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valdomarx · 4 years

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A Marriage of Convenience

Octoberfest romcom tropes day 1: fake dating

Jaskier pushed his ale aside and broke the wax seal on the letter. As he read the contents, his face pinched into a frown.

“Anything important?” Geralt asked, glancing up from his soup.

Jaskier chewed his lower lip. “Not really. It’s from my family.” He took a breath. “They’re going to disinherit me.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “What did you do this time?”

Jaskier scoffed. “Nothing, thank you very much! But it’s my 35th birthday next month, and the stipulations of the Lettenhove family will are quite clear. If the oldest son isn’t married by the age of 35, inheritance passes to the next married cousin.”

“Very keen on weddings in Lettenhove, are they?”

“Rather less keen on unmarried bachelors, actually.”

Geralt grunted. “That’s too bad. I imagine a viscount’s fortune could have come in handy for you.”

“Oh, I don’t care about the money.” Jaskier waved a hand dismissively. “It’s just,” he sighed. “I have younger sisters who rely on me for support. If the inheritance goes to cousin Edward, he’ll turn them out without a penny to their names.”

“That’s unkind.”

“It is.” Jaskier slumped. He was glad to have left Lettenhove and its court intrigues behind, but the thought of his sisters being at the mercy of his greedy cousin was unconscionable. He knew too well all the terrible things that could befall a woman alone in the world.

“This will,” Geralt said, stirring his soup absentmindedly, “does it have any rules about who you have to marry?”

“No. Any old wedding will do. But it’s not like I’m going to find anyone willing to tie themselves to me in the next month.”

Geralt shrugged one shoulder. “I’ll marry you.”

Jaskier choked on his ale. “You?”

“Why not?”

“Because…” he broke off and mopped the sweat from his brow. Because I’ve been in love with you for decades. Because I’ve fantasised about you saying this in a million different ways. Because having to pretend it’s real is going to break my heart.

Geralt reached over the table and patted his hand. “It’ll just be pretend,” he said, as if that were in any way reassuring. “This is a problem easily solved. Let me help you.”

Jaskier sagged. This was going to be a disaster.

“This is going to be a disaster!” Jaskier paced anxiously around their room. “There are so many ways this could go horribly wrong.”

Geralt sat on the bed counting bundles of herbs. “It’ll be fine.” He was infuriatingly calm. “We’ll head to Lettenhove, have a quick wedding, get your family off your back, and be on our way. It’ll only take a few days.”

“But,” Jaskier kept pacing. “We’ll have to. You know. We’ll have to do couple things. There are certain… expectations of a newly married pair.”

Geralt got to his feet and placed his hands on Jaskier’s shoulders, stopping his anxious traipsing. “We’ll manage. Can’t be any worse than fighting drowners.”

Jaskier looked into amber eyes and felt his heart turn over in his chest. “Everyone will expect us to be holding hands, and kissing, and gods know what else. And you can’t do that.” He sighed. “You don’t even like men.”

Geralt leaned in closer, close enough that strands of his silver hair tickled Jaskier’s cheek. “I like men just fine,” he said, and pressed a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth.

Then Jaskier did something terribly foolish. His body moved before his mind, his feet stepping closer, his arms wrapping around Geralt’s neck. He kissed him, hard, and to his astonishment Geralt kissed him back hungrily, lips parting to allow Jaskier to taste him fully, tongue exploring, hands roaming, and by the time they broke apart Jaskier was flushed and breathing hard.

“See?” Geralt said, his deep voice sending a shiver up his spine. “We can do this.”

Jaskier wrote to his family to tell them the good news, and he and Geralt wasted no time in heading off to Lettenhove. The journey was long but nothing they were unused to. They traveled by day, slept under the stars by night, and Geralt even picked up a few quick contracts to help pay their way.

It was comfortable, and normal, and Jaskier could almost forget about what he was about to put himself through.

At least, until they reached the outskirts of Lettenhove and they heard the whoosh of an incoming portal. The ground shook, the air rippled, and through the rent in reality stepped Yennefer, terrifying and beautiful as ever.

She raised one perfectly arched eyebrow at them. “I hear congratulations are in order.”

Jaskier couldn’t even bring himself to come up with a snarky reply as she swept past him and went to Geralt. He stood back and watched the two of them, powerful and dazzling together, each other’s equals in capability and composure.

He had never had a chance in this competition, he thought bitterly. He would be pretending with Geralt, while she had his heart for real.

Jaskier was left at camp while Geralt and Yennefer went off to do... whatever it was they did together. (He could guess what that was.) He spent a cold, lonely night with no one but Roach for company, berating himself for feeling so hurt by something he knew from the beginning was nothing but a ruse.

With their arrival in Lettenhove proper, there was nothing to do but face his family. The brightest spot of his day was walking into the estate and having his sisters squeal and jump on him just as they had done as children.

He stopped laughing and caught his breath long enough to introduce them. “Essi and Priscilla, this is Geralt.” My husband to be, he thought, and something twisted inside him at that. “Geralt, these are my troublesome sisters.”

Essi dipped her head and Priscilla performed a theatrical bow. “We were wondering if Jaskier would ever settle down,” Essi said with a sly smile.

“But seeing how handsome you are, I can’t blame him!” Priscilla replied, and the two of them broke into fits of giggles.

Geralt, for his part, took them with good humour. Where Jaskier had been expecting him to be dour, he smiled indulgently and took each of their hands in turn and pressed a kiss to their knuckles, resulting in another uproar of giggling.

“Thank you for that,” Jaskier said quietly as they made their way to the room waiting for them.

Geralt inclined his head. “Have to make a good impression on the future in-laws,” he said, the corner of his lips quirking upward in amusement.

The rest of his family were predictable as clockwork. Cousin Edward was sour, his father was distant, and his mother was simply relieved to see him married off as was proper. Geralt sat through all of it with more patience and good grace than Jaskier would have thought him capable of.

The day of the wedding itself passed in a blur. With such short notice the ceremony was terribly paired down by noble standards, but still, there was the formal breakfast, the dressing in formal garments, the journey to the temple outside of the city, the clamour of priestesses and officials and his family, the exchanging of rings, the reading of texts, and of course the formal dinner.

Jaskier barely remembered any of it. Looking back, the only thing that stuck out in his mind was the feeling of Geralt’s hand clasping his own during the handfasting. And the way that, whenever he was feeling overwhelmed over the course of the day, Geralt’s hand would find his own and give a comforting squeeze.

Finally the ceremonies were complete and they were left in peace in their chambers, the two of them alone for the first time all day. Geralt’s hair had been braided into two slim plaits running either side of his face, though by now they were starting to become mussed. He’d even put on a shirt of dark blue silk as opposed to his standard uniform of all black. The effect was quite stunning.

As the door closed, Jaskier’s shoulders slumped and he breathed for what felt like the first time in hours.

Geralt cupped one cheek tenderly. “You good?”

Jaskier exhaled, letting the anxiety and stress of the day slowly unwind. He looked into Geralt’s warm eyes and felt, for once, safe and unjudged. “I’m good.”

Geralt brought their lips together, soft as could be, and Jaskier’s knees shook. He grabbed Geralt’s forearms to hold himself upright and, desperate for some sort of control, some sort of meaning, he pulled him into a deep, passionate kiss.

This was a bad idea, he was aware, but Geralt felt so good in his arms. He ran his hands through silky silver hair like he’d always wanted to, he pressed himself close to that muscled chest he’d spent more time than he should have admiring, and he moaned unrestrainedly when Geralt picked him up, locking his legs around his waist.

This was a terrible idea, he knew, but Geralt carried him over to the bed with firm, confident steps, and the temptation to touch, to hold, to kiss was overwhelming. This would only lead to heartache, but he was weak in the face of love, as always.

Geralt laid him out and took him apart with soft lips and careful fingers and a wicked tongue, and it was everything he’d been dreaming of for years, and yet so much more intense than anything he could have imagined. Geralt was dazzling beneath him, warm amber eyes and pale scarred flesh, beautiful and kind and more than he could possibly deserve.

Nuptial celebrations in Lettenhove were mercifully brief, and with the ceremony completed and recorded to the satisfaction of the genealogists, they were free to depart.

There were, however, some customs which could not be avoided.

“You’ll be honeymooning nearby?” Jaskier’s mother asked, with the understanding that this was not a question.

“Actually, we thought -”

“They’ll be staying in my cottage, won’t you?” Priscilla interjected. She’d availed herself of her position, such as it was, to secure a tiny ramshackle cottage on the Kerack coast. It wasn’t opulent but it was, thankfully, far from prying eyes.

Jaskier gave her a tiny nod of thanks and she winked.

“A cottage?” His mother’s lip turned up in distaste. “How quaint.”

“And there’s ever so much to pack, so we must be on our way -” he excused himself with a bow, tugging Geralt behind him.

Out of the view of their parents, Priscilla and Essi set upon him with hugs and kisses, thanked him for saving them from the horrors of cousin Edward, and packed up an obscene quantity of cheeses and wine to take with them.

By the time they departed the estate, Jaskier was even smiling.

It was quiet and calm on the coast. The cottage overlooked the sea, rolling and tempestuous, and had just enough space for a kitchen, a bed, and a bath. They had everything they needed, even a stable for Roach outside.

Even though it was only for a few days, Jaskier imagined Geralt would be bored and unhappy, feeling trapped in a place so small. But he seemed content: riding along the coastline in the morning, brushing Roach out, going fishing in the afternoon, preparing the catch for their evening meal.

Jaskier showed him his favourite spices and how to prepare the fish with butter to make it rich and indulgent, and in the quiet moments he wrote poetry or simply sat on the battered chair on the porch of the cottage and watched the waves.

Geralt returned to the cottage with a net bulging with fish and a smile on his face. He’d been doing that more recently, Jaskier had noticed, smiling in a way that seemed natural and unforced. He even left his armour and swords in the cottage and waded down to the sea in just his trousers and shirtsleeves, disarmingly casual.

It was comfortable, almost domestic.

And it was a torment, showing Jaskier a tiny glimpse of a life he’d never have.

Their last night on the coast, Geralt cooked the remainder of their provisions into a feast, poured the best wine they had, and set a fire in the hearth. He piled up blankets and pillows, laid down their warmest furs, and pulled Jaskier into his arms in front of the flames.

“Thank you,” he said, dotting kisses in a line up Jaskier’s neck, “for taking such good care of me.”

Jaskier fidgeted unhappily. “You’re the one doing me a favour,” he reminded him. That seemed important to remember. This was a favour from a friend, nothing more.

Geralt hummed against his neck, the vibrations rippling against his skin. “I can see some advantages to me,” he murmured, continuing his line of kisses up Jaskier’s jaw and toward his lips.

Jaskier, stupidly, allowed Geralt to turn him around, hands delicate around his waist, allowed him to bring their lips together. He allowed a kiss, soft at first, and then another, more intense, moaning into Geralt’s mouth.

“Can I interest you in an early night?” Geralt purred in his ear, and everything in Jaskier’s body said yes, and everything in his mind said no.

Eventually, his mind won out and he pushed Geralt away.

“No,” he said, struggling to keep his voice steady. “I can’t. I won’t. I’m sorry, Geralt, but this was a terrible mistake.”

He pushed himself to his feet, ignoring Geralt’s sad expression. He was hit by the urge to run, but there was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. Tears welled in his eyes.

“Hey,” Geralt’s voice was so soft behind him. “It’s okay, Jaskier. Whatever it is. I’m sorry I made you uncomfortable. I won’t do it again.”

Jaskier deflated. He turned to face Geralt, watery eyes and all. “That’s not the problem. I don’t want you to stop. I want this to be real.”

Geralt stood carefully still. “What do you mean, real?”

Jaskier took a breath, tried to imagine how to explain himself, how to convey what he felt. “I’m in love with you!” he snapped in the end. Not his most eloquent work, but perhaps his most honest.

Geralt tilted his head. “I know,” he said. He looked down at the ring on his finger. “Isn’t that the point?”

“The point?” Jaskier exploded. “The point!” He couldn’t stop himself from waving his arms as he ranted. “Oh, sure, I’m certain that the ideal marriage is between one person who’s hopelessly in love and one person who’s indifferent and besotted with another. I’m sure Yennefer will be delighted when she hears about this whole situation.”

Geralt’s eyes narrowed. “You think I’m in love with Yennefer?”

“Yes! Obviously!”

He paused, obviously weighing his words. “That night when she visited us outside Lettenhove, she wasn’t surprised by the news. She told me congratulations, and that it had taken long enough. I think she knew long before I did that I wasn’t in love with her, not really. My heart already belonged to another.”

Jaskier’s breath caught in his throat. “You mean… You and her, you’re not...”

Geralt shook his head. “What she most wants is something I can’t give her.”

“And you?” Jaskier asked, dreading the answer.

Geralt took his hand. “What I most want,” he stroked his thumb over the ring around Jaskier’s finger, “is something I already have.”

Jaskier’s heart leapt. It was almost too much. It was overwhelming. “You really love me?”

Geralt smiled softly. “I really do.”

Jaskier threw himself into Geralt’s lap, arms around his neck, foreheads pressed together. “Tell me again,” he said, because he was needy.

“I love you,” Geralt said, kissing down the side of his face. “I love you,” he said, lacing their fingers together against the furs. “I love you,” he said, their bodies moving together, finally free to feel with the intensity they had been hiding for so long, their scents mingling together with the fresh salt tang of the sea.

The sun shone brightly and the wind whipped their hair as they packed up Roach the next morning. Jaskier paused to admire the view one last time: The rolling waves, the steep cliffs, the shingled beach.

Geralt slipped his arms around his waist from behind and dropped a kiss just beneath his ear.

“What does our life look like now?” Jaskier asked, eyes on the waves.

He felt Geralt’s smile against his hair. “Much the same as before,” he said. “With perhaps a few improvements.”

Jaskier turned then and kissed him fully, no need to hold himself back, taking Geralt’s hand and running his fingers over the ring there.

“Ready to head back to the Path?”

Geralt smiled, and Jaskier would never tire of that. “Ready if you are,” he said with softness in his eyes, “husband.”

#this just in: i am secretly soft #squeezing this in before midnight #geraskier #lesdemonium #thank you for the prompt inspo!!#octoberfest #the witcher #my writing

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mrfeenysmustache · 3 years

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#5 and SessKag 😬

HELL YEAH SESSKAG. Also hello best friend 🥲 you’ll be seeing this when you wake up so good morning 🥲

This one ended up a wee bit longer than the others lol

“Home stopped being a place when you entered my life”

#5 on the fluff prompt list

She’d met him at a party.

A Christmas party.

He stood stiff and awkward in the corner, a head and shoulders taller than everyone else, his crisp, fitted suit clashing with the silly holiday sweaters the rest of them wore.

“That’s my brother,” Inuyasha, her best friend and brother-in-law, whispered to her as he passed her a cup of punch, “we just reunited and the family aint too happy about it.” and she understood.

She made her way over, determined to bring him into the fold, or at least make him feel more at ease and welcome.

“Hello,” she greeted, his golden eyes slanting her way. “I’m Kagome, Kikyo’s sister. You know, Inuyasha’s wife?”

“Hn.” He responded with a nod in her direction. “Sesshomaru.”

“It’s so nice to meet you! Can I get you a drink?”

She watched his nose twitch discreetly as he scented the drink in her hand, and then his lip curled up just slightly in disgust.

“Oh, not one of these.” She giggled in response, “I know where they keep the key to the liquor cabinet.”

He relaxed just the slightest iota, and she practically beamed.

“Whisky on the rocks.”

“Coming right up!”

He sipped his drink slowly as she filled him in on every name, occupation and marital status.

Aside from Kikyo and Inuyasha, they had Koga, the bachelor bartender, Sango and Miroku, the married couple who owned a sweet shop, and..

“Me, and I’m a nurse.”

“No significant other?”

His voice, deep and rich, made the hair stand up on her arms in a pleasant way, but she resolutely ignored it.

“Nope! It’s just me.”

“Hn.”

He said little else, but she didn’t get the impression that he was annoyed, so she stayed near him as the party progressed.

“Bye everyone!” She called from the door when it was time to go. “It was so good to finally meet you Sesshomaru, I hope you’ll be around more often!”

He gave her a nod and a little smile, and she went home for a peaceful night’s sleep.

——

He was there for their next group dinner. Inuyasha warned them in hushed tones before he arrived that he may be in a foul mood.

“Things with the family have gotten worse. He barely talks so it’s hard to know what’s happened. I know they don’t like that he’s reconciled with me after they tried to completely shut me and my mom out for not being yokai, but I think there’s more he hasn’t told me. Just don’t be surprised if he’s moody this time.”

“As opposed to how warm and conversational he was at the Christmas party?” Koga quipped, laughing with Miroku and igniting Kagome’s fe mper.

“Well I thought he was nice!” she cut in, blushing when several sets of stunned eyes turned on her at once. “He was!”

“Yeah we saw you two getting cozy in the corner all night.” Miroku said, waggling his brow suggestively.

“We weren’t ‘getting cozy’ you insufferable letch. He looked lonely and uncomfortable so I talked to him. That’s all. And he was nice.” She shrugged, and then the conversation died as Sesshomaru himself swept in.

He took the only seat open, the one next to her, and Kagome felt her heart twist as he simply sat and covered his face with his hands, ignoring everyone else as they chatted and cut up.

Enjoying time with her friends felt hollow with such a wounded soul sitting next to her, but she knew so little about Sesshomaru she worried she might cross some unnamed boundary.

She took a large gulp of her drink and laid her hand gently on his shoulder.

“Sesshomaru… are you alright?” She asked quietly, speaking soft enough to avoid getting the attention of her friends but loud enough that he would hear. After a long moment where she was sure he wouldn’t respond, he pulled his hands away from his face and slowly reached into his pocket. He pulled out his cellphone and tapped the screen once, lighting up a photo of a cute, smiling little human girl with melting brown eyes.

She looked between him and the phone screen, unsure what he was trying to communicate, but certain it was connected to the cause of his dark mood.

“This is Rin.” He clarified, voice pitched low and for her ears only.

“She’s adorable.”

“Hn. She is my daughter.” He met her eyes, and the gold of his glowed firm and defensive.

Suddenly, everything made a lot of shocking sense.

“They don’t like that you’ve adopted a human, do they? Your family?”

“No. They do not.”

Pulling her purse off the back of her chair, Kagome retrieved her own phone. She scrolled through her pictures for just a moment, until she found just the one she was looking for: a grinning little Fox boy holding up a scribbly crayon drawing.

She tilted her screen over, and Sesshomaru leaned nearer to see.

“My son.” She said simply, and though his reaction was so subtle no one sitting any farther away from him than her would notice, Kagome thought she’d seen him sag in relief.

“We should get them together for a play date.” She suggested, and they exchanged numbers with plans to do just that.

————-

Rin and Shippo got along swimmingly, and, surprisingly, so did she and Sesshomaru. He’d grown comfortable enough with her that their conversation consisted of more than just her babbling at him and hoping he was listening. They shared their adoption stories, how they’d found their children and came to be their parents, the challenges that came with adopting children outside your species, he opened up about the backlash he’d faced from his family when he first brought Rin home, backlash he’d expected but hoped against hope he was wrong about.

“Once she warmed my heart and showed me the folly of clinging to the prejudices I’d been raised with, I reached out to Inuyasha in hopes of establishing a relationship with my only sibling. I’d never even met him before, as he and his mother were never allowed around the family before father died. Afterward, everyone acted as if neither ever existed. Likewise, Rin will never meet the rest of her relatives.”

Kagome watched the two children chase each other as they squealed with laughter. Uncomplicated fun between a yokai child and a human child. Completely different species, but alike enough to play.

“If she ever needs a grandmother, I’m certain my mama would take her right in. She’s loved getting to spoil Shippo.”

He smiled, small but true, and she went a little starry eyed at the beauty of it.

“Hn. I will keep it in mind.”

————

Play dates evolved into real dates, and though her friends teased them, they took it in stride. Quiet and controlled in public, Sesshomaru was soft and demonstrative with her in private. She’d never felt so secure in a relationship before, and the firm but nurturing hand he had with both children made them all feel safe.

They spent more time all together than apart, and soon life felt empty if they weren’t all together.

Sesshomaru occasionally came over with a dark cloud over his head after a particularly nasty clash with family, but she’d simply run her fingers through his hair until the knots of tension were soothed. He was a strong, yokai influence for Shippo to learn from; she was a tender human mother for Rin to thrive from, and when Sesshomaru asked if they could join their families together permanently, no question in her life had ever had an easier answer.

And no answer had ever had such drastic consequences.

News got out and around fast, and one night, less than a week after their joyous engagement, Sesshomaru and Rin showed up at her door with a suitcase each, and dour faces.

“We need a place to stay…. A place to live.”

“Oh my gods, come in both of you.”

They spoke nothing of it at first.

Kagome kept busy feeding the children, getting them bathed, and tucking them in together to giggle h see their covers before falling asleep.

As soon as their door was firmly shut, she sat at the table across from Sesshomaru and laced her fingers through his.

“I have been disowned and disinherited.”

Unsure what to say, Kagome simply squeezed his hand.

“They tolerated the fact that I’d adopted a human daughter, but they would not stand for me falling into my father’s footsteps and marrying a human woman. My choices were my standing in the family, or you.”

Tears filled her eyes as him being here could only mean one thing: he’d chosen her.

“Oh Sesshomaru. I’m so sorry.”

“As the house I resided in was family property I was no longer allowed to stay, and I was fired from my father’s company and stripped of all my rights to any part of it. I’m afraid I come here with nothing to offer you now.”

She stood and rushed around the table and into his arms, hunkering down into his strength, hopefully lending her own.

“Stop that. I don’t want anything but you and Rin. That’s all I need. I’m just so sorry you had to lose your home because of me.”

He rested his chin atop her head and let her scent calm him.

“My home.” He mused, looking around the tiny apartment he’d hoped to move her out of soon when they were able to merge their lives into one. It would be cramped with all four of them there full time, but it was already chock full of their memories. They would figure it out.

“My home stopped being a place when you entered my life, Kagome.”

She wept and he held her, one of the only treasures he had left in the world, while the other two slept soundly and happily in their bed.

#sesskag #sesskag fic #prompt requests #sesskag fanfic

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laurore-stormwitch · 3 years

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So this was supposed to be a birthday gift for my friend @not-just-human, but of course I am a day late (ily). This is to remember the major week-long breakdown we had when we first read about this. I am so so happy that I met you. Enjoy this endless yearning and pining about Nikolai giving Zoya the dragon timepiece

I’d give us time if I could - ao3

word count: 2282

“Do you intend to keep prying into my work from the corner or are you planning to make yourself useful at some point?”

Zoya kept her eyes trained on the document she was scanning as she talked, having finally had enough of the intent gaze that had been studying her. Behind her back, she heard Nikolai chuckle lightly, the sound echoing in her veins.

“I’ve been here a while. I am surprised you haven’t heard me.” Of course he had, and she had let him. His silent presence was far from unpleasant, though; it brought a sense of security to the room that she had wanted to enjoy for a while. Maybe it was the silent part that was shocking enough to not startle him from his rare lack of talking. “Are you perhaps losing the usual sharpness of your senses, General?”

It was not a matter of hearing; Zoya felt him, always, everywhere. She just knew, in some deep buried part of her, when he was there; he awoke something in her, quickened her pulse, muffled her thoughts. It could have been a consequence of her newly acquired powers, or that unbreakable connection that had seemed to have been forged between them. Either way, she had deliberately chosen not to dwell on the answer. Zoya discarded her pen and shuffled the papers away, turning on her seat to face him.

“What do you need?”

Nikolai was leaning on the doorframe of her bedchamber, his figure stark against the flickering of the fire. He folded his arms, cocking his head and producing his signature mischievous grin in her direction. She really wished he would lose the habit of appearing in her room late at night; even more, she wished he could avoid doing so with his hair ruffled and the top buttons of his shirt undone.

Or maybe you just wish he would stay and let you fix those buttons, her traitorous brain provided. If only to oppose those thoughts, she scowled at him, shooting an annoyed glare at his lack of response that only made him grin wider. He pushed back from the frame, walking towards her and coming to lean on her desk beside her instead, peering at her from the upside down. Zoya tensed up, unnerved by his excessive proximity and the salty scent of his skin invading her nose. His gaze wandered around the room, lingering on the two-stars flagged ship on the wall before coming to lock with her eyes.

“I’ve come to check on my General”, he mused. “Can a king not oversee his most trusted ally’s work?”

His voice had a strained edge and he kept fidgeting with the cuffs of his jacket. He looked almost nervous. Which was not preamble to anything positive. Zoya suppressed a groan, going for another baleful glare. “Cut to the chase, Nikolai”, she clipped out.

He just looked at her, seemingly at a loss for words, which was even more worrying. His eyes darkened, the shadow of something passing over them, something treacherous, the promise of an undoing. It had peered in vulnerable flutters in these weeks, carrying sparkles of electricity between them.

They had not talked much about what had happened in the Fold, aside from the detail of their worst enemy coming back to life; Zoya carefully avoided the subject of whatever it was that they had shared, whatever it was that made her heart ache whenever he entered a room. It drove him to search for her, to ask for her company, for her presence. It lingered in the swift gazes they exchanged or the casual brush of his hands on her. Either way, it had to remain shrouded in darkness; these moments he seemed to look for made the task to toss the desire away tiresome, if not at peril to be forsaken. She heard him discreetly take in a long breath before talking, the forced cheerful tone masking a tension she could sense enveloping the room.

“I have something for you”, he finally said. “Then I’ll leave you be.”

The force of his feelings was a tidal wave of confusion that threatened to drown her; Zoya used all of her might when he was near to put a blockade against them. It was one thing to be forced to experience other people's troubled sentiments, but with Nikolai, she did not want to know. She did not want to bask in whatever inner battle was waging inside him; it would not help either of them to hold the knowledge that their hearts were being tortured by the same hopeless war.

Zoya struggled to keep her focus and control over her power; her perfectly still posture unveiled nothing of the turmoil in her chest. She arched a brow at him; losing no more time in chatters - another clear enough indicator of his nervousness - Nikolai reached inside his jacket and delicately handed her a fine case with his royal seal branded on top. Zoya turned it over, resting her folded hands with it on her lap and coming back to fix her eyes on Nikolai’s ones with a silent question.

“It’s a - “, he started, straightening himself and wrapping his hands on the edge of the desk. He cleared his throat and shuffled on his feet, his restlessness betraying more than he let on. “It’s a gift, sort of. I thought you deserved a reward. A token of appreciation.”

“For what?”, Zoya inquired, half suspicious and half startled by his gesture. Again, those shadows swept through his features and his fingers twitched.

“For fighting beside me, I guess”, he said easily, shrugging his shoulders. “And saving our pitiful lives.”

“I do it on a daily basis”, Zoya diminished, tossing her hair. “You constantly put yourself in life-threatening situations. It hardly shocks me anymore, and I certainly don’t consider it a cause for celebration.”

Nikolai smiled at that, his genuine smirk recalling the familiar ease between them and clearing the strain from the air. Of course I saved you, you idiot , Zoya thought, and she knew her blue eyes had softened at the sight of him. I could not bear to lose you. “Undoubtedly”, he conceded, humming in agreement. “Think of it as a reminder of our heroic gestures and epic adventures. I spared you the torture of hearing me proclaim a poem to our valor and chose a symbolic practical gift instead.”

Zoya rolled her eyes, blowing a disgruntled scoff. “I would have not let you come as far as a sentence. Do not ever try to pull that poetry nonsense on me.”

A laugh burst from him, and the sound made her feel so light she thought she could float. “Just - “, he paused again, the words faltering on his tongue. Saints, what had gotten into him? He looked more like an excited schoolboy than a king. “Open it later. If it’s awful, at least I can be spared your disgusted face at my ghastly taste.”

“Your taste does lack finesse.”

“I like to pride myself with having gotten to know a fraction of your likings in these years. So perhaps I did not go completely off track with that”, he said, gesturing to the case still resting in her hands. He pushed himself up, running a hand through his hair. The king looked at her again, and she could see the words forming in his throat and dying on his lips, all the things he wished he could tell her. But that was not their truth to live. That was not their chance to gain. And whatever he would say, it had to not be what he desired. “Besides, it’s a useful gift. You always grumble about how late I am, now you could actually prove it.”

Zoya pursed her lips at the wink he gave her. “I do not grumble.”

"Occasionally. You’re extremely graceful in that too, don’t worry.”

With that, he turned to leave, as nonsensical and abrupt as he always needed to be. And Saints, she wanted to grab his arm and tell him to stay. She wanted so many futures she could not have, so many endings to this night that were forbidden.

“Nikolai”, she heard herself call to him, not sure where her own voice was coming from. Nikolai stopped dead in his tracks, his gaze darting back to Zoya still seated unmoving on her desk. His fingers were already curled around the handle; there they stood, facing each other at the brink of a duel or a surrender, at the crossroad where they kept finding and losing themselves. It would take a step, a touch, a slide of a tongue on lips. A syllable, a breath. Instead, there was silence, one that asked to be filled with mendacity, for it would be softer to tolerate than the blazing truth of an ember of hope that had already gotten extinguished. Zoya swallowed the bitter taste of pretense; she wondered how long it would keep scraping, if older pain got sweeter like a priced bourbon or turned rancid if left there to rot.

Thank you , she wished to tell him at least. A small thing it would be, yet one that would risk freeing a flood. “Close the door on your way out”, she said instead, her voice cold but lacking spite. “It’s late.”

Nikolai stood; she had chosen the path, and he knew he had to give in. It was not like they had another choice. And so he just nodded, the ghost of a smile grazing his lips because whether she spoke it aloud or not, he would always know. “Goodnight, General”, he murmured, taking his leave.

It would take her some time to get up from her seat and will herself to rest. Zoya remembered when they had found themselves in a similar position; it was three years ago, and in the box he had given her had rested the medal that had made her his General. He had been as jittery as tonight, with that grin that had never changed. Back then, the dance between them had been different, though the exchange of playful banters and silent truths had been the same.

It would then take her some other time to bring herself to open the case, and when she did, a part of her died while another came roaring to life. She could have wondered and wondered forever what it meant; if it was a promise, a farewell or a desperate plead to wait, to cling to his endless bright capability of finding a way when a way was not possible. Zoya would not try to sort out its meaning. She laid on her covers with the watch beside her, turning it in her hands as it caught the moonlight shining through the windows. When sleep came to claim her, she left it on her nightstand, focusing on its mellow ticking, a sliver of order to the chaos.

Coward , growled the beast inside her, trashing to be set free. Would you let him leave every time, until he comes back no more?

She thought back on the way she almost pleaded his name, on those seconds that stood suspended in time, when none of them had moved. She could have let go of her defenses; but then what? Why had she not said whatever was pressing in her lungs? Zoya had almost grown accustomed to those troubling doubts; she had every answer to them.

Why? Because they could not afford the tears that burned like daggers in her throat. Because they could not afford the longing that flared up the golden freckles of his irises. What would have happened if she had asked? She would have shut her lashes, and he would have reached for her, and the things that could not be would have weighed impossibly on them. The things that could not happen, in any of the lives they might be free to live.

The watch kept ticking. The dragon kept roaring, and the thorn wood kept strangling her heart, puncturing her skin.

They would keep marching. And the things that could not be would stay hidden in the silence and the rhythmic beat of a pointer slashing whatever time they had left. If she was someone else, Zoya might have hoped they could have it, not just symbolically, the gift of time. That those seconds that dripped away were not passing, that it was time they were earning. Wishful thinking and broken ideals lead nowhere, as a general knew. And she was not someone else, if not a soldier.

Nevertheless, when morning came, the timepiece rested on her nightstand, still ticking away. Zoya glanced at it as she got dressed; she brushed her hair, buttoned her kefta and put her boots on. And it kept ticking away, mercilessly calling to her.

And so she huffed in irritated surrender, and snatched it up and clasped it on the insides of her uniform. An instant relief flooded her; it matched her pulse, soothing her thoughts. She gave a tug to the kefta , smoothing its ruffled folds. She knew Nikolai would notice she was wearing it, at some point; for once, she could not bring herself to care that he was going to have this victory. Let him have it; and let her have something of him to hold.

That boy is going to be the death of me , she thought sourly, peering at herself in the mirror. A whisper arose from within, the careening thrum of her heart suggesting a different story, flashing the blank page of another chapter she could start writing, if she would only be brave enough.

What if he will be life?

#zoya nazyalensky #nikolai lantsov #zoyalai #zoya and nikolai #grishaverse #fan fiction #rule of wolves #nikolai duology #king of scars #yearning #pining #basically just that #nothing else #the dragon timepiece #we literally lost our minds over that #pre rule of wolves #love #as usual just them #really 2k of pointless yearning wow that was useless

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jimlingss · 4 years

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Moirai [5]

Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6

➜ Words: 5k

➜ Genres: 60% Fluff, 40% Angst, Isekai!AU

➜ Summary: Death is supposed to be the end. Or at least that's what you assumed when you're hit by a TRUCK. But the moment you open your eyes again, instead of being sent to the afterlife, you've become a baby. And not just any baby. You're the female villain of a video game.

“Thank you for inviting me, Lady Anastasia.” Lucienne sits across the rounded table from you, oblivious to the blossom petals that have drifted down and tangled itself into her hair. The tea party invitation rests beside her teacup, neat and crisp like she held and opened it with the utmost care. “Yes, thank you.” The other lady beside her pipes up. “It’s an absolute honour.” “The Royal gardens are lovely this season,” another adds. “I’m glad I can enjoy it like this.” “It’s not a problem, everyone.” A friendly smile stretches across your face. “It can get quite lonely being the only lady in the castle, so your company is welcome.” More like Lady Devon and your other tutors was pretty damn insistent that you build a good reputation and inner circle, but whatever. What they don’t know, won’t hurt them. But you do remember that in the original game, Anastasia used this opportunity to shame the heroine. She invited her to a tea party and made snide remarks about how she danced with the Prince. Of course it seems petty now but it’s understandable that Anastasia resented the heroine so much. Even if she didn’t intend it, she humiliated Anastasia by stealing her fiancé. And the fact of the matter is that you’ll also become the laughingstock for what she’ll do. “If I may ask, have you started the wedding arrangements yet, Lady Anastasia?” You nearly choke on your tea, sputtering for a moment until you’re able to set the cup down on the saucer and cough into your napkin. The ladies around the table appear concerned, but you plaster on another smile. “Well, there’s been no discussion yet. The Royal family and the Devereux house are in no rush. There’s still quite a bit of time, so who knows what could happen.” “What could happen?” One of them catches on quick and you cordially nod. “The engagement was made when both Prince Jungkook and I were very young, but now that we are older, we can voice our own opinions on the matter.” You choose your words carefully and your smile widens. “I am not opposed if changes are made. If the leaders of the empire cannot exercise their own freedoms, then how can the people?” They nod in agreeance, a few in awe at your deep thought process. “That is very mature of you, Lady Anastasia.” You laugh stiffly and lift your tea cup for another sip. “Oh, but the Crown Prince is so wonderful.” You choke. Again. You wonder if you’re going to die at this tea party from the warm liquid constantly going down the wrong pipe. “I am sure he wouldn’t change his mind with how lovely you are, Lady Anastasia.” The girl beside you smiles, laying it on thick to win your favour. “You two are a very fitting couple.” “I agree.” Lucy smiles softly. “Prince Jungkook is very courteous.” “And very majestic.” You remember when you dueled with Jungkook, he lost within a minute. He threw a tantrum in the following days and gave you the silent treatment. Or that time you went horseback riding, you decided to race each other and he fell off his own horse into mud and started crying. Uh-huh. Majestic indeed. You chalk up your wheeze to nothing and dab the corner of your mouth with the tablecloth napkin. “Yes, well, Jungkook will make a fine King someday.” “And you’ll make a fine Queen,” a soft-spoken voice pipes up and your eyes connect to Lucy’s. Unlike the others surrounding you, you know her words are genuinely spoken and you shift uncomfortably in your seat. “I’m not so sure about that,” you honestly admit as you fidget with the edge of the porcelain saucer. “A queen must be kind and generous and know the suffering of the people. I’m afraid I have a lot left to learn.” Your gaze meets Lucy’s again. Her smile is all too gentle for high society and its naturally cunning, heartless nature. She’s awfully naive, but that aside, you know her benevolence will make her beloved in the empire. // Once the tea party is over, you’re able to breathe a sigh of relief. Christ, thank god that’s over. You escort most of the ladies towards their carriages, bidding them goodbye with polite waves as the palace servants clear the dishes, chairs and table away from the garden. And you turn around to head back to your room to sneak in a break, but your name is frantically called— “Lady Anastasia!” You turn and a girl in her purple, simple gown comes barrelling down the open hall. Her chest rises and falls, completely out of breath even when she only ran two meters. It makes you laugh unabashedly. “Is everything okay? You don’t need to run.” She hunches over, lungs probably burning, but she fixes her posture a moment later. “S-Sorry, my lady.” “Anastasia is fine.” Lucy nods. “I...just wanted to thank you again. I was very excited when I received your invitation. It’s an honour….Anastasia.” “There’s no reason to thank me so much.” You walk alongside her. Your hat with pinned pink peonies, matching your gown, shields the sun away from your face. “It’s just that I don’t get invited to these sort of events often considering….considering I’m just a baron’s daughter and adopted one at that.” She doesn’t need to tell you — you know her backstory well. You’ve played through it from her perspective. Her father abandoned her mother who died of illness when she was five and she was picked up on the streets by the sympathetic baron. It seems like every character in this game has some tragic backstory. They are defining moments that make that person. But you suppose life itself is like that. “Can I give you some advice, Lucy?” you ask after a quiet moment and she nods. You stop walking and the girl halts beside you. “Your humility makes you likeable, but be careful not to self-deprecate yourself. Your worth is more than what you consider yourself to have.” Her eyes widen and you add, “Plus, it’s not good to thank a host more than once like they’ve done you a big favour because they’ll start to think you owe them for it.” Lucy nods and you smile, resuming your stroll. “I’ll be inviting you to more tea parties in the future.” “Thank—” She catches herself. “Yes, I will be looking forward to that.” A grin spreads into your cheeks. “On a different note, I never got to ask you how your dance was with Jungkook at the debutante ball.” “Oh, yes, the Prince was very kind. But I’m sorry if it was inappropriate, I know he’s your fiancé—” This time, your laugh is unrestrained. She looks up at you in surprise. “Do you think I’m getting jealous?” Lucy opens her mouth and then closes it, not sure what to say and you bat the air with your hand. “Jungkook is like a little brother to me.” If she was surprised before, now she looks entirely off guard. “It thought the Prince and you were the same age.” You laugh stiffly. “Yes, we are, but I guess that’s what childhood friends are like.” “Oh, I’ve never had a childhood friend.” “Have you ever had a friend?” Your eyes meet her’s and you smile. “Because I’d be happy to be your first.” The conversation soon ends and as Lucy walks away, you breathe another sigh of relief and pat yourself on the back at the positive interaction. Even if she’s just a countryside girl, it’s nerve-racking when you’re supposed to be the villainess. You like her and you even offered your friendship, but with each interaction, your demise is always lingering at the back of your head. “I didn’t take you for being such a mentor.” You whirl around, nearly startled to death by the voice and you discover a tall, dark-haired man leaning against the marble pillar with a sly smile. “How long have you been there?” Taehyung grins. “Not long. I was just passing by. It was a coincidence.” He turns in the direction where Lucy went. “I heard you had a tea party, how did it go?” “It was exhausting.” You stretch your arms over your head and walk over to lean against the stone ledge next to him. “I don’t think I’m quite fit for the palace life.” Taehyung smiles and you look up at him. “Are you going to the garden again?” He nods and there’s a strong urge to ask him if you can come along. Just for a small break before they find you and you’re swept up in another lesson. But you’re not sure if you should�� “Would you like to come?” Taehyung asks the question for you and your eyes meet one another’s. There’s no one around. Not a soul in sight who could stop you from going or leaving. You know you should keep your distance from him. You know. But… “Okay.” You take him up on the offer, following after him, just for a moment of indulgence.

With the arrival of Spring also comes the Hunt. It’s a rather eventful time in the castle considering it's generally symbolic of the harvests of this year, thought to prevent famine if those attending can bring back large game. An irony that isn’t lost on you. But it’s an undoubtedly lively time and one that you don’t mind. “You better bring back a whole moose,” you mumble as you tie the blue ribbon on the belt of Jungkook’s armour, making sure it’s tight and secure. The ribbon is a gift of good luck and one of affection. You’re obligated to tie one for Jungkook considering you’re his fiancée. “I’ll bring back a dragon,” he declares brazingly and you lightly scoff. This is his second time participating after winning last year, but you remember he was practically shaking back then out of fear and pressure. “Okay then. Just make sure you don’t fall off your horse this time.” “That was only once!” You take a step back when you’re done tying the ribbon. “I should be the one going on the hunt instead of staying back for idle chit chat. I’m pretty sure I would be able to catch something bigger than you.” “Probably.” Jungkook grins. “You’re good enough with your sword to be a knight.” “They’d never let me.” You sigh. God knows your mother would be mortified and probably faint and die. But while staying back and waiting for the men to return with their kill is boring as hell, at least you’re removed from the pressure of having to hunt large prey in the first place. It’s a competition after all and one that can get quite competitive from your knowledge. You follow Jungkook to his prized white horse and watch him caress its muzzle. “If you win, you should give the prize to Lucy.” His brows furrow and he turns his head to you. “Lucienne? The girl I danced with at the ball? Why?” You shrug half-heartedly. “Because she has no one and I feel bad for her. I already have a few knights who are going to dedicate their game to me.” Jungkook hums, not thinking much about it. “Fine by me.” He puts his foot on the stirrup and swings himself over, sitting on top of the majestic horse. Preparations almost complete, you turn to the King who’s seated at the top of the stands in a throne-like chair. He looks across the field with an approving expression. Your parents are beside the King and you spare them a mere glance before turning away. You haven’t spoken to them since the end of the debutante ball and you don’t plan to. It might be childish to give them the silent treatment, but you wonder to what end they’ll try to force you. The attendant steps up. “Is everyone ready?” At that exact same moment, as if he was called upon, a familiar dark-haired man with eyes the hue of deep honey enters your peripheral vision. Taehyung emerges onto the field filled with knights on horses and soldiers in armour. His navy cape draped over his left shoulder sways with each movement, twinkling in the sunlight as if there were stars sewn into the fabric. He’s grasping onto a steel pole, a magical staff and his presence garners whispers from all. “Isn’t he the bastard son?” — “The first son of the King.” — “The one born from the maid.” They’re all startled to see him — the nobles sitting in the stands, women murmuring underneath their breaths, men watching with their eyes wide, knights and guards. And most of all, you’re stuck at a standstill. Heart thunderous in your ears — blood drained from your face — you can’t look away when all Taehyung is looking at is you. He comes close and his expression melts into a tender smile, a softened gaze when he reads your eyes’ fixation on him. Jungkook, on the other hand, grins and mounts off his horse. “Taehyung?!” The Prince welcomes his brother warmly — an action not unnoticed by the crowds watching. He hugs him and lets go a moment later. “What are you doing here?” “What can I say? I’m here to steal your victory.” The younger laughs and you can tell he’s genuinely excited. Jungkook’s cheeks are practically pink and bulging, and his eyes have brightened. “Do you want to put a bet on that?” “How much are you willing to wager?” Taehyung quips back. “My pride and dignity.” He scoffs playfully. “How about your private library collection?” “Deal. And if I win, I want you to come to the feast tonight.” Taehyung grins. “Looks like this year’s going to be difficult for you, Your Highness.” “I’ll keep up.” Jungkook laughs again and gets back on his horse. A stable-boy comes rushing over with a horse for Taehyung and before the King can utter a single word or you have a chance to speak to him, the games have begun. Taehyung glances over his shoulder at you for a single beat and then he’s off into the woods with the rest. In the original game, Taehyung never participated in the Hunt. He looked on from the window of his tower and even sabotaged Jungkook. In the original game, Jungkook became injured but still conscious enough that before he fated, he declared he would give his prize to the heroine since Anastasia was so overbearing. It sparked the girl’s jealousy and was the reason why she decided to conspire with Taehyung. It was the first domino in the chain — the beginning of the villains working hand in hand. But none of that is happening. You wonder how far your choices will continue to deviate from the story. How many more mistakes— “Are you alright, Anastasia?” You jolt, torn out of your deep trance by a worried gaze. Lucy has leaned in towards you, her brows knitted together and you smile. “I’m fine. I was just thinking about something.” You quickly change the subject. “Have you given your ribbon to anyone yet?” The pair of you are walking down the castle hall, heading towards the dining hall where you know the noble women will be having tea and making small talk while waiting for their sons and husbands. Lucy shakes her head and unties the blue ribbon she had around her wrist. “Why not?” She stares at the soft satin for a second and then looks up at you, mustering a small smile. “I wouldn’t know who to give it to.” “Well, you still have time to decide. You can give it to someone when they get back.” You hum to yourself. “How about giving it the Crown Prince?” Lucy’s eyes are as large as saucers and she blinks thrice. You’re a bit endeared with how surprised she seems at your suggestion. “Don’t you admire Prince Jungkook?” “I...I do,” she admits quietly and peeks at you again. “But I wouldn’t want to overstep—” “Not at all!” You reassure her. “Prince Jungkook likes the admiration. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind whatsoever. He might actually appreciate it.” The girl smiles to herself and nods. Evening sets in after meaningless conversations, cordial expressions and polite responses. The only interruptions are the horns that ring as each participant in the Hunt slowly arrives back. Jungkook returns sweaty and out of breath, but with a whole moose like he promised. There are cheers and applauses, but more importantly, silent gasps when he beelines straight to Lucy to give her the prize. She blushes, a stuttering mess full of ‘thank yous’ and ‘it’s an honour’, and you discover Jungkook’s bashful behaviour at her sincere gratitude. He scratches the back of his neck, diverts his vision, mutters ‘it’s fine’. It’s fascinating to watch considering he’s always been arrogant and bratty to you since the day you met him. But you don’t get to observe their moment for long. Not when the horns ring again and a figure appears over the horizon. This time, no one moves. Truly stunned. Breaths hitched. Holy shit. Taehyung arrives back with a bear and he doesn’t even look like he’s broken a sweat. “Wow!” Jungkook is the first to react, moving out of the crowd to his brother. He’s genuinely amazed and impressed, jaw dropped and brows shot to his hairline. “You did this?!” “Didn’t I say I would win?” Taehyung grins languidly. “This...is incredible!” Jungkook’s admiration for his brother causes the unsettled crowd to finally calm. It starts off slow, a clap here or there and then it’s applause, cheering and murmurs of acknowledgment. “Has anyone ever brought a bear back before?” — “Did he use magic?” — “Why didn’t the eldest son participate in the Hunt before?” And you know that it’s the first time people have clapped for Taehyung. The attendant rushes forward, sputtering on his words. “T-The winner for this year’s Hunt is His Highness, Prince Taehyung!” Taehyung wins a chest of gold, worth more than fifty commoner’s lifetimes and you watch as he bows his head as he receives it. You watch as he holds it and strides towards you. You watch until his arms have extended and a smile draws upon his features. “What are you doing?” you ask, a whisper that’s befallen off your lips, spilled past the astonishment. His gaze and smile never wavers. “I’m giving my prize to you.” The crowd’s stirred to silence, watching the two of you, and you receive the wooden chest. The attendant quickly announces the feast in the hall and servants begin ushering the people inside. But you continue watching Taehyung, your eyes connected to his, both grounded in the private bubble. No one notices the King sitting on top of the stands, his brows tightly knitted. // The dining hall has shifted. No longer are there laced tablecloths, towers of pastries and teapots from the afternoon. It’s large plates that have stretched along the surface, meats and cheese, breads and butters that have begun the feast. There are grandiose chairs all around three different tables, arranged based on importance and connections, conversations that have filled the enormous room. The darkness of the night is casted away by the chandeliers overhead, illuminating the room in a golden hue. Yet, while each is high on the atmosphere, drunk by the wine, you can’t swallow the food down. The tapping of utensils on glass has you looking over. The room simmers down. By the coaxing of Jungkook beside him, Taehyung rises from his chair and clears his throat. It’s customary for the victor of the Hunt to give a speech and you’re guessing this is it. “Thank you all for coming.” Taehyung appears unfamiliar and awkward addressing the crowd, quickly rushing over his words as if to get it done and over with. “I have never participated in the Hunt before this year and it was only because of beginners luck that I won. That—” Suddenly, Taehyung looks right at you. “—and the support of those most important to me.” Then, as quick as he stole his glance, he turns away. “I hope the harvests of Ashea will prosper this year.” There’s thunderous applause and the feast resumes. You’re overwhelmed, dizzy, the celebrations of the room getting to your head — laughter, questions, comments louder by ten decibels until it feels earsplitting. You look over at Jungkook, finding that he has two blue ribbons pinned on his left side. He’s smiling widely, oblivious. Then, your head whirls over to your parents sitting down the table. They might have friendly smiles plastered on their features, but you can tell through their eyes that there’s seething anger. They’re unhappy, most likely with you, most likely with what happened earlier. “Anastasia.” Lady Devon, who sits beside you, calls you out of your thoughts, disapproving at how your listening skills could be so poor. You blink, pretending you were in deep thought about her discussion of silver forks and the corner of your mouth tugs. “If you’ll excuse me…” After a delayed moment, she nods and you push your chair back, blurring into the massive paintings on the wall as you slip out to the terrace. The night is cold. Each exhale of yours is visible and you tug the soft pink shawl around your shoulders closer to your body for some warmth as you lean against the railings. You look up at the star-filled sky, finally able to calm yourself from the noise inside. You’ve always been glad that no matter where you are, what universe it is, there’s always the same sun, stars and moon. A constant. One thing you don’t have to worry about. “Is there something wrong?” You know who it is before you’ve even turned around. It’s a relief. You’ve waited all day to be able to speak to him, to be away from prying eyes and in a private moment. It’s easing. Your nerves take comfort in the familiarity, somehow finding his very presence soothing. Yet it’s unsettling at the same time. You have too many questions, too many suspicions and you don’t know if you want to uncover the truth. But you gather your strength and face Taehyung. “I’m just thinking.” “About what?” Taehyung approaches your side. The warm light from inside the palace spills out and your shadows cast onto the grass beneath the terrace. There is not a soul in the hall when they’re all inside the dining hall, celebrations and conversations muffled through the many walls. You inhale a breath. “Why?” Taehyung frowns. You ask again, “Why did you give me your prize?” “Should I not have?” Half of his face is illuminated, the slope of his nose and dip of his cupid’s bow sharp against the glow of the chandeliers, reminiscent of the chiaroscuro of a painting. “That’s not it. Just…..” Why does he treat you so kindly, why does he want to go out of his way to talk to you, why does he look at you like that— “Why?” In the original game, Anastasia was Taehyung’s chess piece and nothing more. “Does there need to be a reason?” The corner of his mouth tugs gingerly. “I wanted to, so I did.” “But there’s so many eligible bachelorettes you could’ve them them to, like Lady Myoi or Lady Paxton—” “None of them matter,” he injects without needing to blink or think twice. “Not like you do.” Your head snaps up and your eyes meet. Taehyung gazes at you tenderly, searching your irises with a small smile and he swallows hard. His voice lowers when he asks, “Are you cold?” Oddly enough, even with the chilly wind whisking through the branches and swaying the leaves, you aren’t cold if he’s here. Yet suddenly, Taehyung snaps his fingers and you’re engulfed with the warmth of an embrace. It’s the heat of a winter fire crackling underneath the mantle, the Summer sun casting down on your cheeks, and it travels from your toes to your head, and you can’t help the giggle that spills from you. “What did you just do?” He grins and leans closer to you. “It’s a simple warmth spell.” Your brow cocks. “How much magic do you exactly know?” He even managed to get that bear without looking like he had to fight. Your efforts to get him not to tap into magic all those years ago were in vain, but you have to admit it’s pretty cool. Taehyung looks away, smile easing. “It doesn’t matter how much magic I have. It’s not enough for what I really want.” Your breath hitches in your throat. The implications of his words welcomes the tension back into the air that had snuck itself away for a simple moment. But it isn’t uncomfortable. It isn’t the kind of tension that comes when you’re speaking to the Duke and Duchess, not the stiffness that arrived when you were being scolded by Edith. No. It’s different. It’s….intimate. Especially when he sneaks a glance at you and you hold it, eyes fixated into his. None of you speak, breathe, bat a lash. Not when Taehyung starts to lean in close. Not when you begin to feel the heat of his cheeks on your skin, when you can hear the thunderous noise of his heartbeat bruising his rib cage. His lash tickles yours. But before your lips can brush— You push him away. Taehyung stumbles back, nearly falling over, but he grasps the railings. Your breath heaves and you stare at him in shock, in horror with what was about to happen. And before anything can be said or done, you turn away. “Wait! Anastasia!” Taehyung calls after you. “I’m sorry!” “I….I need to leave.” You can’t deviate from the story more than you already have. This is a mistake. In the midst of your panic, you return to the dining hall and cut through the room. It’s the quickest way back to your chambers, so you don’t hesitate to move your steps, never once looking behind your shoulder. Luckily, Taehyung doesn’t follow after you. He can’t. But while each is celebrating and distracted with their company, a certain girl notices your distraught and frantic form beelining to the massive doors. Something doesn’t sit right in her, so she immediately stands and bows her head to the woman she was speaking to. “If you can excuse me, thank you, I’ll be right back.” Lucy follows after you, eyes pinned on your backside. The only people who pay any mind is your mother, the Duchess of Devereux. Her senses are sharp and she taps your father on the shoulder until he follows her line of sight to the girl. The castle grounds are dark, the moon waxing but not yet full enough to provide a bright light. But enough is shed for you to see. It’s enough for shadows to cast along the stone walls. You would never walk outside at this time of night, but you need air. More of it. Something you can breathe in and hope will clear the cloudiness inside your mind, the noise that’s earsplitting. A gentle tap on your shoulder has you screaming. “It’s me!” Lucy puts her hands out, her eyes wide. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you.” You catch your breath, steadying it and you swallow hard. “W-What are you doing outside? I thought you were still celebrating the feast.” “I saw you walking by and I thought something was wrong and I got worried, I’m sorry.” She looks at you when the silence is ongoing. The concern is evident through her knitted brows. “Are you alright, Anastasia?” It seems like everyone is asking you that question today. A question you don’t know how to respond to yourself. But you manage a nod and a smile. “I’m fine. I was just tired. I was thinking of retiring to my room early.” “Oh, okay.” You step towards her and grasp her hands within your own. “Can you do me a favour, Lucy, and keep Jungkook company tonight? He might be looking for me too and I don’t want him to be worried.” “I will.” She nods. “But do you want me to escort you to your room? I could call someone—” “No, it’s quite alright. I’ll be fine.” You smile and let go of her. “You should go back now before someone goes looking for you.” Lucy nods for a second time and she bids you a goodnight as she walks back. You’re left by yourself and you turn to tread your own way. The weight of so many decisions lie upon your shoulders and slow down your steps. You wonder why you have to bear the heavy burden of knowing your future, of knowing all of theirs while trying to escape your own fate. It feels like you’re a pawn trying to control the whole chess board. You exhale a breath, watching the cloud dissipate and unbeknownst to you, there’s a rustle in the garden’s bushes. “That’s her, isn't it?” Two shadows emerge from the darkness and before your ears can pick up on the noise, before you can turn around and meet the figures, a cloth is clamped over your mouth. Your shout is muffled and arms begin to drag you in the opposite direction of the castle. What the fuc— Immediately, your elbow juts out and the man behind you sputters, cowering over with a curse. You manage to slip out of his loosened grip, about to sprint and yell. Until another overtakes you and grabs hold of your wrists, yanking you back. “Wench!” A cold blade sits at the juncture of your throat and you freeze, breaths tearing out of your throat frantically. You can fight him. Years of swordsmanship didn’t render you useless after all. But his threat delays you— “Shut your mouth if you don’t want Baron of Liza dead too.” What? Your mouth is stuffed with cloth and you’re roughly ripped into the darkness. At the same time, Taehyung, still at the terrace and about to leave, turns around.

#bts fanfic #bts scenario #taehyung fanfic #taehyung scenario #taehyung fluff #jungkook fanfic #jungkook scenario #OOOOOOOOH

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anghraine · 3 years

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Aranorverse stuff: Gondor edition

Although I use ‘Aranorverse’ for the f!Aragorn/f!Faramir fic, since Aranor (f!Aragorn) is the main point of it ... it definitionally also extends beyond her. The original premise is that the Númenórean throwbacks in LOTR are genderbent: Denethor, Aragorn, Imrahil, and Faramir.

To make it work, though, I had to consider Imrahil’s siblings, and Finduilas definitely reads as a Númenórean/Elvish type, so she became a man and f!Denethor’s husband. For simplicity’s sake, I assumed that Ivriniel is also a throwback, making m!Ivriniel the prince and leaving f!Imrahil free to be a full-time lady knight.

(Canon Imrahil’s shock at finding a woman among the Rohirrim makes this funnier to me, ngl.)

OTOH, f!Denethor really needed to be the Steward for multiple reasons, and I was thinking of how it would happen, since Denethor canonically has older sisters and is maybe-implied to have a younger brother. I ultimately decided that Denethor’s older sisters went off and made suitable marriages, but the brother (here the only son) was unable to ascend / completely opposed to ascending to the Ruling Stewardship.

Denethor says in LOTR that he and Faramir are the last of the House of the Stewards, so it doesn’t seem like there would be undisputed contenders to succeed Ecthelion apart from his children. I imagined that Denethor’s brother, along with f!Denethor herself, was able and willing to fight tooth and nail for one of his sisters to take on the mantle rather than opening the gates to a new Kinstrife, and while the two eldest were “lol no,” lady Denethor agreed. She might even have canon Denethor’s feeling (according to UT) of having been appointed by destiny to lead Gondor through this bleak hour.

Anyway: for names, I was thinking mainly of the Stewards’ propensity for naming children after major First Age figures and/or previous members of their family. I provisionally went with Andreth for Denethor and Belecthor for the younger brother. (I always headcanon the older sisters as Emeldir and Rían.)

Oh, and another idea is that Andreth’s unprecedented ascension to the Stewardship didn’t immediately overhaul the lot and expectations of women in Gondor, but it did blaze a path that some women are able to follow, most notably f!Imrahil (leader of the knights of Dol Amroth) and, ironically enough, f!Aragorn. Aranor might have been able to become queen anyway, but it would have been much more of an uphill battle without the precedent that Andreth set.

(Andreth would hate this if she knew about it.)

Back to Dol Amroth, I’d originally tried to come up with approximations of the canon names (Ivrinion? Fingon?). But it entertained me more to do something different. Since canon Ivriniel and Finduilas seem to have both been named for Finduilas of Nargothrond, I decided to name m!Ivriniel and m!Finduilas after her love interests—Túrin (already attested as a Gondorian name) and Gwindor. I did go for a direct conversion for Imrahil, who becomes Imraphel (mostly bc I like it).

Last of all, there’s f!Faramir, who here is Míriel. That’s partly because I wanted to distinguish her from my other f!Faramir fic (/whistles), and partly because it’s a royal name (like Faramir) that retains the -mir- connection with Boromir.

In the other fic, Faramir was the only genderbent character, and male Denethor had no expectation of a daughter being a warrior. This actually smoothed their relationship in a lot of ways. But while female Denethor doesn’t expect it, either, it’s at least a possibility in their timeline. So Míriel turning out as a gentle, gracious lady is more of a disappointment than in the other ’verse, esp after Boromir’s death, though it’s still far short of the strain between canon Denethor and Faramir.

Míriel, I think, is (reluctantly) evacuated with the other women and children before Gandalf and Pippin ever show up; her argument with Andreth about it is the last time they ever speak to each other. Andreth dies in the retreat across the Pelennor, Imraphel takes command, and Aranor arrives to turn the tide of battle while Míriel is basically stuck doing what Éowyn rejected—leading the civilians while others fight in the battle.

It’s an important task, and Míriel is a charismatic, strong-willed leader who is loved and respected by her people, but it’s still a difficult position to be in. By the time she receives news of Andreth’s death and Aranor’s existence, events have already rushed on. By the time Míriel returns to Minas Tirith, Sauron is defeated (wonderful!) and Aranor, whom Míriel has never met, is Queen of Gondor in all but name (maybe good, maybe bad). Míriel’s own place in the new world is extremely unclear. And then she actually meets Aranor and is, while not quite as swept away as canon without the mystical healing, still very powerfully struck by her and willing to step aside.

And then ... stuff.

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theblueholds · 3 years

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Brief Astrology of Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd

I wrote this in honour of Dimitri's birthday last year! I wanted to share my thoughts for his possible big 3 placements of his natal chart.

I've been thinking about it for quite a while and hope to expand on the other lords in the future as well.

Capricorn Rising

In surface-level interactions and the way he navigates himself in his immediate environment, Dimitri is serious, proper and thorough in whatever he does. He is very earnest and dutiful, the burden of his duties and perceived duties constantly weighing on him, driving all his actions and the decisions he makes.

As Capricorn Risings are ruled by Saturn, the planet of restriction, discipline, and structure, these individuals feel an unduly amount of duty and obligation and this is evident in how Dimitri practically shoulders the blame and responsibility to the lives lost at Duscur. Emotional suppression and repression are also markers of a Capricorn Rising, as the planet of restriction can greatly inhibit the native's ability to express themselves with ease. This is seen in how Dimitri constantly guards his vulnerability, his anger, his grief, regardless if he is aware of it or not*, preferring to mask it with a distant, friendly and professional facade.

(*This can also be why he and Felix are often at odds, the latter extremely displeased by how inauthentic he believes Dimitri to be to his 'true' self that he had seen in a rebellion in Western Faerghus. I think Felix has Aries placements [Aries greatly value authenticity and have a straightforward sense of self], squaring Dimitri's Capricorn Rising [Capricorns have much more convoluted sense of self] thus explaining their extreme friction.)

Sagittarius Sun in the 12th House

Capricorn Rising puts Dimitri's Sun in the spiritual, nebulous realm of the 12th House. The 12th House rules a myriad of things including the afterlife, karma, hidden enemies (including the native), the collective unconscious where the individual merges with the whole, the place of self-undoing, loss, isolation, self-sacrifice, but also healing, and secret gifts and blessings. With Dimitri's Sun residing in this House, it is these significations and ideas that become major and defining themes of his character.

The 12th House also explains how Dimitri is incredibly attuned to the voices of the dead. There is an osmotic quality to those with 12th House placements with boundaries between the real world and the spiritual world becoming blurred and undefined, lending towards a higher sensitivity to things not only of the spiritual realm, but to everything that is unseen. This explains Dimitri's highly empathetic nature, how he can open his heart up to the sufferings of anyone, be it someone that has already passed, and to take that suffering as his own. Beneath Dimitri's bloodthirsty desire for vengeance and justice for the lives that were taken in Duscur is a bleeding heart, one that has decided to carry things that aren't his own to carry (re: his father's parting words to him to pursue vengeance) purely out of earnest, deep-seated compassion and obligation.

This is the marker of a 12th House Sun native, someone whose identity and sense of self unwittingly revolves around and serves the wishes, ideas, projections of those around them. It is not often voluntarily as much as it is out of obligation, a will greater than their own, a calling, and that is where the karmic themes of the 12th House come into play as a very literal interpretation by Traditional Astrologers is that the planets residing in the 12th House represent the unrealised and unfulfilled wishes and regrets of your past lives, ancestors, even your parents at the time of your birth. It may even extend to the greater collective as a whole.

The heavy sense of loss and sorrow hanging over Dimitri as a result of being the unwilling carrier of such immense spiritual debt for all these people makes him take up the impossible and self-destructive mission of rectifying those wrongs, of finding restitution for those losses, a task far too much and unrealistic for a single person to bear, and yet he does anyway, out of obligation and guilt (and love). It is guilt that is a defining emotional experience of the 12th House because these natives feel so deeply and so widely and so uncontrollably that they assume responsibility and accountability for things that they shouldn't, for things beyond their control. With the immense guilt constantly weighing and drowning the planets in this realm, the native's focus is turned outwards to benefiting the collective as a way of atonement.

Jupiter-ruled Sagittarius on his 12th House also points at his rigidity in his ideas, his worldviews, and his stance and visions. This rigidity and sense of self-righteousness he has over his ideas of justice is what ultimately leads him to his own undoing in other routes, and also keeps him ignorant and unaware of the greater evils lurking in Fodlan at the end of Azure Moon. The 12th House Sagittarius Sun is lost and ungrounded in reality, too focused on fantasy and dreams that it forgets to look at its immediate surroundings.

Pisces Moon in the 3rd House

In Traditional Astrology, the 3rd House is where the Moon rejoices. As the planet of bodily comfort, nurturing and nourishment, it is understandable that the House ruling over the neigbourhood, the immediate community, friends, classmates and siblings is where the Moon shines the brightest. This is true for Dimitri. Even with the serious and professional front he tries to maintain in his Capricorn Rising, it is no secret to his friends and those immediately around him how kind, sincere, and comforting he is to be around. His attentiveness and depth of care, in that he is always willing to provide safety, warmth, and respect to anyone he speaks with, is his Pisces Moon shining through.

The Moon in the chart indicates where the native draws comfort from and feels a sense of safety, and for Dimitri, this is his friends, classmates, the people around him. Pisces comes in how this comfort is more abstract than material or tangible. Dimitri finds comfort through creating and finding meaning (and also idealising — eg. how vividly he recalls Edelgard in his childhood memories, as opposed how she barely remembers him at all) the smallest moments. Daily and mundane interactions, inconsequential small talk become cherished moments he holds dear as they allow him much-needed reprieve from the stresses and burdens weighing on his mind. It is these very moments with his classmates (berating Sylvain and getting swept up in his antics, trying to befriend and convince Ashe of friendship, learning to sew with Mercedes, working out with Raphael and talking about muscles, confiding in and connecting with Marianne, amongst many others) that give us a glimpse of Dimitri putting his guard down and showing us his inner child that he often pushes aside in favour of upholding his responsibilities.

His Moon in Pisces also supports his already compassionate nature, with his Moon attuned to and focused on the emotional, spiritual, and unseen side of healing, further reinforcing Dimitri's tendency push himself to his limits for others and sacrifice himself.

Other Notes

So, there we have it, an overview of Dimitri's big three placements. This breakdown isn't complete however, not until the placements of his ruling planets — Saturn and Jupiter — are sussed out.

This will take a lot more thought as they are generational planets shared between characters of the same age, though I am leaning towards Scorpio Jupiter (the emphasis on truth-seeking as well as secret-keeping, seeing the limits of belief systems and inducing transformation by going in deeper beneath the surface) and Aquarius Saturn (explaining the shared desire for societal upheaval amongst the lords, of restructuring the world around them but also the wish to enforce their own sense of order for the greater good).

Aquarius Saturn would work harmoniously with Dimitri's Sun, explaining how effecting change in the world around him helps build on his sense of identity and purpose, and also further lends toward his Capricorn Rising's extended sense of responsibility to those around him.

This will be expanded on in future entries (alongside other possible placements like his Mars and Venus etc.) when I figure out these generational planets more fully!

#fire emblem three houses #dimitri alexandre blaiddyd #yall can ask abt any characters n astrology im happy to jhdfhdfkdfk #fire emblem astrology #fe3h meta

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cali-holland · 4 years

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Golden Hearts, Prologue

Harrison Osterfield X Reader, James Bond AU ~ Sequel to Golden Bullets

Following a messy split, Harrison, Agent 007, resumes his role as an elite womanizer, after his recovery from his previous mission; meanwhile, you’ve stepped back from your 00 status, taking on cases as MI6’s assistant director from your office. When a new threat emerges to MI6 and a dear friend gets kidnapped, can you and Harrison set aside your differences to save special agent Q, better known as Tom? Or will the stakes- and your love, push you two further apart?

Word Count: 2700

Gif is not mine

Golden Hearts Masterlist

Masterlist Harrison Osterfield Masterlist

Let me know if you want to be added to the series tag list

Warnings: violence (unnamed character death, guns, someone gets stabbed, kidnapping, tranq dart, punching/kicking), swearing, sexual themes (my attempt at a heavy make out sesh), mentions of drugs & sex trafficking & sexual abuse

~~~

Tom hated field work, he really did. He could handle himself fine with a gun, but he still hated it nonetheless. Maybe it was because he hated the feeling of having no control. Behind a computer, he was the one in complete control. He could hack, invent, and upgrade things as he pleased, as if it was simple; there were no unknown variables, not truly.

Maybe another reason he hated field work was his current state— yet again, who would enjoy running away from the bullets of angry Spanish men, who were also possibly cyberterrorists.

Technically though, this wasn’t even field work. This was Tom having a good time with his family in Spain when he discovered a meeting of said suspected cyberterrorists. He didn’t mean to stumble across the secret meeting, but when he did, he did his best to acquire surveillance of the scene with his camera, taking a few photographs of the men, clear enough for facial recognition to be successful later. Thankfully, the men hadn’t linked him back to his family, leaving him to flee- or well, attempt to because he knew this information needed to be sent to MI6.

“Shit, shit, shit.” Tom cursed, ducking down an alleyway before kicking in the nearby door. He raced up the stairs and checked behind him quickly. The men were far enough behind him that he was fine- he had time to finish this small mission. He ran into the small, worn down, windowless apartment M had supplied him in case of an emergency, which he definitely felt like this counted as one. Grabbing the laptop from the desk, he slid his camera’s memory drive into it.

“Come on, come on.” He mumbled as he waited for the laptop to load the images. With the file upload complete, he drafted a quick email, fingers flying across the keyboard.

‘Find L’Americain.’ Tom wrote out in the message space before adding in the two recipients, the two people he could trust most with this critical information. Just before he could press the little arrow to send the message, the door got kicked down by the opposing men. Instantly, Tom put his hands up in surrender, knowing with his lack of weapons that taking them on wasn’t his best option- or maybe it was.

One of the men shouted out orders, and Tom eyed the open email in front of him. He couldn’t let this just go to waste; no, he was sacrificing his life for this, it had to go to someone at least. Taking a deep breath, he quickly hit the send button. In one fast motion, he removed the memory drive and threw it on the ground, crushing it and all of its data. He shut the laptop and put his hands up again, feeling one of the men step forward and point his gun against Tom’s head.

“Alright, I’m done.” Tom said with a sigh. He watched as a second man opened the laptop, only to find the computer frozen without Tom’s unhackable code to unlock it. The leader spoke again, and this time, the man behind Tom shoved him to turn him around.

“Who did you send the message to?” The leader questioned in a thick Spanish accent.

“Doesn’t matter.” He paused, a cocky smirk playing on his lips, “All you need to know is— you don’t need to find them, they’ll find you.”

“Are you sure about that?” The other man asked, cocking his gun.

With a wave of confidence, Tom grabbed the man’s wrist in front of him, twisting it up and grabbing the gun from his hands. He fired twice, one hit the man in the chest and the second at the laptop, blowing a bullet straight through the device. He then shot the only light in the room, sending the space into darkness. Tom ducked as the other two fired blindly, and he swept his leg down to knock one over. Tom clutched onto his gun before running in the direction of the exit.

The moment he got back onto the streets of Spain, he ran as fast as his feet could carry him, booking it down the busy roads towards the proper MI6 safehouse, where, hopefully, a better and actually trained field agent would be. He could see the familiar, yellow safe house in the distance, just a block away, and he began to run even harder, feeling a surge of hopefulness overcome him. He might actually make it through this.

That hope was quickly lost as two black motorcycles came from the side streets, stopping with their guns raised, effectively halting him in his tracks. Tom raised his own gun, ready to fire at them. While he was distracted by these two, he didn’t catch the third motorcyclist behind him. He felt a prick to his neck before a sudden wave of drowsiness washed through his system. Dropping the gun, he fell limp to his knees.

“The hell—?” He mumbled, his fingers tracing over the tranq dart in the back of his neck.

That was the last thing he remembered before he slipped into a deep state of unconsciousness.

~~~

The moment he stepped into the club, he was blinded by the pink and gold neon lights, his ears flooding with the blaring sound of some atrocious techno music that had no business being played in such a setting. He followed the waitress dressed in the club’s signature colors to a vip room. When she opened the door for him, he slid past her while brushing his fingers against her waist, a smirk playing on his lips as he did so. In the room sat six men around a deep brown circular table, all dressed in their finest suits; the smoke from their cigars hanging in the air and onto their crisp glasses of whiskey.

The one at the head of the table spoke first, his hand outstretching towards the only open chair at the table, “How nice of you to join us, Mr.—?”

“Osterfield. Harrison Osterfield.” He answered, smoothing out his suit as he took a seat in the chair.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” The waitress asked from his side.

“Martini. Thank you, love.” Harrison replied, his lips in his signature smirk. The woman left the room quickly, leaving him to discuss business with the other men.

“So, Mr. Osterfield,” The leader didn’t get to finish his thought as Harrison held up a finger, silently telling him to wait a moment. The waitress returned to the room, handing him the shaken martini.

“I never discuss business without a drink first.” He stated, before drinking the beverage down in one quick motion. His fingers traced the small, sharp metal rod, complete with a green olive still on the end of it. The men watched as he picked the olive off, abandoning it in the glass.

“You know, I thought a bunch of drug dealing, sex trafficking assholes would check their new guests for guns first.” Harrison said. The men went to draw their weapons, but he was faster, throwing the rod across the table and straight into the leader’s eye. He drew his compacted machine gun from his back holster, firing along the circular table until none of them so much as blinked. He tucked his gun back away under his suit and turned to see the same waitress from before. Her eyes were wide with fear, but he could see her shoulders relax as she realized he wasn’t going to harm her, an innocent employee. He watched as her eyes stayed on one man of the group in particular.

Slowly, Harrison stepped towards her, “Did he hurt you?” When she nodded, he went to comfort her, but she shook her head the moment his hands touched hers.

“Thank you. They were the worst.” She stated, and Harrison couldn’t sense any fear in her voice as she spoke; no, she sounded perfectly fine- happy, even.

“It’s no problem, love.” He smiled at her, blue eyes lighting up as her eyes met his.

“There must be some way for me to,” She paused, “repay you.”

“Well,” Harrison’s lips curved into a smirk, eyeing the waitress up and down, “What time do you get off, sweetheart?”

~~~

“Harder, Harry!”

“I don’t want to hurt you- oh god.” Harry landed on the ground with a loud thud. He let out a groan, rubbing his abdomen where your punch had landed. You playfully rolled your eyes at him as you held out a hand for him to stand up again. He took your hand and nearly fell over again, still surprised by how forceful your grip was.

“Told you I could handle myself.” You teased, making him laugh.

“Are we done yet?” He asked, but still got in position across from you in the ring.

“You can’t be tired already?” You joked, and he raised his eyebrows at you. You sighed, before raising your fists. “Fine. Last one.”

“Loser buys drinks on Friday?” Harry offered, a cheeky smile on his face.

“Agents aren’t my type. Besides, you already know I’m going to win.” You smirked.

“I’m not an agent yet, remember?” He reminded you with a wink.

“Your status changes at midnight, Agent 003.”

“Better get busy on those drinks then.”

As you started to throw punches at him again, he blocked them the best he could, his arms and torso still getting clipped by your knuckles. You started to pull your punches, letting him feel like he had the upper hand. Just as Harry was about to make a comment about finally beating you, you jumped up and kicked him square in the chest, sending him backwards and onto the decently solid ground of the sparring mat. You smirked down at him.

“Finished, Holland?” You asked, and he let out a sigh and nodded- rather, nodded as best he could. You held your hand out to him again, and he took it just like every other time you knocked him over in training. “Good session today. I say you’re 00 ready.”

“I still can’t believe it. Me? A 00 agent.” Harry chuckled while the two of you walked outside of the sparring ring to get your water bottles. “I can’t wait to tell Tom.”

“When does he get back from Spain? He’s there with your family, right?” You inquired before taking a long drink of the refreshing ice cold water.

“Yeah, he should be back in a few days. I’m still kinda bummed my training process kept me from going, but I guess you kinda sign away family vacation as a 00.” He laughed.

“Oh, definitely.” The training room fell silent as you quickly gathered your bag. The moment you were ready to leave, you made a beeline for the door, and Harry jogged to catch up to you.

“About those drinks-“ He started.

“I’ve already told you. It’s not happening, Harry.” You replied, continuing your path to your car.

“Just one date?” He asked. When you didn’t respond, he reached a hand out for yours. The second his finger brushed against your skin, you instinctively grabbed his wrist and twisted it. “Ow, fuck. I’ll drop it.”

You let go of his hand with a small laugh, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Harry.” And with that, you got into your BMW and sent him a quick wave.

When you got back to your apartment, you let out a deep sigh, tossing your bag down next to your couch. It was silent, just like it always was now. Sticky with sweat from your post-work training, you headed straight for the shower. Once you were out of the warm water’s embrace, you changed into your red satin robe, draping it over your shoulders and tying it around your waist. You turned on the TV for background noise as you cooked yourself a quick meal for dinner. It wasn’t until you were sitting down and eating that you realized your TV was playing a “Mission Impossible” movie, right in the middle of an action-packed Tom Cruise scene.

You watched as the actor scaled the Burj Khalifa in Mumbai. With a sigh, you set your empty plate and fork aside, twirling the steak knife in your hand. You didn’t take your eyes off the movie as you threw the knife to your right, sending it straight into the bullseye of your dartboard. You huffed; a steak knife and a dartboard, you really were bored.

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t miss field work. There was a reason why you personally trained Harry to become a 00 agent instead of having another, lesser agent take it on. After all, though, Tom wanted his younger brother to be trained by the best, which was you, even after three months behind a desk. You missed the suspense of keeping undercover, the sweet taste of action, all of it.

But MI6 was changing, and that meant you had to change too. As M retired and was replaced by the new M, Gareth Mallory, you turned in your 00 status to stay in the office. And, with Nine Eyes, a new global security company, seeking to merge with MI6, the 00 program was at stake now as it is, yet all of that was information left to remain between you, Q, and M. Global security sounded like a dream, but it would mean a lot more changes to the organization.

Just as you were about to turn off your TV and turn in for yet another lonely night, a notification came through your computer across the room. Curious, you stood up and walked over to your desk, taking a seat in the office chair to examine the new notification.

“New encrypted message from Q,” the screen read. You clicked on the message to open it, your eyes going wide at the contents.

“Oh god,” You breathed out.

Meanwhile, across London, Harrison was having a different night than you.

“This is me.” The waitress’s lips barely separated from Harrison’s as she spoke. With his hands around her waist, fisting at the loose fabric of her work dress, he walked them backwards out of the elevator. He dipped his head down to hungrily nip at her neck while she led them to her apartment. She fumbled with the keys as Harrison found the sweet spot on her neck, already marking a hickey there. The moment she got the door open, his hands slid down the back of her thighs and she jumped into his embrace, chests pressed against each other.

“Bedroom?” Harrison panted out, his blue eyes full of lust.

“First door on the left.” She barely got the words out before his lips were desperately back on hers.

He stumbled his way through the dark apartment to her bedroom before laying her down on the bed. Her hands worked on unbuttoning his shirt as he discarded his jacket somewhere behind him. She pushed her lips back onto his, sloppily kissing him while he shrugged off his shirt. Harrison wasted no time in finding the zipper on her dress, tugging it down. The moment the dress slipped from around her, she pulled Harrison back with her on the bed, and his lips hungrily followed hers, moans slipping from both of their throats as their tongues and teeth clashed.

Hearing his smartwatch alert him of a new message, Harrison broke the kiss, leaning on one arm to look at his wrist. The waitress’s lips dipped down his neck, biting and sucking on his skin as her hands scratched over his abs, a detour on the way to his belt.

“New encrypted message from Q.” Harrison read the alert, and his eyebrows furrowed in confusion and worry.

“Stop, stop.” Harrison said, pulling the waitress off his body as he got off the bed.

“Where are you going?” She asked, hurt by the sudden change.

“I have to go. Sorry, love.” He answered, but he really wasn’t that apologetic as he slipped his clothes back on. She huffed and made some angry comment about him mistreating women, but the words flew over his head. He rushed out of the apartment and made his way to the elevator. Once he was within the comfort of the four metal walls with no one around, he opened up the new email on his phone. He let out a shaky sigh, peering down at the message’s contents.

“Shit.”

~~~

General Tag List: @viagracex @theamazingtomholland @Hellomoveonby @heyitsshrez @harrisonosterfieldhazmyheart @joyleenl @t-o-m-holland @lonikje @sleepybesson @sunkisseddreamer @hollandsamor @in-a-lot-of-fandoms-tbh @gorillaglue23

Harrison Tag List: @Calhtlland @tomkindholland @where-art-thau-romeo

Original Series Tag List: @quinjetboi @baby-haz @kickingn-ames @rougese7en @hollandsosterfield @nj01 @it-is-rebel-owl-ma-dudes @spencerreidxoxo @duskholland

#harrison osterfield #harrison osterfield x you #harrison osterfield imagine #harrison osterfield x reader #harrison osterfield series #harrison osterfield x y/n #harrison osterfield fic

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sushiandstarlight · 3 years

Text

“Scarf”: NaNoWriMo 30 Days of Prompts

Today’s Prompt

Read this story on AO3

Personal note: today I bring you tooth-rotting Christmas fluff. Also, I do not knit or crochet, though I have poked at both hobbies. Mostly, I take what little I know from the knitters and crocheters in my life.

“I've joined a knitting circle in town.” He had said it without preamble over dinner at their favorite restaurant.

“Knitting?” Crowley tried to recall what knitting looked like, “Something to do with string and big needles, right?

“Well, crochet actually. Right now, anyway. Apparently they go back and forth for new people. Crochet, they said, was easier to learn.”

“Crochet.” That, he assumed, also dealt with string and needles.

“Yes. I thought- I thought, you have your garden to muck about in... I should have something, too. Aside- aside from my books, of course. But, having no shop or customers-” the way Aziraphale said the word customers: it dripped, ever so, with disgust, “I wanted to find something to do with my hands, you see?”

“Sure, Angel. You crochet now, it's cool.”

And nothing more had been said about it that night. Or any of the following. On Thursday evenings Aziraphale would kiss his cheek and disappear for a few hours.

The house started filling, little by little, with bits of yarn. Squares at first, some parts of them loose or tangled, other parts stiff and tight. Tension, he said, he was learning tension. Crowley thought he knew plenty enough about tension, but didn't mention it.

He would come in from the garden once it was too dark to work (not that he couldn't see, but it was the human thing to do and they were living among humans) and find the angel in the living room, in his chair, lap full of yarn- the string was called yarn, he had learned- and tiny hooked needles. There was muttered counting and some amount of grumbled curses over “dropped stitches.”

Eventually they had a big pile of what he called pot holders in the kitchen. They were squares of all sorts of colors, Crowley supposed to go with the seasons. Or maybe Aziraphale got tired of one color and went to the next, hard to be sure. They were more uniform than what he had done before, perhaps he had learned about this “tension” he muttered about for weeks.

And then he became secretive. New projects stopped showing up around the cottage. Crowley would come in for the night and have the feeling that Aziraphale had hidden something swiftly right before he returned. Something about the near-manic way he would be staring at the book sprawled out on his thighs.

Their first Christmas after the events of almost-megeddon was fast approaching. He might not have guessed except the pot holders in the kitchen were red and green now, as opposed to fall colors. He wondered if he should get Aziraphale something for Christmas. He probably should.

“Don't come in here, Crowley, I'm on Christmas business!” Crowley stared at their bedroom door, now barred from entering it. He supposed that answered that.

“I'll be back, Angel, I'm headed to town.”

“Kisses!”

Crowley stared at the door for a further minute before shaking his head and heading out to the car. He returned some hours later with large bags from all the local craft stores. Who could have guessed there were so many kinds of yarn? What on earth were they all for? He had spent some time before he left, going around and touching all of the crochet projects he could find around the house, trying to guess the material. Or at least know it when he found it again at the store. But, that was an impossible method, he had found. Dumbfoundedly, he had stood in the yarn aisles- AISLES, plural- touching them one at a time.

“Whatever project you're getting them for, you should get the colors in one dye lot,” The overly-friendly employee of one store had said, “so they'll match.” Whatever that meant.

It wasn't so much that he bought out the stores, at that point. That would have taken a miracle to get home and would definitely have been noticed by his angel. But, he did settle on buying the softest of yarns. The ones that drifted through his fingers rather than dragging. Aziraphale enjoyed, nay deserved, soft things. He was soft and he had not had enough softness in his centuries.

“Oooh, what have you got there, my dear?” Crowley startled, clutching his packages to his chest, suddenly grateful that the stores had elected to give him unmarked bags. He was pretty sure they were all giggling about him, even now. Their smiles as they helped him and rung him up had been... conspiratorial. 'Happy Christmas, Mr. Crowley,' they'd smiled, 'I hope he likes them!' He wondered if they worked on commission.

“Nothing!” his voice hadn't squeaked, it really hadn't, “Christmas business, as you say. Nothing here to see.” He swept upstairs and hid the bags under the bed.

Christmas morning had dawned colder than expected, crisp even. He was happy enough to give the angel the gifts he had picked out, but he was even happier to stay right here, tucked snug and warm under the covers with him. But, fingers tickled along the tattoo on his face.

“Five more minutes,” he grumbled, not opening his eyes.

“You said that five minutes ago,” Aziraphale was smiling at him, he could hear it in his voice. Yeah, it was possible he had asked before, and it was possible he would ask again. He grumbled some more and slid further under the covers, wrapping his arms around the angel's waist.

Time passed, how much he couldn't say because he drifted. He felt fingers comb through his hair.

“Five more minutes,” his voice was muffled by the angel's bed clothes pressed against his face.

“Really, Crowley!” Aziraphale chuckled softly, Crowley enjoyed the bounce of his chest, squeezing him and nuzzling closer- the sound and feel of Aziraphale's happiness made him giddy. It also had the side effect of waking him up completely, at last.

“Happy Christmas, Angel,” he rolled on to his back and stretched, feeling the blankets fall down around his middle. It wasn't nearly as cold as he remembered it being... how ever many minutes ago, how ever many minutes he managed to bargain for.

“Happy Christmas, Crowley, you beautiful creature,” Aziraphale was draped over him and kissing him softly, a bit teasingly, his smile pressed to Crowley's lips. It was like drinking happiness, Crowley decided, this was like drinking Aziraphale's very joy. It made the already giddy part of him crow inside.

“Maybe,” Crowley snaked his arms back around Aziraphale's middle and tugged him down onto his chest, “maybe five more minutes.” He was smirking, himself, as he muttered against his soft lips. They pulled down into a frown. When he pulled back he saw it was mostly for show.

“I suppose you don't want your gift, then.”

“Got all I want, right here,” he squeezed him.

“Soppiness is not going to get you any more five minute reprieves.”

“It was worth a shot.”

“Hmm.” And then Aziraphale did his worst: get left the bed and took all his warm softness with him. Crowley groaned and pouted dramatically.

“Bastard.”

He heard chuckling fading as the angel padded down the stairs. He sat for a few moments more, hoping he would return, but then gave it up. He threw back the covers- extra messy so Aziraphale would make a fuss later- and stepped into his slippers. Slippers. He had slippers now. Who'd have thought? Grabbing his robe, he donned it and went downstairs.

The night before he had waiting for Aziraphale to fall asleep and then he had snuck down with his packages and piled them under the tree. Every skein was wrapped individually in shiny, red wrapping paper, tied with white ribbon. There were... a lot of little red packages. When he got to the bottom of the stairs, Aziraphale was in the sitting room, staring at them.

“Looks like St. Nick really delivered this year,” Crowley walked up behind him, hugging him and resting his chin on his shoulder to peer at the piles of packages, “You must've been a good boy.”

“Oh, Crowley, it's too much, isn't it?”

“Nah, could be half of them are fake. You won't know until you open them,” he was getting distracted by the line of Aziraphale's jaw and nuzzled his nose against it. Aziraphale's arms came up and rested over his, squeezing his hands.

“You're planning to spoil me, aren't you?”

“What? I got you nothing. This is all Santa's work. I might have to have a chat with him, he thinks he might win you from me with presents.”

“Pssh, really.”

“You should be spoiled,” he placed a soft, gently sucking kiss where his jaw met his neck and delighted at the shiver he felt, pressed as close as he was, in response, “I won't have it any other way. Sorry, you're gonna have to suffer it.”

“I suppose I'll survive it, somehow,” there was a beat of silence, “but I did not get you this many things.”

“It's not a competition. No tally's here. I'm sure I'll like whatever you give me, Angel. Just enjoy your presents, alright?” He let him go and went to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Something strong and earthy for him, something light and slightly floral for Aziraphale. When he returned with tea, there were three more packages under the tree: these wrapped in silvery tissue paper with black ribbon.

“Oh, did St. Nick make another stop by? Find something at the bottom of the bad did he? Bad form, should be more organized. He would be hell to live with, you know?” Crowley sat their tea on the coffee table and then sprawled on the sofa.

“I can feel the mussed bedsheets from here, you fiend. You're hell to live with.” The statement held absolutely no fire.

“Just so,” Crowley propped his slippered feet on the coffee table, to be a further annoyance, “Go on and open them.”

“All of them?”

“Sure, why not?”

“We could take turns?”

“Oh, go on, I want to watch you.”

Aziraphale dithered another moment before sitting on the ottoman beside the tree. He picked up the first one, pulling off the ribbon and finding the tape to pull it off gently. Crowley watched in growing madness as he carefully removed the paper, folding it and setting it aside.

“It's yarn!” and then his fingers dug into the skein, “Oh, it's angora yarn!”

“Best for you, Angel,” Crowley took a sip of his tea.

“Tell me they aren't all angora.” Aziraphale was staring, wide-eyed at the packages.

“Well, not all of them. There's some different wool blends. Some of it's alpaca? I think. And a few are made from bamboo. Amazing, humans, eh? I never would have looked at a bamboo plant and thought yarn. But, oh Angel, it's so soft. You had to have it.” Crowley watched him over the rim of his mug as he opened them all one by one, cooing over the softness and the variety of colors. And stopping to fold every. Single. Piece. Of. Paper. He couldn't decide if it was endearing or crazy. When he had them all unwrapped he stacked them gently under the tree. Then he grabbed the silver packages and strode over to the sofa. He sat them down next to Crowley and picked up his own mug, pausing to allow Crowley to snap it warm.

“Perfect,” he smiled over the rim, tucking his feet up under him and angling himself towards the demon, “your turn, love.”

Crowley put his mug down and picked up the first package. It crinkled under his fingers. Something soft. He looked over at the neat pile of wrapping paper Aziraphale had left behind and then back over at the angel himself. Then in a flurry of movements, he had the paper flying everywhere.

“You're such a child!” But Aziraphale was laughing, batting at the paper that drifted his way.

“Oh, but it's...” he picked up the pile of yarn and let it unspool over his knees, “Angel this is beautiful!” He lifted it, almost against his will, and rubbed it against his cheek. The scarf, black on one side and red on the other was buttery smooth against his skin. He wrapped it around his neck a couple times and then let the rest hang over his chest. Only now could he see that the ends were tasseled in the same colors, alternating. At the ends, just above the tassels were designs. On one side they matched his tattoo. On the other was a pair of wings. It would depend on if he was showing the red or black side, which one would show. He stared at the designs, a lump forming in his throat.

“You really like it? I mean, I'm still learning, but I thought it was okay.”

“Okay,” the word came out strangled and a moment later he was climbing over the sofa cushions and into Aziraphale's lap, “I love it, really.” And he leaned in and kissed him soundly, slipping his fingers into the hair at his name. Aziraphale kissed him back, holding him close for a moment. Then he pushed against him, smiling against his lips again.

“There are two more, you know? Do I get a kiss like that for every one of them? I might have tried to make you some more,” his eyes were twinkling with mirth and happiness and it made something in Crowley's chest ache with joy. He wondered if a demon could be discorporated from feeling this good. Surely, they weren't built to contain it.

“I could have the kisses now and the presents later,” Crowley peered at him through his lashes, nuzzling his chin into the scarf around his neck.

“Oh, do open them.”

“You don't want my kisses,” he pulled his face into a pout.

“Now, you know that's not true!” He was starting to look honestly worked up.

“Alright, let's see what's in package number two,” he pulled the ribbon off and put it atop the angel's curly hair and then he destroyed the paper in the same fashion as before so it fell like confetti over both of them. It was matching gloves in the same black yarn with his sigil in red on the backs. He reached for the final package, shredding it mercilessly, and found a black beanie with his sigil on the front. It was a whole set, just for him. He reached up and pulled the hat down on the angel's head, sitting back and smirking at him, “oh, I like that look, I do.”

“The mark of the beast, for sure.”

“I do say,” he tugged it down until it covered his eyebrows and nodded, his work complete.

“But you like them?” The angel's voice was small, quiet.

“I love them. I love that you made them for me. They're perfect. I'll wear them until they fall apart and when I do,” he rubbed his cheek against the silky yarn, “I'll think of you, even when I'm away.”

Aziraphale wiggled happily, grasping the ends of the scarf in either hand. Crowley cocked his head to the side in question.

“I'll have those kisses now!” and with a tug, he pulled Crowley to him by the scarf and took them.

Previous Prompt Ficlets:

Family / Hearth / Frosty / Ribbons / Wrapping / Cardinal / Coal / Unwrap / Blustery

#aziraphale x crowley #crowley x arizaphale #good omens #good omens fic #ineffable husbands #star light-reads #30 days of prompts #nanowrimo #nanowrimo 2020 #also in case i haven't made it clear:#you are more than welcome to reblog these ficlets!

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philicheesecake · 3 years

Text

(U.L.) The Last Hunt

Synopsis: Three hunters seek out the trace of an unknown monster, only for the hunt to take a dangerous turn.

Warnings: THIS STORY CONTAINS FATAL VORE. IF YOU DO NOT LIKE FATAL VORE, TURN BACK NOW.

((Phili’s note: Though Wendigos are mentioned in this story, the adaption mentioned here are not the ones from folklore. The Unseen Legion discovered creatures with similar appearance and behavior that resembles the wendigo folklore and nicknamed these creatures after them, not having a better name for them)) ((Also sorry it took forever to get this posted! I was super nervous about posting fatal, but y’all have been warned anyways, so hopefully it should be fine))

---

There was a click as the magazine slid into place. The trunk of the big red van slammed shut. Footsteps tracked away from the gravel earth. A wind bristled through the canopy above, shifting the flecks of warm evening light that fell across the untrodden trail. Branches and dead foliage crunched over the three pairs of boots as the small hunting party began to search.

The mid-autumn air was crisp and chilly in contrast with the sun’s dull warm glow, and the fiery colors of the foliage that shifted at the change of season. The three figures were equipped with boots and jackets, and the tallest held a pack full of spare hunting gear to make sure all approaches to some unknown threat were covered.

“They’re more active at dawn and dusk, so we’ll have to watch our backs more as the sun sets,” the oldest of them, Josiah spoke to his trainee. He had dark baggy eyes and salt and pepper hair. While his features were much older and weathered, she was much shorter and younger, barely out of high school, with curly black hair pulled back into a big ponytail.

“How many wendigos have you killed?” The girl, Ruth pondered.

“Gah, lost count. Maybe seven?” The older man shrugged. “What about you, Rubin?” He glanced at the other hunter joining them. He was short for her age, but had a good build and curly brown hair and a goatee.

“Haven’t met one yet. This one would be my first. I tend to stick around the rowdy moon puppies mostly,” Rubin responded.

“I’ve always wanted to hunt a werewolf, I just have too unsteady hands to pierce their heart,” Ruth said. “I’m just sticking to the bigger targets until I can get a better skill with my gun handling.”

“Good idea. I don’t think it would be fun to come back from a hunt with puppy ears,” Rubin chuckled. “I bet werewolf bites don’t tickle.”

“I’ll bet,” Ruth said with a grin.

“Hey, wait here,” Josiah stopped ahead, holding out a hand as he crouched down to the forest floor, seeming to inspect a mark on the earth. The soil was unruly, but a faint mark could be made out. A footprint? But it was too large, even for a wendigo. Even then, it was difficult to make out whether it actually was a footprint, and not just some uneven ground.

“What do you think, Rubin?” Josiah glanced at the tracking expert of the hunting party.

Rubin bent down near the print, taking a good look at it as he took in a deep breath. “Don’t recognize what it came from, but it couldn’t have been here more than a day ago. This ain’t like anything I’ve seen before.”

Ruth glanced at her father pensively, taking a few steps ahead to try to see more tracks. Sure enough, about six or seven feet apart from the other print was another. “Guys, over here. There’s more.”

Josiah paced over to where she stood, glancing down at the new track. He could see it a bit more clearly. A left footprint. It was strikingly similar to a human’s own footprint, though there were indentations at the front of the toes that tore up the ground, distorting the front of the footprint by the disturbed earth. It was nearly a meter long from heel to toe.

“Rubin, is the one over there a right foot?”

Rubin glanced up from the track after a moment, nodding. “Yuuup.”

Josiah shook his head in awe. “Two meter strides. Damn. This thing must be huge.”

“Do you think we should head back?” Ruth asked. “If we don’t know what it is, it might be dangerous.”

Josiah frowned, picking at a mole on the back of his neck as he always did when he was deep in thought. Maybe nervous. Calculating their odds.

“We’ve been following these hunting patterns like a wendigo. Been twelve years since the last round of victims in this town, and three towns over, staggered at similar intervals. If we lose this chance, it might hibernate again and our chance will be lost. Chances are if it isn’t a wendigo, it’s still a close relative, and we can still kill it. We can follow the prints to at least learn about it, and if we get in over our heads, you can retreat.”

“Probably shouldn’t be relying on horror movies to predict the outcome for this, but...” Ruth looked at her father cautiously. “Going in over our heads is probably what’s going to happen if we don’t know what this is.”

The three hunters continued through the woods, finding the messy footprints leading in a rough direction deeper into the forest. The sun was beginning to set, overshadowed by the looming mountain range before them. On the mountainside, there were rocky cliffs and crevices looking over a small frothy stream that flowed noisily throughout the forest like a winding white serpent. The stream was shallow enough to wade through easily, though the mountain water must be very chilly. With a careful footing, one could cross by hopping from the slippery stones.

“I can check out the cave first and call you over if the coast is clear. Watch out for each other, ‘aight?” Josiah dug through Ruth’s backpack briefly before drawing out the flame thrower. He began to wade through the stream, shivering as the cold water soaked through his trousers and chilled him to the bone.

“Be careful, dad,” Ruth said in a low voice.

Josiah crossed over onto the opposing bank and stepped past the underbrush, making his way along the rocky wall against the bank. He passed further along towards the cave. At first, there seemed to be no trace of anything there. He began to move deeper into the dark crevice of stone, holding out his flame thrower warily. His boot bumped across a large leather sack, at first thinking it was a boulder. It was as big as he was. It had a long leather strap and leather buckles. It was weathered and looked as though it had been patched together over a dozen times.

He looked down at it, frowning slightly in thought. He crouched down to get a better look.

WHOOSH-

A massive hunched figure dashed out of the darkness. A clawed hand swept over, smothering his face to suppress the hunter’s shout of surprise. The flame thrower clattered to the ground and was quickly crunched beyond usage by an unseen force. It was completely silent and instantaneous. Josiah was dragged backward into the darkness by the cruel grip. He struggled, slipping his knife off of his belt and tried to jab it at the thing that held him. Large clawed fingers pinned his arms to his sides, rendering his attempts useless. His knife was quickly snatched and tossed aside.

He tried to shout for the others, but the pressure over his face silenced him, rendering it difficult to even breathe. A warm breath puffed on the back of his neck, making his hairs stand up. The wendigo. He felt something hot and slimy drip onto his shoulders and shuddered. What was that? He struggled harder to slip free from the grip. just hoping he could get free before this thing killed him or stored him in some dark tunnel to snack on later.

The warm air grew closer until he grew aware of a glistening thread of liquid drip down from in front of him. Something began to descend across his vision. Fangs. He choked in a startled gasp as the pressure loosened around his face, only allowing him to make a brief shout before his head was enveloped into the dark maw.

Drool soaked through his skin as the tongue roughly rubbed against his face and hair. The grip shifted around him, holding him firmly as it pushed him in deeper combined with a strong gulp. Josiah felt dread settle into his chest. This creature was going to swallow him whole?! He tried to shout for Ruth and Rubin, but that only got that disgusting slime into his mouth. The smothering tight walls of the throat made it impossible to even breathe! He felt more and more of him dragged within the suffocating passage as he heard the creature begin to gulp and swallow him the rest of the way down. The creature’s head tilted back, changing gravity to a disorienting angle as Josiah was completely upside down. He distantly felt his shoes being yanked off and let out a muffled yelp of pain, being some heavy duty hiking boots that couldn’t really be removed easily. He thought the creature must have broken his feet or something, because he definitely felt something snap in there.

His head soon pressed through a crushingly tight ring of muscle and passed into a slightly more open space. He immediately gasped for air, but the air burned his lungs immediately from the intense heat. He choked and coughed, feeling like he could never really catch his breath with how much each one hurt, and how the throat crushed his rib cage too tightly to really draw a full breath.

The rest of him soon followed into the tight chamber. At first, it seemed too tight, almost impossible for him to fit entirely, though it somehow stretched and groaned as it managed to engulf him entirely with relative ease. As soon as he was down, he could hear his captor’s loud breaths from its cleared airway. He gasped, kicking against the tight confines. He reached for his knife, only to remember the beast had taken it from him. He was trapped.

The air was so hot in here. It was difficult to even breathe. It was so tight and slimy. The puddle of fluids that would soon be his demise was already a few inches deep in the pit of the stomach. He could feel a strange numb sensation from mere contact. He sucked in nervous gasps. “Ruth! Rubi--” his voice was muted as the walls seemed to clench tighter around him, additionally with a foreign pressure from the outside that pressed down harshly over him. It was impossible to shout, or even breathe! He struggled to try to fight the walls off of him just enough to battle for weak gasps of air.

***

Ruth sighed anxiously as she looked down, checking the area while keeping her gun close. Her dad wasn’t gone for long, and she trusted his level of experience, though a part of her was still nervous about how unusually large this wendigo was perceived to be.

Rubin was sitting against one of the logs, messing around with their supplies and making sure everything was ready in case of emergency. He suddenly stood up with an alert expression. “Your dad. Something happened.”

Ruth gave him a confused expression. “What? I didn’t hear any—”

“Stay here. I’ll go ahead. If I’m not back in ten, get the dickens outta here.”

Ruth’s brow furrowed and she opened her mouth to protest, but the older hunter was already heading across the stream and towards the cave. She waited behind, holding her shotgun at the ready. Although she was more of a cautious person when it came to hunting, there was no way she was leaving here without her dad and Rubin.

Rubin approached the mouth of the cave with his gun in hand. He listened out carefully. Josiah’s voice was gone, but he could hear breathing.

There was a sudden dash of movement from the side and a huge hand rammed into him, pinning him against the cave wall. The wind was knocked out of him and he gasped, looking up at the monster. It looked almost human with its features, though something was off about it. The dark markings around the eyes, slit pupils, long, pointed ears, sharp fangs and claws. It towered at easily forteen feet tall. What the hell was this thing?!

Rubin snapped out of his stupor, struggling against the grip. Until now, his eyes had been focused on the thing’s face, then he glanced down for a moment and his blood froze. There was a squirming bulge in its gut. It just ate somew--

Josiah’s voice. Josiah’s voice was coming from in there--

The hunter’s eyes widened in dread. The creature’s snarling lips were drawn back to bare its teeth as drool hungrily poured over its lips, dripping onto his face. Rubin panted and grimaced. His heart raced as the creature brought him closer… He could feel his friend past the wall of flesh, squirming for his life… trapped. “J-Josiah--” Rubin stammered. The creature bent down, opening its jaws wide and its gross slimy tongue dragged across the hunter’s face, getting a good taste. Rubin shuddered, gritting his teeth. He had to get out of here. He had to get that machete and cut his friend out of this. Things were going far too south far too quickly, and he didn’t even know how long Josiah would last in there. The thought made him nauseous with dread.

“Do you miss your friend?” The giant’s voice rumbled, vibrating to its core. It could talk? Well-- it looked human enough… “Let him go, Goliath! S-seriously, mate--” “No thanks. I have a better way of reuniting you.” The giant’s jaws opened wider, beginning to descend over Rubin’s line of sight. His breaths hissed frantically through his throat and he struggled harder.

BANG!

A deafening gunshot cracked through the echoing chamber of the cave, skittering off the rocky walls. Ruth appeared at the cave entrance with her shotgun. Her fearful eyes were narrowed, trying to mask the emotion with confidence, but there was a shakiness in her figure. She had missed.

In a swift motion, the giant’s grip readjusted around Rubin. He was now practically pinned against the squirming bulge of his friend, and a claw was held at his throat, barely pricking the skin. He froze.

“L-let them go.” Ruth stammered threateningly.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea, little treat. I think my claw might slip before you pull the trigger.” The giant’s voice was unphased by her threat. She seemed too afraid to pull the trigger with Rubin that close anyways. He was practically a meat shield. “Put the gun down and we can chat about this over lunch. Deal?”

Ruth grit her teeth, her face paling. She was shaking badly. She probably couldn’t hit the giant if she tried.

“Ruth, j-just get out of here.” Rubin pleaded. “I’m not leaving my dad.”

“I’m not giving you many options. Unless you want to join him.” The giant grinned through his fangs. “Be my guest.”

Rubin clenched his jaw nervously, watching Ruth’s expression as she glanced around the environment, trying to find some other way or loophole, or trick she could use to get them all out of there. For a split second, her vision was directed away just long enough for Rubin to act.

It went by in a blur, but suddenly the giant’s fingers were bleeding, he was free from the giant’s grip, and he was running straight towards Ruth. Ruth gasped, lowering her shotgun to the side for a moment before his hand grabbed hers and he tried to get her to run. “No!” She jerked back, firing the shotgun. The giant leaped after them, tackling her to the floor and snapped the shotgun clean in half. The squirming bulge of her father could be seen in clear view, practically above where she was pinned. Rubin gasped, ramming himself against the giant’s arm to shove him out of the way. He drew out a knife and jammed it into the giant’s shoulder, just missing the throat. He didn’t waste another moment before grabbing Ruth’s arm again and took off running. He didn’t realize until and that she was bleeding from her head. The impact must have concussed her.

The giant roared in pain, grabbing the knife out of his shoulder and pressed his hand against the wound. He could only glare daggers at them as they fled. He didn’t need to pursue them. He already had his meal.

Ruth was out of it, swimming in and out of consciousness as she was vaguely aware of a sizzling sound in her head. Trees passed over her blackening vision. The darkened sky. Then the back seat of the car. The low rumble of the engine was lulling to her foggy mind. Tears bit at the corners of her vision. She was too tired to think though… Must sleep…

***

Josiah was faintly aware of what was going on during the fight. Feeling Rubin’s form pressed against where he was captive. It was impossible to breath. The goopy, slimy fluids that smothered him threatened to suffocate him with each pulsating clench of the living chamber. He curled up tighter, feeling a heaviness in his chest. At least Ruth had escaped.

The heat was incredible. Every bit of the harsh environment was sapping him of his energy. He couldn’t keep fighting. He had stopped struggling after the first half hour. It was too exhausting to go on. The deep puddle of fluids wasn’t stinging at least. It was numbing at most. He couldn’t feel his fingers. He didn’t even know if they were still there. He didn’t want to know.

His body fell limp against the rhythmic pulsing of the walls as the puddle grew deeper. His breaths were heavy. The burning air felt like it weighed a ton on his lungs. His consciousness grew further and further away. The loud gurgles, breathing, and heartbeat of the monster were the last sounds that met his ears before they became muffled. His head sank beneath the pool. A final breath choked out, gagging on the fluids that invaded his lungs before life fled his twitching limbs.

***

Ruth opened her eyes. Her head hurt. She could see the plain white ceiling above her. She closed her eyes again. She just wanted to sleep.

“Ruth,”

There was movement next to her. The ground she was on shifted slightly. It was a couch. Someone just sat down next to her.

“Dad…” Her voice came out quietly. She didn’t want any of that to be real.

“I’m so sorry.”

She sniffled. Her eyes opened again. Rubin was sitting next to her. He was disheveled. Blood was on his fingertips. His scarf was lopsided, barely concealing an old scar on the side of his neck. She sat up. The small movement gave her a headache. Whatever the giant did to her had really hit her bad. She could feel bandages wrapped around her head.

“N-no. We… we can still save-“

An arm wrapped around her shoulder and pulled her into a hug. She froze. Her voice choked off. She stared numbly ahead, not knowing how to believe it.

He let her take a while to process this and go through the emotions while offering what comfort he could give. “Your dad told us to watch out for each other, so that’s what I’m going to do.”

She leaned her head into his shoulder and sobbed.

----------------------

Link to the rest of the series can be found here.

#-UL series-#unseen legion #rubin husk #ruth cynders #josiah cynders #gt vore #fatal vore #tw fatal vore

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ratingtheframe · 3 years

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Why Armie Hammer’s Scandal Is More Than Kink Shaming

The 34 year old actor has had numerous allegations thrown his way this past month, from cannibalism to an obsession with BDSM. But do these allegations go beyond a widely accepted community of kink lovers and venture into deeply rooted misogyny?

Warning: this article contains mentions of cannibalism and sexual assault.

For those of you who aren’t aware of Armie Hammer’s presence on screen, you may be scratching your head and wondering what on earth people are talking about, seeing the cannibalism aspect to this all as face value without making the connection between Hammer’s past behaviours and current allegations. The actor who rose to prominence in Aaron Sorkin and David Fincher’s The Social Network (2013) playing both of the Winklevoss twins, has become quite the favourite amongst the film industry. His role Oliver in Luca Guadagnino’s Call me by your name (2017) has sent Twitter into a permanent frenzy as memes and daily adoration for Chalamet and Hammer’s on screen romance continue to thrive even 4 years after the film's release. As well as Call me your name, Hammer is known for roles in Sorry to Bother You (2018), Rebecca (2020), On the Basis of Sex (2018) and soon to be released, Death on The Nile (2021). He currently has another film due to be released and a Call me by your name sequel in development. Sounds as if he’s got a lot going for him and despite him not being the biggest star to be churned out of Hollywood today, the recognition is still there and with that, he’s still being paid.

The Allegations

At the beginning of the year, an account emerged under the handle of @houseofeffie, that was created to expose some lurid and unpleasant communication between several women and Armie Hammer. Some of which he had relations with whilst married to his now ex wife Elizabeth Chambers. The nature of these dms are incredibly disturbing and worrying considering that Hammer not only has children but as an actor, spends a proportionate time around women.

These are just a few of the messages that were exposed that led the media to brandish Hammer as a “cannibal”:

Hammer:

“You are the god damned standard I hold women to in terms of kink and enjoyment of fucking the[n]...”

“I need to drink your blood, why the distance?” “...thinking of holding your heart in my head and controlling when it beats”

“I am 100% a cannibal...I want to eat you....Fuck...that’s scary to admit..”

“I’ve cut the heart out of a living animal before and eaten it while still warm”

“You were the most intense and extreme version [that I’ve ever had]. Raping you on the floor with a knife against you. Everything else seemed boring”

“You [were] crying and screaming, me standing over you. I felt like a god. I’ve never felt such power or intensity.”

“You just live to obey and be my slave”

“Would you come and be my property till you die? If I wanted to cut off one of your toes and keep it with me in my pocket so I always had a piece of you in my possession?”

“I want to see your brain, your blood, your organs, every part of you… I would definitely bite it...100%”

...O-kay. Lots to unpack here. First and fore mostly, I’d like to address the kink shaming element to all of this. I personally don’t see any harm in kinks, BDSM, pornography, as long as people are consenting and aren’t inflicting unsolicited pain upon people. Therefore, kink shaming and finding Hammer’s taste in sexual preferences isn’t what we are here to discuss. In fact when I first read the allegations, that wasn’t even my initially thought. CNN posted an article two days ago titled “Armie Hammer May Be Disturbed, But Is Shaming Him the Answer?” an opinion based article by Aaron Weaver that explores the allegations and believes Hammer shouldn’t be shamed for his kinks. But this begs the question whether Hammer was actually being shamed? I didn’t see much evidence for this seeing as people were mostly horrified by his taste in human flesh than anything else, a kink that is uncommon in the BDSM community and is only practiced by the most extreme.

Kinks aside, the most worrying thing about the DMs above is the way in which he views women and their bodies. It’s clear to see that he might not have much respect for women seeing as he proudly states his willingness to cut them up and drink their blood. And funnily enough, the sexual objectification of women’s bodies for one's own sexual pleasure without considering their comfortability is classed as misogyny. A reddit user made an extremely good point on a thread about Hammer’s scandal stating:

“To me, the problem is not that he’s into rough sex, or that he has kinks some people find scary. It’s not about yucking his yum, so to speak. I’m more concerned that he may have ignored safe words and pushed his partners beyond their limits. I feel like the media is focusing so much on his kinks and sexuality as opposed to his ignoring of consent, which is a complete and utter inversion of priorities”

Past Relationships

Another example of Hammer disrespecting the boundaries of women and sexual pleasure would be his past girlfriend Paige Lorenze. Lorenze is a 23 year model and former professional skier who has shone a light on Hammer’s worrying behaviour and his involvement in BDSM activity. The sources of Lorenze’s allegations are highly unreliable, which is one of the most frustrating things about this entire charade. The BBC BRIEFLY covered the fact that Hammer dropped out of his latest film amid the allegations, without fully going into detail about the allegations or the abuse subjected towards his former partners. It just goes to show we’re rubbish at taking abuse seriously enough to the point where people are punished for their wrongdoings. Had a more reliable news source covered this story, then it’d make it more viable to the public. Even though this scandal is in its early days, that doesn’t necessarily mean it's unimportant or should be swept under the rug along with the hundreds of other scandals that Hollywood refuses to expose.

Only the Daily Mail, The Sun and Page Six seem to have gone in depth with the accusations, making the entire story rather murky for the reader. Anyhow, Paige Lorenze said to the Daily Mail that Hammer had carved an ‘A’ above her groin without her consent and licked it whilst it bled. He had also reportedly tied her up and hit her with paddles to fuel his BDSM obsession and sexual desires. Lorenze was quoted saying 'Any man who is fantasizing about crushing bones, eating them, having sex with female limp bodies is a danger to all women'. Hammer insisted to Lorenze that his behaviour was normal, and that there was an entire community of people that carried out the same things he did on her. This is partially correct seeing as the global sex play market is worth over $30 billion, with practices in such activities dating back to the mid 19th century. However, the one thing the BDSM community doesn’t condone is not giving consent, which is where the fine line is drawn in between Hammer’s sexual preferences and the BDSM community. His choice to carve that ‘A’ into Lorenze isn’t backed up by a wider community of people who enjoy a variety of sexual pleasure. Lorenze claims he also DMed nude photos of her being tied up to people without her consent, further perpetuating Hammer’s lack of respect towards people’s boundaries. This is a serious incident, that sees someone with more power (Hammer is 6’5 and Lorenze is 5’6 btw) assert their dominance and by doing so, degrades and harms someone else. We shouldn’t be kink shaming Hammer, but shaming him for thinking that this behaviour is acceptable.

Hammer’s previous relationships can also draw some light into his lack of respect for women. He and his wife Elizabeth Chambers divorced in July 2020 after a decade of marriage. Though it's unknown what triggered the separation, these recent allegations may have something to do with it. Furthermore, two other women have come forward to express their distaste towards Hammer and his questionable fantasies. Entrepreneur and ex-girlfriend of Armie Hammer, Courtney Vucekovich, told Page Six that Hammer wanted to “break [her] rib and barbecue it and eat it”. She also expressed how easy it was for Hammer to charm his way through into getting women, especially young women into doing what he wants through “active manipulation and making you feel like he’s never felt this way about anybody.” Lorenze was also subjected to similar retort after reporting that Hammer too wanted to barbecue one of her ribs because she “didn’t need it”. Writer Jessica Ciencen Henriquez took to twitter last summer after a lunch date with Hammer and expressed that she had blocked him on Instagram. She later went on to tweet this:

“If you are still questioning whether or not those Armie Hammer DMs are real (and they are) maybe you should start questioning why we live in a culture willing to give abusers the benefit of the doubt instead of victims”

Exactly my point here. There’s not much to this scandal other than the fact that several people were hurt and undermined and someone else caused it. Someone who is societally above everyone because of their race, class, status and gender, with a well connected and dominant family support system.

His background and past

Hammer comes from a very powerful and wealthy family. Hammer’s great grandfather, Armand Hammer, was the chief executive officer and president of the Occidental Petroleum company founded in 1920. Now if you’re wondering the exact scale of such a company that is still running today, they are the 4th largest oil and gas acquisition in the entire world worth over $100 billion. ONE HUNDRED, BILLION, DOLLARS. Not all actors in Hollywood can say that their great-grandfathers were worth that much, which gives me little hope in seeing Hammer be held accountable for what he’s done. He was also kicked out of UCLA after apparently not “being able to do it”. Just another rich white male with enough power, malice and money to work his way around any struggle.

Now that we’ve established Hammer’s allegations, it’s worth looking back to see whether the signs of such behaviour were already prevalent in the numerous interviews he partook in over the years. Complex highlighted an episode of The Late Show with Stephen Colbert from 2017, where the host brought up Hammer’s obsession with knots, to which he laughed off and claimed that “knots make sense” that they are a “language” and referenced how man used knots before the wheel. Valid points but ones that are debunked in light of his interest in BDSM. during a 2013 interview with Playboy (appropriate) Hammer expressed that his “sexual appetites changed'' when he married his wife and that hair pulling used to be something he enjoyed but could no longer do now that he was married “even though he wanted to”. This is quite the backwards comment when we’re talking about respecting boundaries and it's clear to see it was only a matter of time before his desires could no longer be repressed.

Since this whole shit storm began to travel Hammer’s way, he has since dropped out of the film The Billion Dollar Spy, which would’ve seen him star alongside Jennifer Lopez. BBC News reported that this move was made as Hammer stated that “I cannot in good conscience now leave my children for four months to shoot a film in the Dominican Republic” following the ‘vicious’ online abuse he’s been subjected to. Hammer was again put in the firing line by Grand Cayman law enforcement for lying about a woman provocatively shown in a video was Miss Cayman of the Miss Cayman beauty pageant that’s held on the island. He and the woman were warned for their misconduct and had confirmed the matter is now closed.

Final Thoughts

There are enough red flags in Hammer’s behaviour to open up a flag store, and I would go as far as to say that this isn’t the end of it. For someone who’s grown up having the majority of things they want, it's easy to want more beyond morality and despite the discomfort of others. Hammer’s move to drop out of his latest film was an attempt to lessen the blow of hate being turned towards him as opposed to the benefit of those he’s hurt. So far, him and his lawyer have denied all allegations and further action hasn’t been taken against the Hollywood star. He’s apologised for the DMs and brandished his actions a “foolish attempt at humour”.

Wrapping his own behaviour up in humour is an attempt to detract from the severity of the behaviour itself, whilst excusing it, something he can get away with because of his status.

Major media outlets haven’t done much in even attempting to expose this man’s behaviour and have left it up to unreliable sources to piece together the true persona of Armie Hammer. Though innocent until proven guilty, common sense is widely available to the general public meaning we should be delving into the past a little and comparing it to these allegations. Along with Hammer’s character, family and unnerving Instagram posts of cutting up meat and eating raw steak, there doesn’t seem to be much in the actor’s favour.

All I would say is as a director, producer, writer or actor, would you feel comfortable in being associated with someone who believes they're a cannibal and marvels at the idea of drinking human blood? Or someone who goes as far to objectify women to the point where they become nothing but sexual fulfilment and pieces of meat?

That’s all I’ll say and those who do feel comfortable doing such a thing means that Hammer may still have a career at the end of the day. One point to Hollywood, no points to political correctness and respecting women.

#armiehammer #call me by my name #actors #hollywoodmovies #paige lorenze

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dmsden · 4 years

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Campaign Basics - Fleshing out our villain

Hullo, Gentle Readers. In our last article in this series, we came up with what stat blocks we would use for our heroes to encounter the Angel of Chaos, the titular main villain for the campaign we’ve been putting together. Now, it’s time to go beyond stats and flesh out our villain. We want them to be compelling and memorable, so we want to give them some distinctive features and an interesting backstory.

Adziel (the name I chose in the last article) was an angel, so what happened to make them change the way they have? I posited last time that they were an angel in the service of Valerius, the god of chivalry, and that they had become infected with Chaos. They have become convinced that Valerius is too weak to continue to hold back Chaos. The only way for Civilization to be saved is for a more aggressive, powerful deity to take Valerius’ place, and they intend to become that deity themself.

In a way, this is a retelling of D&D’s fall of Asmodeus. We haven’t really talked about what place the devils fill in the cosmology of the Beyond the Borderlands campaign. It’s possible that the Archdukes do not yet exist. It’s even possible that Adziel *is* Asmodeus, and that we’re going to tell the story of their fall and “Rise”. If the PCs defeat Adziel at the end of the campaign, perhaps the gods then step in and create a new order of “angels” whose job it is to hold back Chaos in the lower planes. Adziel and their followers could become Asmodeus and the devils, giving the PCs a front row seat to this cosmic event. I hadn’t thought of this before sitting down to write this article, and I love the idea, so I’m almost certainly going to plan on that. That’s likely a long way off, however, so I’m going to put that aside for now. Before we get to this ending, we need to see what happened to begin the beginning.

I’m thinking Adziel was the Guardian Angel of one of the Keeps on the Borderlands, back when they were many. Perhaps Adziel saw the signs of the coming assault by Chaos and tried to get Valerius to intervene to save the city they loved. Valerius might have made an error, or they might’ve known that, tactically, the best move was to sacrifice Adziel’s city in favor of saving Shieldwell Keep.

So this sparks me off on a bit of Worldbuilding, as these things often do. Perhaps each Keep had its own Guardian Angel, eight of whom will now be Adziel’s lieutenants, flocking to the Angel of Chaos’ banner because they too blame Valerius for the loss of their Keeps. Why eight? So that they can be the other eight dukes of Hell down the road.

The other thing is makes me think is that I will need to develop an NPC Angel to be the Guardian Angel of Shieldwell Keep. This is likely a figure who could be a patron and benefactor of the PCs, so I’ll want to have them in my back pocket, especially later, when a party cleric might gain the Planar Ally spell. Likewise, when a PC cleric casts Commune or something similar, it might be this Guardian Angel that intervenes to give aid. Just a bit of world flavor, but something I’ll want to develop more.

So there’s a decent motivation. Loss makes people do crazy things. I imagine Adziel in the ruins of...oh...their Keep will need a name, because the ruins of it will almost certainly be an adventure site at some point in the campaign. Perhaps we’ll give it a name that faintly foreshadows badness. The name Grimstone Keep leaps to mind. That was its original name. Perhaps now, it’s known at Bloodstone or Dreadstone or something similar. It’s similar to Shieldwell, but broken, crumbling, lonely, and menacing. Maybe the PCs will even see its ruin in the distance as they head to a different adventure. It might seem like just a bit of world-flavor when you describe the sad ruins on the hill, long since picked over, but it will be important later.

So what is Adziel like when encountered? I imagine them as being extremely sad, almost like Blue Diamond in Steven Universe. Rather than normal tears, however, perhaps blackish blood constantly streams down their cheeks from their dark eyes. Riffing off the Blue Diamond concept, maybe anyone of Good alignment who comes within a certain aura of them must make a Charisma saving throw or begin to weep blood as well, imposing Disadvantage on attack rolls and Perception checks made to see anything, as well as doing hit point damage on successive rounds. That’s a neat and memorable idea.

Personality-wise, I think Adziel is kind and gentle towards good characters...right up until the moment they know the PCs cannot be swayed to their cause. At that point, all that sadness becomes a cold disdain. The PCs aren’t wise enough to understand the scope of Adziel’s plans, and now they are of no use. If they directly oppose Adziel, that disdain becomes an intense rage. How dare these mortals interfere? Clearly, they are the ones infected with Chaos, and they must be swept away like chaff.

I want some other trait to make Adziel really memorable. What if Adziel is guarding the final descendant of Grimstone? This could be a child who the PCs can encounter - a complete innocent who believes wholeheartedly in Adziel’s plans, trusting the angel implicitly. Ironically, saving this child might’ve been the first step in the angel’s fall. Ordered to stand aside, the angel didn’t trust Valerius to save the people of Grimstone. Adziel directly interfered, which allowed Chaos to bring greater force to bear. This led to Grimstone’s utter destruction, but Adziel doesn’t understand the part their actions played in this.

Since I dig this idea, I jot down a few quick thoughts. The child has no memory of her name, her parents, or where she came from. She is called Summer by Adziel, who keeps her locked in eternal childhood. She is sweet, trusting, innocent, and will immediately befriend the PCs when they meet. Perhaps this is the key to causing the angel’s surrender, much further down the road. On the other hand, the child’s death could also begin an endgame, but not one I like the idea of.

I’m starting to feel like I have a solid concept here, and one that will likely spark many stories. I especially like the idea that the little girl, Summer, appears before each time the PCs meet Adziel. This will likely be creepy and disturbing for them. In the next article, I will flesh out the elements that I think will represent this storyline and how I might use it in the “sandbox with benefits” theory of story design that I’m favoring these days.

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remvsjohn · 3 years

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@redemptioninterlude [[five times touched]]

send a 🖐️ emoji ( or just ‘ 5 ′ ) for five times our muses touched .

in sanctuary

the smell of books etched into his hair, his clothes, the same way dark ink stained his finger tips from accidental brushing against still damp parchment, a few ruined pages tossed aside only to be redone. they were spared the harsh glares from madame pince as they’d become a quiet fixture, sweet and unobtrusive and as expected as the desks and chairs; near finals any and everyone new just to pop into the library if you needed remus or marlene, unless of course they found sanctuary in the ravenclaw common room when the gryffindors were in need of more attention than the pair was willing to give. their favorite table boasted a small etching, a few initials just to immortalize the many hours spent huddled around it.

the harsh ege of the bookshelf dug into remus’ back, barely managing to keep him awake. it reminded him that his bones were bones, hard but brittle, human or not. the night prior the moon had been full, and though he was holed up in his bed all day, the exhaustion was still settled deep into his bones. luckily, marlene didn’t complain when he moved himself to the floor sat next to a pile of books he still needed to annotate. the quiet swish of her clothes brought a small smile to his lips, knowing she’d just sat down next to him in camaraderie.

his head began to dip, sight blurring. he had already made himself as small as possible - curling lanky limbs into himself. his sweater - two sizes too large, a relic from a weekend at the potter’s that left the shirt he’d been wearing in ashes - blanketed him in softness and warmth, the fabric pooling in his palms. gravity and desperate sleepiness soon pulled him toward the floor. softly, not trying to disturb her progress his head of loose, shaggy curls found refuge on her lap as he cuddled his potions book into his chest. he couldn’t tell if it was his near dream state or reality when he felt the slightest of brushes against his hair, or the light pressure of a hand coming to rest against his shoulder.

in celebration

the ravenclaw and hufflepuff flags hung ‘round the pitch. yellow gleamed sunlight and cheer, accenting opposing bronze. remus’ shoulders proudly bore his father’s vintage practice jersey, and he wasn’t the only gryffindor displaying the ravenclaw colors in the stands. he could see several friends in the badger seats, more than a few in extravagant costumes to show support.

the points were neck and neck, each team’s keepers and chasers were fighting hard to maintain an edge. the assumption that gryffindor and slytherin were the most competitive in the school was simply biased propaganda - from his seat, remus’ eye glinted with mischievous anticipation. the chasers were taunting one another, and he watched, smirking, the almost undetectable signaling of the ravenclaw chasers to the beaters. nerves couldn’t help but bubble up knowing that a blow from a bludger could prove to be fatal, but he did so enjoy a well fought match.

things were getting i n t e r e s t i n g.

he only realized the pressure of fingernails digging into his palms when his mesmer was broken upon the sharp turn of the ravenclaw chaser. the snitch had been seen! remus was swept up in the small sea of students surrounding him who immediately fled the bleachers to head down to the pitch. the twenty point lead brought wild cheers from the ravenclaw stands - once the snitch was in hand, the match would be over with a blue and bronze win.

he was still on the stairs when the screaming started, signaling it had, in fact, been caught. once his feet touched grass eyes quickly sought the score and -

he and the rest of the ravenclaw supporters rushed out onto the field where the players began landing. he found marlene, currently celebrating alongside her housemates, and remus’ arms wrapped around her waist from behind, lifting and spinning her around in a celebratory hug before offering high fives to the rest of the team.

in comfort

winter break, seventh year. the tinsel on the evergreen boughs and warm light of the fire only exacerbated the lonely ache resonating through his veins. most of the students had already fled the grounds in favor of their family homes, and remus wasn’t meant to be far behind them. he only had to stay behind until after the full moon since his father’s house could no longer contain the beast he became during transformation. his footsteps carried him throughout the castle, up and down hallways, across stretching staircases, in some kind of hope to get mindlessly lost - perhaps as lost as he felt, letter clutched in his left hand. it was fruitless, though. remus had memorized nearly every centimeter of the school and no turn could keep his mind busy, nor keep his tears from falling quietly to the stone.

he wasn’t expecting to come across marlene, though. not like this. she saw the grief etched in his features immediately, and of course she asked what he was doing, where he was going. it was sweet to know she didn’t immediately pry, though perhaps it was alarming to actually see the sadness in full form, rather than veiled behind his eyes or tucked behind a smile.

“ the owlery. i’ve got to send james a note - i was meant to spend christmas with him - godric i haven’t even got paper though. “ what had he been intending, to send his father’s letter along? he’d only decided vaguely to let james know but was for once totally and completely unprepared for the task. it needed to be a letter, though. he didn’t know if he could say it. “ my mum’s just - she -” his body threatened to collapse in on itself, but marlene read the words unspoken and rushed in to hold him close. he sank down into her touch - his eyes closed, fingertips let the letter fall to the stone. his cheek came to rest against her hair, her arms up over his shoulders. her warmth spread through his jumper, a slow rising tide against the aching emptiness that filled him. his mum was gone. just like that. gone with the flick of a wand, with the stroke of a pen.

in diffidence

" you know that broom cupboard everyone claims people go to snog? “ remus brought their strides to a slow amble. the sixth floor was mostly deserted - his preference, as a prefect. how he’d been given the position he’d never know. he’d never given a detention in his life and didn’t intend to start. instead he preferred to gently scold students for being caught with the assurance that if it became habit the conversation would be approached differently. there were a few instances where remus had to intervene more directly - students tended to endanger themselves and others a bit more frequently than their parents knew - and he’d rushed a student to hospital more than once. maybe that was the reason, afterall. being a member of the more mischievous group of students, he instinctively knew where to look when students were in trouble. remus was happy to boast that since his appointment they’d not had a first year spend the night lost in the halls.

when marlene began to prod, teasingly, as to why he was bringing up the cupboard, a rosy warmth blushed over his features. it wasn’t often he felt embarrassed, but when he was it radiated through his body. he couldn’t quite rid himself of the small smile though he found himself raising a hand to the back of his head, gaze turned down as they walked. he would’ve walked straight into the wall and hid his face there for the next 30 minutes if she’d let him.

“ no, listen - it’s right ‘round the corner, yeah? they say ‘oh, the sixth floor cupboard,’ and all that, yeah? “

marlene’s reaction made him turn around immediately and start walking right in the other direction, only stopped by the soft tug against the hem of his long sleeve, righting his course back on track. the smile simply wouldn’t leave his face and he hung his head low, trying to hide it, stuffing his hands into his pockets. of course it sounded like he was making a move on her. merlin knew it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility! but of course that wasn’t what he had in mind at the time. the truth? remus had a theory, and who better to test the theory with than his sharp-witted friend? he did his best to focus his intentions and as they rounded the corner, there it was. a door that looked just like any other closet. they approached, and remus leaned his back against the door. his hand reached out, shyly, gently taking hold of marlene’s.

“ what i’m saying is, i don’t think this room is what we think it is. “ his eyes shone the color of stone in the candlelight, peeking out through hair that had gotten just a bit too long in his face. the blush on his cheeks faded in favor of mischievous excitement. though, to be honest, the thought that she might truly think he’d brought her here for a snog and she was playing along, approaching him just then, wasn’t a thought he’d find himself readily able to get rid of. perhaps part of him really did hope it was just a closet.

remus’ eyes fell shut and he focused, hard. a room. a room to hide in. a room for rest. his free hand found the door knob, and with a quick glance around the hall he opened it behind him. he stole the first look in, and the excitement that bubbled up extended through his fingers while he squeezed her hand and opened the door wider.

“ i don’t know what this is, but it’s not a broom cupboard! “

in memoriam

there was a dampness to the air, sticking his clothes against his frame, frosting the ends of his hair in cold droplets. his feet moved mechanically, autopilot directing him to the door. faint knocks resounded in his familiar pattern - one. one, two. one - but this time when he entered the rented room he wasn’t filled with the relief that usually flooded over him, seeing her silhouette. he didn’t speak, couldn’t speak, as his body found hers on the divan and he sat down beside her. usually these calls were a welcoming hello and respite from all the war was taking from the pair of them. this time, goodbye hung in the air, sparking against each crackle of the fire.

his hand entwined with hers, turning it slightly before opening marlene’s palm upwards. remus couldn’t bare to look into her eyes, so instead his found the cracks in the floor, the soft folds of the fabric of her sleeve.

“ a wedding present...” he muttered, doing all he could to keep bitterness from rising into his words. no, it needed to stay down in his stomach, burning holes in all that was once a righteous feeling of right and wrong. gently, he dropped the gift into her palm. the small opal locket shone against the dim light - moonstone opal, though very few would notice the specificity. “ i’m going north. “ north. fenrir’s pack. at dumbledore’s behest, of course, but the way sirius looked him in the eyes the morning prior remus couldn’t help but wonder just how farr dumbledore would let him fall. the people he loved most? their trust in him was waning, though he’d sworn to the headmaster he’d keep this secret from them. too risky, he thought. the knowledge alone could get someone killed, himself included, and he used to doubt his friends would allow him on this journey alone if they did know. as the weeks and months passed, though... he was less and less sure he’d ever have anything to come back to.

“i won’t be back before your wedding, so i just...” there it was. cutting the short amount of time between then and the nuptials short meant this was goodbye for good. no, once marlene was married, they’d likely not see each other again. not until, or unless, they may be looking down their wands at one another.

his fingers closed around her hand, sealing the necklace into her palm, holding on for just one more moment. then he stood, no longer able to bear the buzzing ache spreading through him. the emptiness that devoured.

“ if it turns black, have a drink for me. ”

#redemptioninterlude #re: marlene mckinnon; redemptioninterlude #well this happened ( ask response )#ouch

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chelsfic · 4 years

Text

Wish You Weren’t Here (part 1) - Diego Jiménez x Reader - Power fanfic

Read Part Two

A/N: Whatttt am I doing? Can anyone tell me? Thanks to @1zashreena1 and @symbiont13 @sparrows-books for being so enthusiastic about this. Oh, and (not that anyone cares lol) but I make a casual reference to Cesar Millan in this fic (wtf is this?) and I am actually firmly opposed to his dog training philosophy. SO. Just to go on record.

Warnings: Smut!!, Threatening, Exhibitionism, Forced Audience to Exhibitionism, Crack!Fic

You stare at the spray of white powder smeared over the top of the glass coffee table. How…how does one clean up cocaine? You nervously twist your cleaning rag into a tightly wound rope as you ponder the options. It’s expensive, right? Would Mr. Jiménez be angry if you cleaned it up? Should you–what?–sweep it into a dustpan and set it aside for later? There’s not a huge amount but if you swept it all into a little pile there would probably be enough to…use? What the fuck do you know about cocaine? What if you use your spray bottle on the coffee table and it goes into the air and you breath it in? Would you get high? This is ridiculous.

It’s your first day working for Diego Jiménez and you’re nervous. Actually that’s an understatement. You have a pretty good idea of how powerful he is and you desperately want to make a good impression and keep this job. The pay is more than you’d make cleaning ten houses. The downside being that the facts of household cleanliness with regards to Class A drugs are now–apparently–required reading.

You’re still hovering indecisively when Diego strolls into the living room. He walks with a confident swagger that you can’t help admiring. Your new boss might be intimidating, but a tiny part of you finds that intensely attractive. Maybe a not-so-tiny part. A part that really needs to pipe down because, at this rate, you’ll be fired before the end of the day anyway.

You don’t want to seem like you’re just standing around idle so you start to carefully scoop the powder using the cloth, plowing it into a neat pile that you intend to–you guess–set aside for now and see what happens. You think he has any tupperware?

Diego’s stride stutters to a stop as he catches sight of what you’re doing. He snaps his fingers at you like Cesar frickin Millan scolding a Pomeranian. You definitely feel like a Pomeranian right now. And he’s a…he’s a Doberman currently staring at you with murder eyes. Fuck.

Your typical response to fear and stress is word vomit.

You freeze in mid-swipe and look up at Diego with eyes wide as saucers, “Uh…sorry. Is this not–okay? I wasn’t sure if I should just leave it how it was. But it looked so dirty and I want to do a good job so I thought I’d just–”

Diego cuts you off with a hand on the back of your neck. His fingers dig into your skin, firm but not enough to hurt…yet. You squeak in alarm as he drags you away from the table and toward the huge, floor-to-ceiling windows that make up one whole wall of the living room.

“Uhh…Mr. Jiménez–sir! This didn’t come up in the interview, but I actually am not the biggest fan of–”

He marches you up to the window, steering you with his hand on the back of your neck until you’re pressed up against it, cheek mashed into the cool glass. And–as if your stupid body is in cahoots with your psychotic boss–you look down. You look down at the busy street which seems like it’s about five miles beneath you. Your head spins and your breathing picks up at a rapid pace. You can’t shut your eyes. Why can’t you shut your eyes? If you shut them you can pretend that you’re someplace safe…on solid ground…and not on the top floor of a high-rise with only a few inches of glass standing between you and death.

“Um!” you squeak, ripping your eyes from the view below and trying to crane your neck enough to see Diego looming behind you. You can just see him from the corner of your eyes, grinning maniacally.

“You. Don’t. Touch. The Product. Understand?” he hisses the words into your ears in that growling, tenor voice of his that is already imprinting itself in some of your shameful fantasies. What is *wrong* with you?

Your words come out in a rushed whisper, “Yes! I understand, Mr. Jiménez. Completely. I-I-I apologize. I wasn’t–you see, I’ve never actually seen cocaine before, you know? And I didn’t know if you’d want me to clean it up or save it for–for later. Or–another worry I had was what if I touched it or, or it went into the air and I breathed it in. Would I get high? And that would be very bad because, um, I don’t like being high. And also it’s my first day of work and I just–” your stutter over your words, gaze drifting back down to focus on the murderous drop to the street below, your eyes are welling with tears now, “–I just wanted to do a good job, sir. I’m sorry.”

He finally lets go of you, his hand dropping away and leaving behind the ghost of his fiery touch on your skin. He steps back to let you turn around and he’s laughing at you, “You thought you’d get high if you touched it?”

You’re too preoccupied with getting away from the window to reply at first. You take a few giant steps away from the glass and then you’re crouching down and planting your palms on the marble floor to remind yourself you’re on solid ground. Fucking phobia.

Diego’s looking at you like you’ve grown another head and you feel the need to explain, breathlessly, “I…don’t…like…heights.”

He steps towards you and you have a great view of his shiny, leather shoes as he crouches down to your level. He catches your eyes with a look that’s warmer than anything you’ve seen from him in your short acquaintance. He smiles apologetically and reaches out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear.

“Seems like more than a dislike,” he muses watching you as you struggle to take deep, calming breaths.

“Okay…” you answer, “I’m fucking afraid of heights! Uh…sir. Sorry! Sir. Mr. Jiménez.”

How can he have such a megawatt smile after manhandling you into a plate glass window and threatening you? And those dimples? Are you kidding me?

“Call me Diego,” he says.

You look up at him, falling into his dark, fathomless gaze and thinking to yourself, Son of a bitch.

“Diego,” you breathe.

“If you find a mess like that again just leave it, okay? I’ll have one of my guys clean it up. There are going to be some things about this job that you’ll just have to get used to. The most important thing,” here his eyes harden, “is that you don’t tell anyone–ever–about anything you see or hear while you work for me. Do you understand?”

You are seriously over your head, aren’t you? When you just stare dumbly back at him, Diego takes your face in his hands and bores his eyes into yours, “Do. You. Understand?”

“Yes…Diego,” you finally answer. Because what else can you say? You suppose at this point you’ve already seen enough that you aren’t free to just…walk away.

“And Y/N?” Diego says, standing up to his full height, towering over you, still crouched on the floor at his feet. “You think you can manage cleaning these windows?”

The look on your face as you glance over at the intimidating wall of glass is comically horrific, but you try to sound casual in your response, “I’ll…manage.”

He laughs and starts to walk away, “Good, because you left a smudge mark with your face just over there.”

You narrow your eyes at him as he leaves. What a little…but even as you’re thinking up a proper insult your eyes lock onto his butt in those tight jeans and notice the way his shirt strains to cover his broad shoulders and…yeah, what were you saying?

***

Later that night you’re finally finished with your work for the day just as guests start to trickle into the penthouse. You wonder if Diego spends every night this way–is his life one big party? You’re sweaty and your back aches and you’re still feeling wobbly from forcing yourself to get right up to those windows and give them a thorough cleaning. You just need to check in with Diego before you leave for the night but he’s still cooped in his bedroom upstairs and you don’t really want to interrupt him. So you’re just trying to blend in with a potted plant against the wall as supermodel attractive women mill about, outnumbering the male guests by about 3 to 1, you’d judge. You feel beyond shabby in your jeans and t-shirt. But at least you’re not wearing one of those housemaid dresses you had to wear for your last employer.

Diego still hasn’t made an appearance, and a younger guy in the crowd has apparently taken notice of you. You can feel every muscle in your body tense up as he starts prowling over to you. You just want to go home and take a bath and maybe think about the way Diego’s butt sways a little when he walks. Ugh, stop that!

“Hey, girl. You not having a good time?” he purrs in a manner he surely thinks is seductive but you’re very tired and very ready to leave.

“I’m not–”

Diego interrupts you, putting a proprietary hand on your shoulder and squeezing a little, “She’s not for you, Ángel. Leave.”

The guy’s whole demeanor changes when he sets eyes on your boss and he backs away with a little bow of respect that has you really, strongly questioning your sanity in A. Taking this job and B. Insisting on being attracted to your potentially psycho-killer employer.

You turn around and Diego is giving you that megawatt smile again. For a minute you just stand there like a deer in the headlights until your brain kicks back in.

“Um…I’m leaving for the night, Mr. Jiménez. I mean–Diego. If you don’t need me for anything else?”

He arches a wicked brow at you and his lips hint at a playful grin. “Anything else?” he laughs. Is he making fun of you? Toying with you? You watch as his eyes focus on a woman strutting by who’s probably half a foot taller than you and 60 pounds lighter. She’s wearing…not much. He licks his lips like a lion about to dig into a zebra.

“Okay, then…” you murmur, backing away a little.

Diego turns back at your words looking a little chagrined but still playful, “See you tomorrow, little girl.”

You make a beeline for the elevator, finally letting out a shaky sigh as the doors close behind you. There’s something about Diego that is irresistibly attractive to you. Despite his threatening aura or maybe–maybe because of it? He’s dangerous and powerful and a very bad decision waiting to happen. But–you think about the woman he eyed before you left for the night–who are you kidding? The decision isn’t yours and there is no way Diego Jiménez is interested in the likes of you.

And that’s a good thing.

Probably.

Definitely.

Hmmm…

***

You begin to form an understanding of why this job is so well compensated when you arrive to work the next morning. The whole main level of the penthouse is…a mess. And there are random people passed out asleep on the floor and couches. Glasses and bottles cover every surface, the floor is stained from spills. Napkins, plates, random articles of clothing. Quelle frickin nightmare.

You take a deep breath and drop your purse into the closet by the elevator entrance. This is…fine. This will be fine. You just need to compartmentalize your priorities. You’ll start with the trash and move your way forward. You have to step over the sleeping form of one of the many female guests from the night before and an unkind thought pops into your head in relation to starting with the trash.

Not nice, you admonish yourself. But then you wonder if the girl had her hands on Diego last night and you find that you don’t really care. Why are you getting so territorial over this man already? Some of the only contact you’ve had with him has been him slamming you against a window to punish you for “touching the product.” That shouldn’t…that should certainly not be a turn on.

No.

The place starts looking a little better as the morning wears on. By the time Diego emerges from his bedroom, bleary-eyed and dressed only in an expensive, black robe, you’ve nearly finished cleaning up and are just starting to wonder what to do with all of the people still draped all over the place. Your thoughts are abruptly torpedoed when Diego staggers by and the robe partially opens to reveal how naked he is underneath.

You freeze in place, eyes fixed to the defined muscles of his chest and abdomen and–possibly–straining to see if the robe will part even further to reveal a bit further south.

Diego catches you looking and offers you a seductive grin, “I knew you weren’t as innocent as you seemed.”

“I–what!? Yes, I am! I mean…no. I don’t know?” Stop. Talking.

Diego looks around at all of the passed out bodies and you jump when he suddenly lets out a vicious bark, “Out! Everybody out! This isn’t a fucking sleepover!”

You marvel at the immediate response as people start stirring and lurching upright, walking zombie-like to the elevator. Diego is walking towards you by the couch when he grabs a girl’s wrist as she skirts around him.

“Not you,” he growls, collapsing onto the couch and letting his robe fall open entirely, revealing the large, proudly straining erection between his legs. Your mouth drops open and you feel your cheeks blush like the heat of a thousand suns. The girl goes to her knees in front of Diego and he lets his head loll over the back of the couch, just casually gesturing with a hand at his cock. “You know what to do.”

Before anything gets…started…you’re talking again, “Oh. My god. Okay, I’ll just go somewhere else while you…uh…do that–”

“No!” Diego barks, grabbing your hand and holding it tightly so you can’t move away. “I like an audience.”

You let out a little whimper of protest, but he just tightens his grip on your hands. You try to cover your eyes with your other hand but he grunts, “Look, look, look, Y/N!”

You let your hand drop away and are forced to watch as the girl takes his massive cock into her mouth. Diego’s head drops back and his shoulders heave as he groans with pleasure. He looks over at you, capturing you in his dark gaze as the girl starts bobbing up and down. He loosens his grip on your hand a little, squeezing gently and stroking your fingers almost…almost lovingly. God, this is–you don’t know what this is.

His face is open and vulnerable, completely destroyed with lust. His mouth hangs open as he emits broken grunts and moans. You can’t look away. The sounds he makes as he unravels, the way his facial expression twitches and crumples as his orgasm nears, his other hand grabbing the girl’s hair and forcing her to take him deeper as he roars with his finish. It’s all beautiful and sick and overwhelming and hot. So hot. His dick falls from the girl’s mouth with an obscene pop and he growls without ever looking away from you, “Get the fuck outta here.”

The girl scurries away and he’s still staring into your eyes, his erection rapidly softening between his spread legs. You must look like a beet, you’re blushing so red. And you’re so worked up with a mixture of embarrassment, arousal, jealousy and shame that there are tears in your eyes. This man has brought you to tears twice in your two-day acquaintance. That can’t be a good omen.

“You’re jealous,” he whispers, reading your thoughts. “You want my cock in your mouth, don’t you?”

You finally shut your eyes against his relentless stare and a single tear falls over your cheek.

“Please, Diego. Let me…let me go,” you need to be released from the intensity of this moment before you do something stupid. For a second you fear that he won’t listen, but his fingers loosen and he lets your hand drop away from his.

You flee. Rushing to the bathroom and shutting yourself inside. Rather than burst into tears–which is what you’d been expecting–you stagger against the wall and greedily rip at the button of your jeans, diving your hand inside your panties and stroking yourself with abandon until you come with a silent sob.

Yup, trouble. You’re in it.

A/N: There’s going to be more of this!

IDK, @flower-petal-blooming @glowingpena this is bonkers, sorry.

#Diego Jiménez #Diego Jiménez x reader #Diego Jiménez imagine #starz power #maurice compte #chelsfic #smut #Damnit Diego

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