the phone box and call in with me dad, get him to have one team follow the van, but most of the lads to come down here and wait. We strike on her tonight, as soon as they step away from the door.”

Patrick thought he was being clever, but sadly for him, Brynhild Leifsdottir was much cleverer than he’d ever be able to anticipate...

“Ahh, look now. Pulled over for a break, they have,” spoke Matthew Rasmussen, the very man tasked with following the vans heading back to Birmingham, having been sat awaiting word from Edward on when to move. “Reet, lads. Ready yourselves. Not that we’ll need to, like. We’ve got ‘em well outnumbered.”

His grin of triumph fixed itself firmly, getting to strike a coup against the Peaky Blinders and partially disarm of her allies the vampire menace who had evaded his family for so long in one fell swoop, Matthew noticing there only to be eight men standing around smoking and chatting by the five vans pulled over at the side of the road.

Between his car and the other that followed, ten Rasmussen family members and associates strode out, guns ready, the scent of success bolstering them with every step.

“Can I help you lads?” John asked, flicking his cigarette away.

“Aye, lad. You can stand still and get shot,” Matthew chirped, aiming the gun in his hand towards his head.

“Are we getting shot today, John?” Johnny Dogs asked casually with a sniff. “Didn’t think it was a shooting day today, I didn’t?”

“Nah, Dogs. We ain’t getting shot today, mush.” John’s grin broadened, Matthew shaking his head, about to deliver his final words before the man before him spoke again. “Brynhild sends her regards.”

Perhaps if his brother Patrick was paying greater attention, he would have noticed that one the five vans in the convoy was not filled with the antiquities belonging to the vampire. Tragically for Matthew, nobody noticed until it was too late that it was instead filled with eight Peaky Blinders who stepped out with machine guns, rapidly opening fire.

“Back home by teatime then, John boy?” Arthur spoke casually, once the hail of bullets had ceased. Lowering the machine gun in his grasp, he walked to Matthew’s corpse, snorting deeply before spitting onto his face. “Fucking cunt.”

“Ar, brother. Let’s get off.”

With one team eradicated, the second sat patiently in their vehicles upon Holland Park Road, waiting for any signs of life within the property. At just gone five-thirty in the evening, a rapidly zooming Bryn opened the French windows at the rear of her house, looking around to see the items her love had left out in preparation before taking a tour of the home.

“I shall miss you, beautiful house,” she hummed, her fingertips trailing over each piece of furniture as she passed it by. “It is a most worthy trade, though.”

Entering her bedroom, she held a hand to her chest at the sight of a single red rose laid upon the bed, a note accompanying.

Hurry back when you’re done, sweetheart. I have plans, and they all involve burying my tongue and then my cock inside you until you’re screaming x

Romantic, yet filthy. That was her John to an absolute tee. Taking the note, she tucked it into the pocket of her smart, black trouser suit, pushing the rose into the long braid in her hair before moving downstairs and opening the front door.

“Evening, chaps,” she spoke warmly, giving them both a little wedge of notes each. “Go and enjoy yourselves. As explained to Mr Solomons I shall no longer be requiring his guard services, but please do inform him there shall be a very nice cheque to follow in the post as a personal token of my appreciation.”

The taller of the two nodded, lifting his hat to her. “A pleasure, Ms Leifsdottir. Thank you, ma’am.”

Bryn made sure she stood at the front door for long enough to be noticed while waving them away in their car, closing it behind her and heading to the sitting room in wait. They arrived in two units, as she suspected they would, the first storming the front door and the second the rear, twenty Rasmussen men filling the space.

“Finally,” Patrick grinned, the men surrounding her, “we’re fucking got you cornered at last. Stan, get her in chains.”

“Oh, no, no, my dear,” she hummed, shaking her head.

“No?” he laughed, Stan moving towards her. “We’ve got you surrounded, pet. One move and its curtains for you, it is.”

“My associates say differently, as do the trip wires you’re all about to stumble upon.”

Patrick and his men halted immediately, indeed seeing wires all boxing the area in which the vampire stood, Bryn flicking her hands. Sparks of ignition lit the very shortened fuses upon the strategically placed sticks of dynamite, her fangs glistening as she grinned. “Now, what is that my soon to be husband says, hmm? Ah yes. By order of the Peaky Blinders,” she laughed, delivering her final words with a wave. “Fuck you.”

She was gone out of the open French windows within a blink, her entire house exploding into inferno the next, Bryn hovering high above in the air to watch the fireball engulf her former home, and the twenty Rasmussen’s within it. The reflection of the flames twinkled in her eyes, Bryn feeling a piece of herself return.

“Splendid.” With that, she left London, racing through the night air rapidly, returned to Birmingham in just under fifteen minutes. She was so swift, in fact, she even beat John home, her beloved arriving not long after her, giving his coat and cap to a waiting Arthur and removing his boots before calling through the house.

“Where’s me bab?”

“Bedroom, darling,” she replied. He took the stairs two at a time, turning right to enter the bedroom, not seeing her anywhere in sight. His mouth upturned to feel her arms slide around him from behind, delicate fingers unknotting his tie as she laid kisses to his cheek.

“How’d it go?”

“With a very big bang,” she purred, tongue swiping a lick upon his cheek.

He turned, clasping her nakedness to him, laying lustful kisses upon her neck while his fingers went to her wavy, freshly undone hair. “Just like the rest of your night, then.” The scent of her lightly perfumed skin pulled at him like a heady intoxicant, his clothes all shed by the time they reached the bed, lying back and taking her with him.

His hands moved in slow tour down her back, grasping the rounded cheeks of her bum, making her squeal when he laid a hard slap to each. “Get up here,” he rasped, winking as he grasped her hips. “You know exactly where I want ya.”

Taking to her knees, she shuffled up the bed, levelling herself with his head. He pushed his elbows against her thighs, bringing her down until her sex met the long, firm swipe of his tongue. His breath misted hot against her cool folds, her skin soon warming to the blazing warmth of his mouth with every lick he pushed against her, groaning as the sharp honey of her cunt began to bathe his tongue.

His fingers trailed over the ancient etchings upon her hips, pattering up to her breasts, evoking an earthy moan as he began to roll her nipples into peaks between his thumbs and forefingers. Heat streaked over her nerves like a hail of comets as his lips wrapped her clit in a firm suck, tongue gently rolling, her thighs twitching in response.

The rich groan rumbling through his throat as she reached back to clasp his cock vibrated through her, Bryn pausing to lick her hand wet before curling it around his hardness again, a breathy sigh leaving her parted lips as he sank his tongue into the wet of her cunt. The pleasure surged through her, hips purling against his mouth, her hand working him to steel, all while crying out softly at the speed his tongue beat against her bud with.

He had her embers stoking to flames rapidly, the burn much too smouldering to withstand without him being inside her. The slick of her cunt grazed his abs as she moved down, and it sent a bolt through him, lightning that struck deep again as she speared herself upon his cock, leaning to circle his nipple with her tongue. Her walls flexed around him as the heat of his cock radiated through her, warming her walls as it dragged against them, her teeth closing in soft bite on his nipple, running a lick from his chest up to his mouth.

The momentum gathered rapidly, little shocks of burning pleasure skittering through them as their bodies moved together in perfect sync, Bryn leaving raspberry trails of lust upon the lily white of his chest with her nails. His muscles bounced beneath the clawed contact, the feeling sinking down to his bones as he watched her tits bounce, his hands moving to cup them before he reached for her neck, pulling her down to his level,

Moving to hold her in a grasp upon her hips, her wail sounded through the air as he fucked up into her hard, their tongues swirling, kisses all heat and sin, John making her shriek and giggle when he moved a hand to begin laying hard smacks upon the round of her bum.

“Fucking can’t wait for you to be my wife.” he groaned, kisses moving to her neck.

To be somebody’s wife again, she could scarcely believe it, to have finally found a man who loved her that much after crossing oceans of time alone.

Witnessing the wattage of her luminous smile was all the answer he needed, their mouths meeting again as he turned her onto her back, limbs locking around one another as sublime love and burning lust met in perfect alchemy.

Once they’d spent time thoroughly enjoying themselves, they lay idly stroking one another, Bryn’s nail trailing from freckle to freckle, mapping the constellation upon his shoulder. They were the stars, his body the endless sky she wished to sail through. Come January the first, it would be a month since he’d first met her and yet, it felt like a year. Already he struggled to remember a life without his beloved in it, and he never wanted that for either of them again.

“I’ve been thinking,” he began, Bryn reaching to the side of his head, miming winding a crank handle. “Oi, cheeky mare. Less of that.” Despite himself, he still laughed, his amused chuckles joining the tinkle of her giggles.

“So yeah, I’ve been thinking, right, about the future. After everything you’ve told me about your long life, it wouldn’t be fair for me to make you watch me grow old and eventually have to lose me an’ all. Once Katie is a bit older and won’t need me to be around for her quite so much, especially not in the daytime, I want you to make me vampire. I dunno, though, like will it cause issues, you being the one to do it?”

She understood the connotations clearly, since the bond between creator and offspring as just as deep, if not deeper than a human parent and child. There was an exception, though. “It shan’t, no. It is different if a vampire turns their lover or spouse. It is called Amantes Vinculum Sanguinis, which is Latin for the lover's blood bond.” Her eyes sparkled at him through the amber haze of the candle and firelight bathing the room in a warm glow, shaking her head softly. “You truly want this, to join me forever?”

He leaned to her, nuzzling her nose softly. “’Course I fucking do. Well, I dunno. I might get fed up of ya in five hundred years, but I doubt it.”

Her fist met the side of his neck in a playful punch. “I have never met anybody who has ever loved me that much before, to want to walk the darkness with me for all eternity.”

“Well, now you have,” he affirmed, linking his fingers through hers. “I reckon you probably have, though. You just ain’t ever wanted to let ‘em in, have ya?”

How well he knew her, understood her on an instinctual level. “I suppose this is fair reasoning, my darling. For you to propose this, though, goodness,” she began, reaching to stroke his face. “Nobody has ever meant more to me than you, John. I love you so completely and endlessly.”

The way he kissed her mirrored those words entirely.

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